Monday, October 20, 2014

I Saw Nobody Coming, So I Went Instead





Yes, I know the blog loads slower than ever. Since I'm posting more music than ever that means more youtubes and youtubes slow the blog loading. I thought, why not take every youtube that isn't the first youtube of a post on every post and replace the embed with a simple link two days after the initial posting date? Do youtubes on archived posts slow the blog loading? Once a post disappears from the front page, do archived youtubes impact the loading of the front page? There are some major High Egoslavian Holy Days which will require many youtubes the last third of October (including John Berryman). I just looked at a year ago in archives - I cheat, yo, I don't know most (I know some) of the dates of the Egoslavian Holy Days; I'm not, mostly, obsessive, much - those pages took much longer to load than the slow-loading front page of this blog today. But say that two days after a post I took all that post's youtubes but the one at the top and replaced the embed with a simple link? What time in the blog's slow loading could be saved by spatially crinkling the post's aesthetic design like a can of (I would say cheap but designer beers now come in specially constructed easy-crinkle, light weight alloys to make chic packing it in means packing it out, of these I recommend Mama's Little Yellow Pils) beer. But since the bottom of the bottom post must reach below the Official Seal of Egoslavia at the bottom of the blogroll because I say so I would need to add so many posts to the front page - or kill the blogrolls, all at once or selectively; but how selectively, kill particular blogrolls, kill people on some or all blogrolls - that all the youtubes at the top of all the posts would equal or exceed the number of youtubes that are already slowing loading on the front page. Whatever I decide someone gets fucked, probably just as much as now plus or minus major insignificance. Is doing nothing a decision based more on the chance that fucking up major is minor, the chance for affecting change for the better more minor still, or the overwhelming odds anything I do won't make a fuck's difference, and is this a moral argument for - not apathy: I've been told that's a disease* - for complicity, or worse, complicity's sake?
















DREAM SONG 76 (HENRY'S CONFESSION)

John Berryman

Nothin very bad happen to me lately.
How you explain that? —I explain that, Mr Bones,
terms o' your bafflin odd sobriety.
Sober as man can get, no girls, no telephones,
what could happen bad to Mr Bones?
—If life is a handkerchief sandwich,

in a modesty of death I join my father
who dared so long agone leave me.
A bullet on a concrete stoop
close by a smothering southern sea
spreadeagled on an island, by my knee.
—You is from hunger, Mr Bones,

I offers you this handkerchief, now set
your left foot by my right foot,
shoulder to shoulder, all that jazz,
arm in arm, by the beautiful sea,
hum a little, Mr Bones.
—I saw nobody coming, so I went instead.



Sunday, October 19, 2014

Sixty-Nine Today





The traditional Egoslavian birthday post for Divine:

Divine was born sixty-nine years ago today. I was twenty-two when Polyester was released. No doubt I'm romanticizing significance, but these movies were buzzworthy once for margins they crossed, or so it seemed to us at the midnight showings. That self-aggrandizing assertion offered to justify my iconography of Glenn Milstead. We also enjoyed playing Where the fuck is that in Baltimore? when watching the movies. Plus they remind me of a distinct segment of my life when I was Bawlmer-centric. Plus: nostalgia for what was one outrageous, now old.



Saturday, October 18, 2014

What Is the Boy Now, Who Has Lost His Ball




Buns in Delaware Ohio is celebrating its 150th anniversary, that's the sweet pint glass I scored (and not shown, a sweet 150th Buns tshirt emblazoned on the back with the famous street sign) at dinner last night. It is not a self-portrait - I am bald. In background of photo, Bryce's playlist from yesterday, two pieces here today. I highly recommend the Pigeon. Thanks to three friends for very Kind emails yesterday, beloved L who encouraged me in the Fuck It/Me/This here, and the brilliant and generous Tom (here, as he put it, "on a subject that is currently pre-empting mood swinging here in the immobilized ward."), who in his own way encourages me in the Fuck It/Me/This here. E, the third, has seen some of what I've recently done, but I haven't posted there since I stopped posting there, she encourages me to Fuck It/Me/This there, or at least put there back on the Me and Mine. Not yet, not yet, we'll see. Yes, of course Fuck It/Me/This, in format, reminds me of You? Me? Us? There are no accidents in free association. Yes, I know Berryman's birthday is a week from today, have this poem anyway, it is needed for this post. Think about that comma in the first line.






THE BALL POEM

John Berryman

What is the boy now, who has lost his ball.
What, what is he to do? I saw it go
Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
Merrily over—there it is in the water!
No use to say 'O there are other balls':
An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy
As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
All his young days into the harbour where
His ball went. I would not intrude on him,
A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now
He senses first responsibility
In a world of possessions. People will take balls,
Balls will be lost always, little boy,
And no one buys a ball back. Money is external.
He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
The epistemology of loss, how to stand up
Knowing what every man must one day know
And most know many days, how to stand up
And gradually light returns to the street,
A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight.
Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark
Floor of the harbour . . I am everywhere,
I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move
With all that move me, under the water
Or whistling, I am not a little boy.



Friday, October 17, 2014

Theme Songs October 2014





Leaving in seconds to visit my daughter for a long weekend, the proper incantation: Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to Gambier. Always self-basting, my dearest obtainable goal is my mood moves from the above song to below. It's achievable; forgive me, the world sucks and I'm going to be happy. If I'm here in the next few days I'm here, if I'm not I'm not. I'm curious, actually, whether I post this weekend and if I do post this weekend whether I post this weekend when I post this weekend or whether I post this weekend but don't post this weekend or whether I just don't post at all.



Thursday, October 16, 2014

I Forget This Isn't My Universe Sometimes





I started this email last night to a colleague of mine in reference:  

Hi Jennifer, if I wanted to see how much cable news stations have hiked their ad rates since the wild success of the new 24-7 show We Are All Going to Die From Ebola in drawing new viewers (and if in fact there is a significant uptick in eyes), if I was curious, what databases would you recommend I try? Just curious, and yes, I realize the hysteria machines are running as much or more for the midterms in a month than for CNN profit... 

then stopped, didn't send. That was dangerously close to committing to research, and verily, fuck that.

No, I don't think the Triskelion scientists recruited at age six and sent to genius schools and who graduated PhD from MIT at age 16 created ebola. I do think, now that ebola has become 2014's favorite reality TV show, Triskelion scientists recruited at age six and sent to genius schools and who graduated PhD from MIT at age 16 are monitoring the national Galvanic Sheep Response - providing, now, as necessary for testing, plenty of stimuli - measuring how much bullshit will these freaking morons eat and what kind of stimuli best creates behavior beneficial to the Triskelions, including but not limited to total fucking public panic.

So yes, it is an opportune time for my biennial reading of Gravity's Rainbow, it still fucking holds-up, it's as relevant as ever, and if this rereading is the best in a decade I have no one but, um,  the Triskelions to thank.







A reminder, from GV: PROVERBS FOR PARANOIDS!

  1. You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
  2. The innocence of the creatures is in inverse proportion to the immorality of the Master.
  3. If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
  4. You hide, they seek. 
  5. Paranoids are not paranoids because they’re paranoid, but because they keep putting themselves, fucking idiots, deliberately into paranoid situations.   

# 5, wait, is that a hardon? Who's watching? What was that octopus doing on that beach with Katje and how did Bloat happen to have a crab in his hand? Hey, Bob Mould is fifty-four today.







  • One of only two (Westerberg the other) who are younger than me who get an Egoslavian Holy Day. The above? Philly 1983, one of dozens of the best five nights of my life.
  • There's also this point of view to consider: so maybe the extremely authoritative presentation even of things about which you are not sure at all has the momentary effect of reassuring people. the problem is merely reality: when what you're saying turns out to be incredibly false, people stop believing you. they start generating alternative speculations on this or that. they start believing random websites, which indeed have more credibility. at some level they freak out in the awareness that they've got no idea at all what the truth is. nothing causes chaos like the breakdown of authority, and nothing causes the breakdown of authority like authority. It's also what's being studied.
  • Remember when I CWCF (Cassandra, weathervane, canary, fool)? Not to worry, not coming back, found myself thinking of it today - the tag, not the Cassandra-ing, weathervaning, canary-ing, playing the fool, I still do that, but you know that because, um, I writing this post.
  • The Hour of the Knife. Another CWCF.
  • [The Committee] or: how I write about work.
  • Dear Scott Lemieux: it is neither "surprising" or "dismaying," you fucking idiot.
  • OK, I'll read a book about Gaddis and Powers and Danielewski and DeLillo.
  • The ten best Mekon songs? Sorry, links are to spotify, fuck that, find them on your iPod, your Mekon playlist, easy. That's how you do research.








PRAIRIE OCTOPUS, AWAKE

Nicky Beer

The night’s turned everything to junipers   
shagged & spooked with cerulean chalk-fruit,   
weird berries whiffing of Martians in rut.   
I forget this isn’t my universe   
sometimes. Sometimes I think I was falling   
most of my life to land here, a lone skirl   
in the immaculate hush. In my world   
I waltzed with my ink-self, my black shantung.   

Owls swallow vowels in stilled trees. It’s not   
sleeplessness, it’s fear of what the dark will   
do if I don’t keep a close eye on it.   
Blue minutes leak from the pricked stars’ prisms,   
seep into the earth unchecked. Just as well—   
I’ve hardly enough arms to gather them.