Wednesday, July 27, 2016

The Bruise Will Stop by Later





New ▲ Biosphere!

I got an email yesterday from Facebook telling me someone(s) had tried logging into an account I opened more than a decade ago and thought I killed - I have a strong memory of pushing YES to all the multiple KILL YOURSELF? prompts - within weeks. I had and have no interest in maintaining a Facebook: this is not a moral stance, I just don't want to, blooger and twooter are too much already, I'd quit them if I could. Facebook was very concerned, urged me to change my password, and when I logged in with the temp password they provided to change to a new password I saw names of people who would have asked to friend me in the few weeks I was on and who I haven't thought about in more than a decade, so it was my account as I remember it. Galen Adjadar. Lordy. If you google your name and land here, Galen, blckdgrd <at> gmail .>dot< com.

And fuck Facebook for phishing me and fuck me for being phished. I assume it was Facebook phishing - no one would know the email account I was using to sign into Facebook in 2004 to hack me (though I suppose it could be a bot), and who'd want to hack me anyway, I'm nobody.

Those of you who have Facebook - can I kill my Facebook account and if so how?

If the account has been active all these years unbeknownst to me and you've asked me to be your friend and I haven't responded, it's not because I'm an asshole (well, I am an asshole, but not in this particular case)....

UPDATE! I deactivated the account, at least until next time Facebook decides to K'mpec me with it's deathstick, though I've learned not to act shocked.

Old ▼ Biosphere!







ANTICIPATED STRANGER

the bruise will stop by later.
For now, the pain pauses in its round,
notes the time of day, the patient’s temperature,
leaves a memo for the surrogate: What the hell
did you think you were doing? I mean . . .
Oh well, less said the better, they all say.
I’ll post this at the desk.

God will find the pattern and break it.

    -  John Ashbery




Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Where Birdcatchers Yodel and Bobwhites Cheep




Dan Bodeh tweeted out that logo to promo his yodel show on WFMU Monday evenings from 7-8 EDT. I'm listening to it live as I type this sentence. I posted the logo because yodel. It has replaced Tom Tomato as avatar for Moribund - as both taunt to those in blurgatory and accusation against me - and looks fabulous on the blegrell.

A new and unexpected (in years of friendly work-contact we'd never once yapped politics) Hillaryite Colleague asked me, when we crossed paths in Red Square yesterday, what the fuck is wrong with Bernie supporters. I said, in my best fake neutral tone while processing who was asking me what? and judging what level of gah to engage, I'm not a Bernie supporter. Of course you're not, HC said, you know Hillary is the best and only choice for president. I did the cowardly wristwatch I gotta run eye-to-wrist glance, then SHAZAM! one of my Hillaryite Colleagues appeared! I introduced them, I work here, I work there, shoptalk, shoptalk, isn't the provost a >> deleted content <<. We all agreed. New HC said, so, Trump, huh? Old HC said, Jeff keeps saying Trump is going to win. To be more accurate, I said, Trump is fortunate to be running against the one person in the universe that could lose to him, not that he is going to win. New HC said, Hillary's the most qualified candidate for president in my lifetime. Trump Trump Trump she yodeled for another forty-five seconds. Old HC said to new HC, clearly this is the first time you've had this conversation with Jeff. New HC screamed, as in the two dozen or so people in Red Square all turned to stare, including, I shit you not, the provost who's a >>deleted content<<, YOU'RE NOT VOTING FOR TRUMP, ARE YOU? I did not yodel back.

The big run of big birthdays is soon, Kate Bush and William Gass and John Ashbery and Herman Melville and Jerry Garcia, the first days I'll be in Maine, a blessing as the current plan is not yodeling in Maine, though two weeks - two days - without a KABOOM! seems not only improbable but impossible. Photos of hikes and disc golf holes, yes, music, yes, books and poems I'm reading, yes, links to music and books and poetry, and even links to the clusterfuck, yes, but no yodeling. Until I yodel.












Monday, July 25, 2016

What Is Attested Is Attested To





Thurston Moore is 58 today.

The manic clusterfuck blogging:.see previous two posts. As always, part of the mania is proxying what in real life is driving the proxying. As always, the mania is silly and exhilerating unto exhausting. As always a song - this one, last night, for instance, as I was thinking about Sonic Youth and Thurston Moore's birthday






or a poem, like the Ashbery below, breaks the up and I feel naked and stupid. Lordy, that song, both Sonic Youth's cover and The Carpenters original, still gives me chills each time. As always the mania is bipolor, and this cycle's downhill has begun. I blame Putin.

Thanks to my friend Shahar for Original Silence (Terrie Ex, Mats Gustafsson, Thurston Moore, Paul Nielson-Love, Jim O'Rourke, Massimo Pupillo)! and the other (not Superstar) Sonic Youth songs too!








ON SEEING AN OLD COPY OF VOGUE ON A CHAIR

John Ashbery

For all I know I was meant to be one of those marchers
into a microtonal near-future whose pile has worn away—
the others, whose drab histrionics provoke unease to this day,
so fair, so calm, a gift from cartoon characters I loved.
Alas, the happy ending and the tragic are alike doomed;
better to enter where the door is held open for you
with scarcely a soupçon of complaint, like salt in stew
or polite booing at a concert he took you to.

No longer shall the grasses weave quilts for our revenge
of lying down on, or a faint breeze stir milady’s bangs.
What is attested is attested to. To flirt with other thangs,
peacockish, would scare the road away.

Frogs give notice when the swamp backs up, and butterflies
aren’t obliged to stay longer than they do.
Look, they’re already gone!
And somewhere, somebody’s breakfast is on exhibit.




Sunday, July 24, 2016

Alone with Our Madness and Favorite Flower We See That There Really Is Nothing Left to Write About




  • Windows tells me I have that much time to upgrade to Windows 10 or - what? Would I regret forever upgrading? My assumption is Windows will support 7 until there is an 11, and by the time there is an 11 I will be in motherfucking MacLand.
  • Today is the only practical day for me to do the upgrade before the deadline, so, if you never hear from me again.....
  • America Again: a Long Rant. A righteous one at that.
  • Wait, said my Hillaryite Friend, you're saying you approve of the Kaine pick? I said, as a political strategy, yes. Lordy, the Liberal pundits are SQUEALING IN GLEE at being Kained. He's not just the anti-Trump, he's the anti-Hillary, standing before cameras and talking-wise. He will be the good Democratic dad of the campaign. HF said, laughing, so Kaine thinks he's Gore 1992 or Biden 2008? I said, Chelsea will let him know in 2022, and HF will buy me a pint next time we pint.
  • Could Hillary Clinton become the champion of the 99%? the New York Times breathlessly asks! No.
  • Reminder: Hillary Clinton supports Israel's apartheid and ethnic cleansing.
  • Tim Kaine, and other faith-based politics.
  • Reminder: you, you fucking hippie, while Democrats mock Trump at convention, they hate you more.
  • Hillaryian Loyalty
  • UPDATE! Wasserman out, not for what she did but because she got caught and it went public.
  • UPDATE! Hillary would behead Chelsea on live TV if she thought it would help her politically.
  • This is the sublede on a front page Washington Post story by Karen Tumulty: Her startling decision to run for the highest office in America set Clinton — who had already been first lady, U.S. senator and secretary of state — on a path no woman has ever walked. Startling decision? Startling decision? Startling decision?
  • I didn't read the story - Washington Post wants me to pay for it, and sheeyit.
  • So yes, it's a lame pun, but the word Left in this post's title why today this poem.
  • On the Trump/KGB connection.
  • Invalidating Darwish's identity card.
  • Maggie's weekly links.
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links. 
  • ROKY ERICKSON DOCUMENTARY! Saw this after posting the Shostakovich or there would have been Erickson songs today. Tomorrow.
  • Julian Barnes has written a novel about Shostakovich? Shostakovich starred in Vollmann's Central Europe, so I've already done one novel with him. Barnes has never sung to me, but Dmitri?







LATE ECHO

John Ashbery

Alone with our madness and favorite flower
We see that there really is nothing left to write about.
Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things
In the same way, repeating the same things over and over
For love to continue and be gradually different.

Beehives and ants have to be re-examined eternally
And the color of the day put in
Hundreds of times and varied from summer to winter
For it to get slowed down to the pace of an authentic
Saraband and huddle there, alive and resting.

Only then can the chronic inattention
Of our lives drape itself around us, conciliatory
And with one eye on those long tan plush shadows
That speak so deeply into our unprepared knowledge
Of ourselves, the talking engines of our day.



Saturday, July 23, 2016

Something About Time That Only a Clock Can Tell You



  • Neoliberalism is a political philosophy.
  • Honestly, who the fuck did you think Clinton was going to pick as running mate? Who the fuck do you think Clinton is? I know you know. And - psst - at this point Clinton is running her 2020 reelection campaign, it's smart - from her point of view - to solidify her credentials as the candidate of the oligarchs now.
  • And I know you know the DNC mocks you.
  • And I know you know the DNC mocks you.
  • Another victory for white guys.
  • Thankfully this is a Saturday in summer in Dead Blegsylvania, no better day to dump a duh from my system.  
  • O! prepare for Glorious Demonization of Not Hillaryites in Philly next week. DNC gonna try and purge your ass once and for all.
  • The kid meets the Glanton Gang in chains.
  • Convenient collective culpability.
  • The Vox generation of punditry.
  • Map of the universe.
  • Exactly one week from the timestamp on this post I will be flying to Maine for two weeks of hiking. I note this (a) to remind everyone, me most, why every post but four or five a year are tagged My Complicity and (b) to fake bemoan that I've found out the cottage we will be in has wifi - I was emailed the code - so I can't even pretend to hope my digital access on vacation would be limited and (c) warn you that right now the reading will be connected to two upcoming High Egoslavian Holy Days and the two books now planned for backpack are Ashbery's collected Early and my ninth trip on the Pequod. So expect lots.
  • Please please please please please read ▼ that Ashbery poem out loud.
  • Think about the word *careless* where it is.
  • Oh, the music - there's another High Egoslavian Day imminent:






SAYING IT TO KEEP IT FROM HAPPENING

John Ashbery

Some departure from the norm
Will occur as time grows more open about it.
The consensus gradually changed; nobody
Lies about it any more. Rust dark pouring
Over the body, changing it without decay—
People with too many things on their minds, but we live
In the interstices, between a vacant stare and the ceiling,
Our lives remind us. Finally this is consciousness
And the other livers of it get off at the same stop.
How careless. Yet in the end each of us
Is seen to have traveled the same distance—it’s time
That counts, and how deeply you have invested in it,
Crossing the street of an event, as though coming out of it were
The same as making it happen. You’re not sorry,
Of course, especially if this was the way it had to happen,
Yet would like an exacter share, something about time
That only a clock can tell you: how it feels, not what it means.
It is a long field, and we know only the far end of it,
Not the part we presumably had to go through to get there.
If it isn’t enough, take the idea
Inherent in the day, armloads of wheat and flowers
Lying around flat on handtrucks, if maybe it means more
In pertaining to you, yet what is is what happens in the end
As though you cared. The event combined with
Beams leading up to it for the look of force adapted to the wiser
Usages of age, but it’s both there
And not there, like washing or sawdust in the sunlight,
At the back of the mind, where we live now.