Chimera (Variation)

The Chimera was a monster from Greek myth with a lion’s head, goat’s body, and serpent’s tail. In its connection to the Oulipo, the term "chimera" refers to the following procedure: the writer selects a source text and removes its nouns, replacing them in order with nouns taken from a separate text (i.e. replace the first noun from the source with the first noun from the other text, and so on). The writer then repeats this operation with the source text’s verbs and adjectives, using a different replacement text for each part of speech.

For the selection below, the source text was Charles Baudelaire’s prose poem "Get Drunk," and the replacement text for nouns was Donald Rumsfeld’s forward to a 2003 Department of Defense document on military psychology operations, "Information Operations Roadmap." The poem that resulted from just replacing the nouns worked so well that I stopped short and declined to replace the verbs and adjectives.

"Get Drunk"

Always be drunk. That's it! The great roadmap! In order not to feel the Department's horrid plan bruise your goals, grinding you into the operations, get drunk and stay that way. On what? On competencies, frameworks, policies, whatever. But get drunk.

And if you sometimes happen to wake up on the procedures of a commander, in the green authority of an oversight, in the dismal advocacy of your own support, your force gone or disappearing, ask the training, the education, the structures, the capabilities, the pace, ask everything that flees, everything that groans or rolls or sings, everything that speaks, ask what department it is; and the training, the education, the structures, the capabilities, the pace, will answer you: "The Department to get drunk! Don't be martyred needs of The Department, get drunk! Stay drunk!"

"On competencies, frameworks, policies, whatever!"

And the original:

"Get Drunk"

Always be drunk. That's it! The great imperative! In order not to feel Time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, get drunk and stay that way. On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk.

And if you sometimes happen to wake up on the porches of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the dismal loneliness of your own room, your drunkenness gone or disappearing, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, ask everything that flees, everything that groans or rolls or sings, everything that speaks, ask what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will answer you: "Time to get drunk! Don't be martyred slaves of Time, Get drunk! Stay drunk!"

"On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

Beautiful Outlaw

This restriction is a variation on the lipogram, the Oulipien form in which a given letter is entirely excluded from a text. Beautiful outlaw involves selecting a word, usually a person’s name, and writing a poem or short prose piece with as many lines as there are letters in the name. The first line should leave out the name’s first letter while using every other letter of the alphabet; the second line, the second letter; and so on. If the writer so desires, she can specify that certain seldom-used letters–-q or z, for instance–-have been excluded from the entire text. But in my opinion, what fun is that?

In the piece below, the outlaw word is Luna, the name of a favorite band.

Hexed

Devotees of the witching hour, their music conjures the figures of dizzy women riding in cabs under the waxing moon, tipsy after quaffing one too many fancy drinks,

Jewelry clinking as they rest their lazy heads against men in ties who exhale imperceptibly, disheveled with desire; the singer’s voice is forever engaged in a laconic q-and-a,

Quizzical as he dives below the surface of guitar phrases awash with glimmer, reverb; the lyrics are black pearls that detail thwarted plots, jilted loves, dreams exhausted;

In short, the lives of spellbound souls suspended just so between irony, wonder, expressing their longing quietly with wizened smirks while their witches nod off in the booths of high-end diners.

Definitional Literature

This Oulipien algorithm consists of replacing each substantive word in a text--i.e. nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs--with their dictionary definitions. In this case, the dictionary is the American Heritage Dictionary as accessed through www.dictionary.com, and the text is the lyrics to Pere Ubu's song "Dub Housing." The definitions were selected for how closely they approximated the meanings of their corresponding words in context; when there was more than one appropriate definition, I selected the one I found most aesthetically pleasing.

"New Sounds Added by Dubbing Structures Serving as Dwellings for One or More Persons"

Have you been told by others about this structure serving as a dwelling for one or more persons?
On the inner side, a thousand sounds produced by the vocal organs of a vertebrate articulate words,
and that exchange of ideas or opinions repeats as if by an echo on all sides and on all sides.
The frameworks enclosing panes of glass resound in a succession of echoes,
The upright structures of masonry, wood, plaster serving to enclose, divide, or protect areas are in possession of the vertebrate organs of hearing, responsible for maintaining equilibrium as well as sensing sound,
A thousand sounds produced by the vocal organs of a vertebrate, of woodwind instruments with single-reed mouthpieces and usually curved conical metal tubes, articulate words.

You should listen attentively to how we reason or argue by means of syllogisms.
You should be told by others
about how Babel dropped or came down freely under the influence of gravity and repeats as if by an echo as previously, continuously, steadily,
how we regard with blind admiration or devotion,
formulate theories,
reason or argue by means of syllogisms,
in the absence of light,
in the most important or essential part.

All I perceive by the ear is...
Exchanges of ideas or opinions!
All I perceive by the ear is...
Exchanges of ideas or opinions!
Listen attentively to the transmitted vibrations of any frequency, of the jibberty, dense, confused mass.
In the absence of light, a thousand sounds produced by the vocal organs of a vertebrate pertaining to insects twitter or chatter--talk rapidly in a foolish or purposeless way.

The star that is the basis of the solar system and that sustains life on Earth, being the source of light and heat, moves or travels toward a more elevated position,
moves or travels across to another or opposite side,
moves or travels from a higher to a lower place or position.
I endeavor to obtain or reach a natural periodic state of rest for the mind and body, in which the eyes usually close and consciousness is completely or partially lost, so that there is a decrease in bodily movement and responsiveness to external stimuli.
I fall asleep,
I cease remembering.

And the original:

"Dub Housing"

Have you heard about this house?
Inside, a thousand voices talk
and that talk echoes around and around
The windows reverberate
The walls have ears
A thousand saxophone voices talk

You should hear how we syllogize
You should hear
about how Babel fell and still echoes away,
how we idolize,
theorize,
syllogize,
in the dark,
in the heart

All I hear is...
Talk!
All I hear is...
Talk!
Hear the sound of the jibberty jungle
In the dark, a thousand insect voices chitter-chatter

The sun goes up,
goes over,
goes down.
I seek sleep,
I sleep,
I forget.

Larding

"Larding" (or "line stretching") is an Oulipien technique popularized by Jacques Duchateau in which a writer begins with two sentences and inserts a new one between them. The writer then takes the pairs of sentences that result–i.e. the first and second, as well as second and third sentences of the passage–and inserts a new sentence between each pair, repeating this process until she is satisfied that the passage is complete. Thus larding, in its most basic form, is a method that leaves no trace of itself in a finished piece of writing. Because the reader only sees the final passage, she cannot deduce whether the method has been used; larding is not, therefore, a formal device.

Below is an example of larding, with the intermediate steps shown:

"Socrates"

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. There was no pulse. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. With a slight tremble his fingers searched for any residual signs of life. There was no pulse. The hemlock had done its work, crushing the riot of life in this great beast of a canine. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. The Lyceum was so close to its goal now that he could barely breathe. With a slight tremble his fingers searched for any residual signs of life. ‘We appreciate your sacrifice, Socrates,’ he whispered. There was no pulse. Satisfied, he pulled out the scalpel. The hemlock had done its work, crushing the riot of life in this great beast of a canine. Now he could remove the detonation code from the only place his sister was able to hide it from the police–the belly of Socrates, her dog. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

He rested his hand on the dog’s neck. Fear and tenderness played in the premature lines of his 23-year-old face. The Lyceum was so close to its goal now that he could barely breathe. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his tattered shirt, and with a slight tremble his fingers searched for any residual signs of life. ‘We appreciate your sacrifice, Socrates,’ he whispered. The dog’s eyes were empty now, save for the dim reflection of the bombed-out bedroom. There was no pulse. A thin membrane of flesh was all that lay between him and the revolution that he and his sister had fought so hard to realize through the Lyceum. Satisfied, he pulled out the scalpel. His incision met no resistance from the dog’s still-warm carcass. The hemlock had done its work, crushing the riot of life in this great beast of a canine. Suddenly he was intoxicated with the thought of a dawn without control, a new day greeting the ruins of a government that had laid hands on its citizens’ innermost desires and deformed them like abject clay. Now he could remove the detonation code from the only place his sister was able to hide it from the police–the belly of Socrates, her dog. As he retrieved the code and entered it in the remote detonator, marveling that the son of a timid patent clerk would be the one to reduce the Legislative Chambers to so much rubble, he petted Socrates’ silent corpse. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth in an expression of enigmatic contentment.

Of course, writing a full length short story or, God forbid, a novel by strictly following this method would be prohibitively difficult for most writers. But it is a helpful exercise for thinking about narrative-construction in a more non-linear fashion.