Friday, November 21, 2014

Out on the Broad Lake a Breeze Will Find Us That's Wafted Around the Planet to Cool Our Divinity





Someone's flying home today for Thanksgiving Break, picking her up twelve hours and thirty-four minutes from the time stamp of this post barring flight delay. In a paper bag in the backseat when the three of us get to my car will be two orders of Ruan Thai's How Jar (I will have eaten an order of How Jaw after we pick it up and are on the way to the airport, the How Jar cooled enough I can hold in one hand while I drive up 95 towards Baltimore), two orders of Yum Watercress, one large container of Tom Yum, one order of Ghan Keow Whan, one order of Yellow Curry, one order of Pad Kha Prao. There's a Egoslavian Holy Day Sunday which I may or not observe, last year's run-up re-listening mehhed me, maybe I'll be surprised, but maybe gone until Monday, though knowing me probably not.

Yesterday a new friend did me a Kind and kindly aimed me at Annie Gosland. I'd heard the name and heard the music but never put the two together. Some research I don't mind.







  • Cats, humans, domestication, genocide.
  • Speculative Anarchism: a reading group. (h/t) It's not for me, but some of you might. Here's the reading list: The Three Ecologies- Felix Guattari. After-finitude- Quentin Meillassoux (this text is fairly foundational philosophically- but we may not really require it). Ontocartography: an ontology of machines and media- Levi Bryant. The ecological thought- Timothy Morton. Bodily nature: science, environment and the material self- Stacey Alaimo. We have never been modern- Bruno Latour. Posthuman Life- David Roden. nihil unbound- Ray Brassier. Extrastatecraft: the power of infrastructure space. On an ungrounded Earth- Ben Woodard. Essays on extinction- Clair Colebrook (2 vol.s) Stolen Future,Broken Present: the human significance of climate change- David A Collins. Testo-Junkie::Sex drugs and biopolitics in the pharmacopornographic era- Beatriz Preciado.
  • (Yet another) Scandal in Albuquerque.
  • Perilous Sanctuary.
  • Bill Callahan, for those of you who do.
  • Pynchon's Inherent Vice, the novel, the movie.
  • Publishing books nobody reads.
  • Twin Peaks, for those of you who do. I'd never seen it, I didn't watch it when it first appeared. I'm watching it for the first time now. I subscribed to NetFlix to watch Deep Space Nine from start to finish. I've already stopped thinking about it. Cooper has just rescued Audrey from One Eyed Jack. Overall I'm glad I'm watching Twin Peaks, but Lordy, James and Donna, Bobby and Shelley, die. Oh! a prediction: Leland is Bob.







DAYS OF HEAVEN

Carl Dennis

That was a great compliment the Greeks paid to human life   
When they imagined their gods living as humans do,   
With the same pleasure in love and feasting,   
Headstrong as we are, turbulent, quick to anger,   
Slow to forgive. Just like us, only immortal.   
And now that those gods have proven mortal too   
And heaven and earth can’t be divided,
Every death means a divine occasion
Has been taken from us, a divine perspective,   
Though the loss gets only a line or two in the news.   
Hard to believe the headlines this morning   
That a banker on Mt. Olympus has been pilfering,   
That a builder has been guilty of shoddy construction   
On a bridge that spans a river in heaven,   
Cutting corners to squirrel away his fortune
For a better day, when the great day has already come.   
For news that heartens we must turn to the classifieds.   
Here in what’s left of heaven it’s right to advertise   
For a soul mate. It’s right to look for a job   
That lets us incarnate spirit more fully
And leave something behind that time is kinder to   
Than the flesh of gods. Lucky there’s work.   
Lucky the streets of heaven are in need of repair.   
Paint is peeling from the dream-house trim.   
Holy rainwater backs up in leaf-clogged gutters   
Till the ceiling sags and tiles need regrouting.   
And look at the list of practical items for sale—
Used snowblowers, croquet sets, chainlink fencing.   
And what about a wooden canoe with two paddles.   
Why don’t we make time for a turn before sundown?   
Out on the broad lake a breeze will find us   
That’s wafted around the planet to cool our divinity.
The clouds will hover above us in a giant halo   
As we watch our brother, the sun, descend,
His gentle face turned toward us, his godly expression   
Undarkened by accusation or disappointment   
Or the thought of something he’s left undone.



Thursday, November 20, 2014

It Comes to the Monk in His Cell





Meredith Monk is 72 today. I understand why Earthgirl won't let me play most of what what she doesn't want to hear on our roads trips, but I don't get the shrieks of TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! for Meredith Monk. Swans, yes, Karkowski, yes, but Monk is beautiful....

Blessed Serendipity, this is what I wrote for last year's Meredith Monk birthday post

Meredith Monk will be 71 tomorrow. This is true: the above youtube of Monk's Possibility of Destruction was meant to be posted alone (as in not here) at BLCKDGRDXLD just now to consecrate BLCKDGRDXLD as home blog in my mind if not in practice. This post is there now too (where it looks excellent) but consecration need wait. BLCKDGRD and BLCKDGRDXLD are on different google accounts for reasons pertaining to my technical ineptitude and the blogtrauma of the domain name renewal, I wanted a back-up blog on a different account in case BLCKDGRD's account was lost, dropped, or somehow compromised through either my digital clumsiness or google's bulldozering of clients while paving new profits. I like what I do here, I don't want to lose it, I go back for songs and poems. On my laptop I run BLCKDGRD on Firefox and BLCKDGRDXLD on Chrome so I can keep both accounts open simultaneously as I move back and forth. I need to youtube in Firefox since my youtube account is on the same log-in as my BLCKDGRD account, I opened what I thought was a new post at BLCKDGRDXLD, pasted the youtube, plunged Publish, oops. Have another piece.

So I'm a moron, but this shit fascinates me, is one of this shitty blog's primary themes and probably most consistent echo, as is the theme that I am the only one who finds this shit fascinating, as is the theme that I am a moron. I realize the cycle; I understand some of the reasons, the feeding of the reasons has always worked, worked as well as the MomCat and Napoleon Emergency Alert Systems always work (which are 24 hours from being activated): shit comes home, then runs away from home again. For instance, here is yesterday's post at the latest new place:

I am working my way through this tray of pens


 

to cull the living from the dead.
I am stomping the dead pens' heads into paper to give the pen
one appeal for clemency. There will not be a second trial.
When ink this color survived I will not throw it out though I will not use it.
I would buy packages of Sarasa pens (you who knew I would use the phrase
Sarasa pens again because perennial biennial semiannual centennial)
when I had too many Sarasa pens. This dark green in a pack of multicolors:
blacks, grays, dark blues, blues, maroons, dark greens are harvested.
Here's a Pilot black pen, see, it's wetter, thicker,
I'm not surprised it survived.
(Here I need a font of fading to death blue ink....) This maroon
Sarasa, the color of VNTY'SGRVYRD in most posts but this one.
The hiring committee committed the predictable. Plus the maroon pen just died.
In a national search there was not one candidate I could imagine advocating for hire.
Six pens out of thirty still dispense ink. I will drain each of life before buying more.






See? So: I want to post this here. It's like chancing a Monk when Earthgirl's in the car.




 


  • Air of resignation.
  • Facts, values, dark beerAs for me—well, all things considered, I find that being alive beats the stuffing out of the alternative, and that’s true even though I live in a troubled age in which scientific and technological progress show every sign of grinding to a halt in the near future, and in which warfare, injustice, famine, pestilence, and the collapse of widely held beliefs are matters of common experience. The notion that life has to justify itself to me seems, if I may be frank, faintly silly, and so does the comparable claim that I have to justify my existence to it, or to anyone else. Here I am; I did not make the world; quite the contrary, the world made me, and put me in the irreducibly personal situation in which I find myself. Given that I’m here, where and when I happen to be, there are any number of things that I can choose to do, or not do; and it so happens that one of the things I choose to do is to prepare, and help others prepare, for the long decline of industrial civilization and the coming of the dark age that will follow it.
  • Inside the world's most powerful terrorist organization!
  • President Warrento my way of thinking, a randpaul/lizzy campaign would be a renaissance of american political discourse. both of them say something, which has to be the starting point. hillary clinton says nothing and means nothing and, in public space, is nothing. and obviously warren could beat rand on a given november day, though rand is a surprisingly good politician and on another november day might beat her. (rand i think, has a less plausible road to the rep nomination than warren to the dem.) i like her against christie too, though i don't think christie will be the nominee. she makes a good contrast in a number of ways to jeb bush, whereas jeb and hillary are indistinguishable
  • The die is cat.
  • Marilynne Robinson redux.
  • Donald Antrim, for those of you who do.
  • Ashbery and the phenomenology of waiting.
  • Yes, the Jane Kenyon poem below selected in part today for the obvious line used in this shitty post's title though that is a minor reason it is the poem posted most often to this shitty blog.



  


*



*



*






HAPPINESS

Jane Kenyon

There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
                     It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.