Tuesday, September 23, 2014

I Now Acknowledge The Red Moon, to Requite the Heart Alone Given Power to Recite Its Faith, What a Cradled Life Finds Emblematic




Activating the MomCat Emergency Alert System. It's been some months since necessary, but it's now been a week since we've seen her, and the neighborhood listserv is abuzz with news of hungry coyotes and asshole anti-cat fuckers calling the county to get uncollared cats trapped and executed.

Introductory and/or refresher course: MomCat is a feral who lived in our yard for two years before giving birth to three kittens in our shed eight years ago. The daughter, Grey Cat, came in and out of the house and was fully interactive with us before disappearing six years ago. One of the sons, Frankie (name is inside baseball only one of you will get) still will not let us pet him but he rarely leaves the yard and I fed him this morning. The second son, Napoleon, is in quarantine in one of our bedrooms for another eleven days - the Animal Control officer, at her last visit last week, said that as long as we can provide proof he is fully up-to-date on his shots she will sign his release on Saturday October 4. He suffered a bite wound - almost certainly a cat's - that became infected, and the vet contacted Animal Control which ordered six months of confinement against the slight chance Napoleon developed rabies. Napoleon is fully interactive and one of the best cats ever: his ear is squared to signify a fixed feral cat; he hasn't been a feral cat for seven years.

Activating the MomCat Emergency Alert System and, when needed, the Napoleon Emergency Alert System has worked every time over the past eight years. Whether we will let Napoleon outside and possibly necessitate the activation of his alert system is to be determined. It's been months since either has been activated. Here's hoping it still works.







  • I was there.
  • United signs St Benny to a long-term contract“I love this city. My [three] children were born in Washington, D.C., and I don’t want to move,” he (Olsen) said. “I told Jason in negotiations, ‘I don’t want to move. I want to be here. I want to be part of this club. I want my kids growing up in this city.’ Not the best negotiating tactic, but it’s true. From Day 1, I fell in love with this club. There was a lot to fall in love with early, and I feel a responsibility about pushing this club to the next level.
  • Yesterday on the Kojo Nnamdi Show, DC United's big boss (if not big owner) promised that Supporters Clubs (he did not use the term LOUD SIDE!) will be midfield in a new stadium.
  • I have no objection if my abandoned religions fight to keep me.
  • I don't want it to be easy. At least this one. I don't want this one to be as easy as abandoning motherfucking Democrats. I don't want this to be the same frequency as abandoning motherfucking Democrats.
  • I will go to at least one more game this year, not this Saturday afternoon if it's a nice day to hike, but I will go to at least one more game this year. I owe the faith at least that.
  • Should the spirit of protest occasion a crowd.....
  • From the neightborhood listserv: some of my neighbors are Kind, decent humans: MS who trapped kittens and cats at a Parkwood house that is to be torn down and got them neutered so we don't have a feline explosion, sent this information. If any of you are looking to adopt a kitten, here is a great opportunity to adopt a neighbor. All kittens are litter-box trained.
  • Robinson Jeffers, for those of you who do.
  • Hilary Mantel, for those of you who do.
  • Hey, anyone have anything to convince me to read or not read Emily St John Mandel?
  • A long meditation on a fantasy novel I couldn't get past fifteen pages and Earthgirl couldn't get past thirty. I'll take the blame on my part.
  • It's Coltrane's birthday.
  • I was there:








THE CRADLE LOGIC OF AUTUMN

Jay Wright

Each instant comes with a price, the blue-edged bill   
on the draft of a bird almost incarnadine,   
the shanked ochre of an inn that sits as still   
as the beavertail cactus it guards (the fine   
rose of that flower gone as bronze as sand),   
the river's chalky white insistence as it   
moves past the gray afternoon toward sunset.   
Autumn feels the chill of a late summer lit   
only by goldenrod and a misplaced strand   
of blackberries; deplores all such sleight of hand;   
turns sullen, selfish, envious, full of regret.

Someone more adept would mute its voice. The spill   
of its truncated experience would shine
less bravely and, out of the dust and dunghill   
of this existence (call it hope, in decline),
as here the blue light of autumn falls, command   
what is left of exhilaration and fit
this season's unfolding to the alphabet
of turn and counterturn, all that implicit   
arc of a heart searching for a place to stand.   
Yet even that diminished voice can withstand   
the currying of its spirit. Here lies—not yet.

If, and only if, the leafless rose he sees,
or thinks he sees, flowered a moment ago,
this endangered heart flows with the river that flees   
the plain, and listens with eye raised to the slow   
revelation of cloud, hoping to approve   
himself, or to admonish the rose for slight   
transgressions of the past, this the ecstatic   
ethos, a logic that seems set to reprove   
his facility with unsettling delight.
Autumn might be only desire, a Twelfth Night   
gone awry, a gift almost too emphatic.

Logic in a faithful light somehow appeases   
the rose, and stirs the hummingbird's vibrato.   
By moving, I can stand where the light eases   
me into the river's feathered arms, and, so,   
with the heat of my devotion, again prove   
devotion, if not this moment, pure, finite.   
Autumn cradles me with idiomatic
certainty, leaves me nothing to disapprove.
I now acknowledge this red moon, to requite   
the heart alone given power to recite
its faith, what a cradled life finds emblematic.



Monday, September 22, 2014

Old Cave of Calcium Icicles, Old Echoer



Mocomofos, how many times in your life have you driven over the bridge over Northwest Branch on the Beltway between New Hampshire Avenue and University Boulevard exits, looked into the gorge and wondered what was down there? Not as many times as I wondered what was down there, probably, so how many times have you driven over that bridge in your lifetime without giving it a second's thought? I always thought it was a paved bike path, but no, it's a very cool hiking trail, especially just south of 29 at Burnt Mills, it's a rock-scramble past the falls of Northwest Branch. Yes, Northwest Branch has rapids. Anyway, now you know what the Beltway bridge looks like from below, at least yesterday.







  • Nick Cave is fifty-seven today, and if his music doesn't work for me like it once did and his birthday is no longer an Egoslavian Holy Day that doesn't mean his music never worked for me and his birthday was never an Egoslavian Holy Day, so his birthday needs noticed.
  • So, the daydreams about bleggal hiatuses. Like I told the DC United executive re: my fall out of love with United, it's not you, it's me. The daydreams have always been inextricably bound to my reading slumps and I'm in one now, and now the daydreams occur whenever the dark moods prevail and the dark moods prevail more and more often. It's not you, it's not the ups and downs of pings, it's not reciprocity or its lack, it's not the self-censorship on what I would write here if I were stupider/more reckless/less respectful of others' privacy/braver. It's really not you, it's me.
  • Hikes help.
  • Bleggalghazi.
  • Arthur Silbur checks in. Hey, throw the coins in your pocket at him.
  • Blogfriend Corrente asked me to ask you to throw some coins at this blogfriend of Corrente.
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
  • Maggie's weekly links.
  • New Inquiry's Sunday reads.
  • Theodore Roethke, for those of you who do.
  • Beckett, for those of you who do.
  • Morton Feldman, for those of you who do. So yes, there is a Feldman cascade in this blog's near future.







NICK AND THE CANDLESTICK

Sylvia Plath

I am a miner. The light burns blue.   
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.   
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,   
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium   
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish—
Christ! they are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,   
A piranha   
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.   
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?   
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,   
Your crossed position.   
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.   
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses,   
With soft rugs—

The last of Victoriana.   
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric   
Atoms that cripple drip   
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.   
You are the baby in the barn.