Friday, October 24, 2014

Eighty-Three Today











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Eighty-Nine Today





Luciano Berio. I loved his music before one of his pieces became an integral part of Egoslavian history. Click his tag if you're curious. Don't worry, you're not. Sofia Gubaidulina's birthday post later today, Berryman's centennial tomorrow, otherwise fuck it fuck me fuck this, because of fuck it fuck me fuck this.



Thursday, October 23, 2014

Born Eighty-Three Years Ago Tomorrow





Not only is tomorrow Luciano Berio's eighty-ninth birthday, it is Sofia Gubaidulina's eighty-third, double High Egoslavian Holy Day Eve. Yes, I post this piece all the time, that's how MSADI5G works.



A Frail Vague Man, in Whom Our Sense Ached with Nothing, Began to Whisper with Himself





Berio's birthday, a High Egoslavian Holy Day, is tomorrow, and, as will be seen in the standard Egoslavian Berio birthday post, always sparks major bleggalgazing, much of which I will spare you. Yes, that sentence, while true, written as much for the gag as content. So I haven't spared you bleggalgazing at all, nor the history of this shitty blog.








THE WILL

John Berryman

A frail vague man, in whom our sense ached
With nothing, began to whisper with himself
At line-up, from the rear, -
We trembled for him, - shook the scald that caked
His skull, totting up phantoms none could solve,
Fag-end of a career.

(Shadowless in a cairn, four lights. Farewell,
The legacy trots off,
A swimming moment of the stiff's desire
Such decades since. Or nothing trots to tell
Intestate once with love
Pain brain stood up a bit out of time's mire.)
He scrambled one night out
And dodged between the lights far to the wire,
Where he lodged. I suppose he crisped, dying in fire;
A shot or so, a shout;
But certainly, lifting our scalps, well beyond fear,
He suddenly sang, sang, hanging on the wire.



Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Nothing Is Blunt, but Phantoming Uneases I Find





Liszt, whose piano pieces I love, born two-hundred and three years ago today. The piano player explains himself.

The Hamster Emergency Alert System worked.

So, me: the recent Booker Prize winner, Richard Flanagan's The Narrow Road to the Deep North, was on a new book cart at the library I work in, doopty-doo, I'm at that section of Gravity's Rainbow, deep in the zone, when Pynchon tests his theories of entropy out on the reader, I can take a minute to check out the Flanagan, who knows, it might work, be a welcome sherbet break in the middle of Gravity's heavy gravy. And it was working! And may still work, but.... the main character, in an encounter in a used book store, meets a magnetically mysterious woman, they engage in an enigmatic conversation laden with electric flirtation but then go their separate ways. Meanwhile, the main character's not-blood uncle, who he has never met, owns a hotel on a beach near where the main character is in training for deployment for the Australian army, invites his nephew to visit. The main character walks into the hotel's bar, the woman behind the bar turns to greet him, it's the uncle's wife, the mysterious woman from the bookstore, and goddamn it, long-timers here know of my awe and love of Serendipity, but goddamn it.... this is a minor bitch in the litany of reasons for my past few year's struggles with reading novels, but don't hit me with plot-sticks, goddamn it, though it is illustrative of my growing impatience if not yet rejection of contructs and the unconsciously accepted right-angled laws of construction.













NOT TO LIVE

John Berryman

It kissed us, soft, to cut our throats, this coast,
like a malice of the lazy King. I hunt,
& hunt! but find here what to kill?—nothing is blunt,
but phantoming uneases I find. Ghost
on ghost precedes of all most scared us, most
we fled. Howls fail upon this secret, far air: grunt,
shaming for food; you must. I love the King
& it was not I who strangled at the toast
but a flux of a free & dying adjutant:
God be with him. He & God be with us all,
for we are not to live, I cannot wring,
like laundry, blue my soul—indecisive thing . .
From undergrowth & over odd birds call
and who would starv'd so survive? God save the King.