Saturday, July 26, 2014

We Have Grown Nonchalant Towards the Other World





Yes, Saturdays I often post music I heard on Bryce's Friday show, but - and this is true, only I can vouch, you believe or don't - I fell asleep listening to Radigue Thursday night - not this piece, but this






and this





and this




  
and this -





 
and promised myself Radigue here on Saturday before Bryce played Transamorem Transmortem yesterday. Blessed be Serendipity, fucked be the days when Radigue occurs to two people seeking - I project like I always do, should only speak for me - balm and calm and resolve.

  • Balm and calm? Me? As for resolve, sure, but to what end?
  • Tom's heartbreaking pieces on Gaza continue, Hijos de un dios menor and When Medics Cry.
  • Pretexts.
  • The thing is, when Israel says it is showing "unimaginable restraint" it might be a true statement, so think what it wishes it could do.
  • Forced to: Since 1948 Israel has refused to deal with the refugee question: the very existence of UNRWA schools and camps in Gaza is a direct result. It is Israel, not Hamas, that is occupying the West Bank and building illegal settlements (more than 120 to date). Since Israel withdrew unilaterally from the Gaza Strip in 2005, the occupation has been replaced by a sort of internment: Gaza is like a large prison, or a sprawling conurbation under siege. Despite the falsehoods of Israeli demagogues it isn’t Hamas that has laid siege to Gaza since 2007, it is Israel. Most world leaders have acknowledged it: in 2010 even Cameron said that the ‘Israeli blockade has turned the Gaza Strip into a prison camp.’ Was Israel ‘forced’ to quarantine Gaza? On the contrary it took the decision to do so, having calculated that by tightening the screws on 1.8 million people already living under the harshest conditions in the most densely populated place on earth, it would ensure peace and stability for Israelis. Strangely things haven’t gone to plan and once again Israel is ‘forced’ to kill civilians and children while hiding the truth from itself that its policy in Gaza was a choice. In this moment of terrible delusion it is worth repeating the point: Hamas is not laying siege to Gaza or bombing it from the air.
  • Syllogism of Death
  • Powerful and coldhearted
  • On the above. Empathy varies inversely with power: powerful people should be under continuous suspicion, should be regarded with continuous skepticism. the only real point has to be to hem them in, mitigate their disastrous effects, or tear them down. the human desire to be subordinated just puts us in the hands of the worst among us. that we deserve the exploitation, poverty, and rape that we receive from authorities, however, does not entail that the authorities aren't evil.
  • The Executioner's Last Songs
  • Also too, about a month ago I found a collected Merrill in a used book store, said what the hell. after all these year's of Merrill blindness I can see. Sweet.
 





VOICES FROM THE OTHER WORLD

James Merrill

Presently at our touch the teacup stirred,   
Then circled lazily about
From A to Z. The first voice heard
(If they are voices, these mute spellers-out)   
Was that of an engineer

Originally from Cologne.
Dead in his 22nd year
Of cholera in Cairo, he had KNOWN

NO HAPPINESS. He once met Goethe, though.   
Goethe had told him: PERSEVERE.

Our blind hound whined. With that, a horde   
Of voices gathered above the Ouija board,   
Some childish and, you might say, blurred   
By sleep; one little boy
Named Will, reluctant possibly in a ruff

Like a large-lidded page out of El Greco, pulled   
Back the arras for that next voice,   
Cold and portentous: ALL IS LOST.

FLEE THIS HOUSE. OTTO VON THURN UND TAXIS.   

OBEY. YOU HAVE NO CHOICE.

Frightened, we stopped; but tossed
Till sunrise striped the rumpled sheets with gold.
Each night since then, the moon waxes,   
Small insects flit round a cold torch
We light, that sends them pattering to the porch . . .

But no real Sign. New voices come,
Dictate addresses, begging us to write;
Some warn of lives misspent, and all of doom   
In ways that so exhilarate
We are sleeping sound of late.

Last night the teacup shattered in a rage.   
Indeed, we have grown nonchalant
Towards the other world. In the gloom here,   
our elbows on the cleared
Table, we talk and smoke, pleased to be stirred

Rather by buzzings in the jasmine, by the drone
Of our own voices and poor blind Rover’s wheeze,   
Than by those clamoring overhead,
Obsessed or piteous, for a commitment
We still have wit to postpone

Because, once looked at lit
By the cold reflections of the dead
Risen extinct but irresistible,
Our lives have never seemed more full, more real,   
Nor the full moon more quick to chill.



Friday, July 25, 2014

*They* Were the Players, and We Who Had Struggled at the Game Were Merely Spectators, Though Subject to Its Vicissitudes and Moving with It Out of the Tearful Stadium, Borne on Shoulders, at Last





So the blog survived - so far, this is blooger - the annual domain name clusterfuck. I credit the Baal-taunting, though it was much too smooth and easy this whole cycle, I'm waiting for the sword to drop, the Baal-taunting to backfire. Thanks for the four emails and one comment of Kindness.

Thurston Moore is 56 today. These are the traditional Thurston Moore birthday songs and, just below this sentence, the traditional Thurston Moore/Sonic Youth Egoslavian Gag: I made that in 2009. The clown is quoting the ghoul Max Boot (remember Max Boot?)  praising Obama (Obama? what the fuck is an Obama?) for his warmongering in Afghanistan, the hipster quoting K-Punk (remember K-Punk?) ripping Sonic Youth.














SOONEST MENDED

John Ashbery


Barely tolerated, living on the margin
In our technological society, we were always having to be rescued   
On the brink of destruction, like heroines in Orlando Furioso
Before it was time to start all over again.
There would be thunder in the bushes, a rustling of coils,   
And Angelica, in the Ingres painting, was considering
The colorful but small monster near her toe, as though wondering whether forgetting
The whole thing might not, in the end, be the only solution.   
And then there always came a time when
Happy Hooligan in his rusted green automobile
Came plowing down the course, just to make sure everything was O.K.,   
Only by that time we were in another chapter and confused   
About how to receive this latest piece of information.   
Was it information? Weren’t we rather acting this out   
For someone else’s benefit, thoughts in a mind
With room enough and to spare for our little problems (so they began to seem),
Our daily quandary about food and the rent and bills to be paid?   
To reduce all this to a small variant,
To step free at last, minuscule on the gigantic plateau—
This was our ambition: to be small and clear and free.   
Alas, the summer’s energy wanes quickly,
A moment and it is gone. And no longer
May we make the necessary arrangements, simple as they are.   
Our star was brighter perhaps when it had water in it.   
Now there is no question even of that, but only
Of holding on to the hard earth so as not to get thrown off,   
With an occasional dream, a vision: a robin flies across   
The upper corner of the window, you brush your hair away
And cannot quite see, or a wound will flash
Against the sweet faces of the others, something like:   
This is what you wanted to hear, so why
Did you think of listening to something else? We are all talkers   
It is true, but underneath the talk lies
The moving and not wanting to be moved, the loose
Meaning, untidy and simple like a threshing floor.

These then were some hazards of the course,
Yet though we knew the course was hazards and nothing else   
It was still a shock when, almost a quarter of a century later,   
The clarity of the rules dawned on you for the first time.   
They were the players, and we who had struggled at the game   
Were merely spectators, though subject to its vicissitudes
And moving with it out of the tearful stadium, borne on shoulders, at last.
Night after night this message returns, repeated
In the flickering bulbs of the sky, raised past us, taken away from us,   
Yet ours over and over until the end that is past truth,   
The being of our sentences, in the climate that fostered them,   
Not ours to own, like a book, but to be with, and sometimes   
To be without, alone and desperate.
But the fantasy makes it ours, a kind of fence-sitting
Raised to the level of an esthetic ideal. These were moments, years,   
Solid with reality, faces, namable events, kisses, heroic acts,   
But like the friendly beginning of a geometrical progression
Not too reassuring, as though meaning could be cast aside some day   
When it had been outgrown. Better, you said, to stay cowering   
Like this in the early lessons, since the promise of learning   
Is a delusion, and I agreed, adding that
Tomorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned,   
That the learning process is extended in this way, so that from this standpoint
None of us ever graduates from college,
For time is an emulsion, and probably thinking not to grow up   
Is the brightest kind of maturity for us, right now at any rate.
And you see, both of us were right, though nothing
Has somehow come to nothing; the avatars
Of our conforming to the rules and living
Around the home have made—well, in a sense, “good citizens” of us,   
Brushing the teeth and all that, and learning to accept
The charity of the hard moments as they are doled out,
For this is action, this not being sure, this careless
Preparing, sowing the seeds crooked in the furrow,
Making ready to forget, and always coming back
To the mooring of starting out, that day so long ago.



Thursday, July 24, 2014

Three Bleggalgazing Anthems Plus Official Blog Theme Song Should This Be This Bleg's Last Post





Email from Google assures me this blog will be here Friday morning, tomorrow the day my domain name toggles for another year. Still, it's blooger. So in case it disappears (as in I can't revive it - it is blooger), thanks much to everyone who visited, especially regulars, double especially for long-timers, infinity especially for loved ones.

If this is the last post (I don't think it will be, but it is blooger), this is what the last post whenever I stop will be (and should the blog not have disappeared in the morning then this post will disappear - or, alternatively, I might leave it, a celebratory Baal-taunting tattoo): the bleg's Three Bleggalgazing Anthems....




   
*





... and since Bleg Day One ten or more years ago, this bleg's official Theme Song: