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.
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.
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.
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.