Thursday, December 18, 2014

But I Know It's Because I'm the Only One Left Who Hasn't Changed His Number





  • Bill Nelson is sixty-six today. I always liked Be Bop Deluxe but I love his solo music more. 
  • While the Thanksgiving weekend is the slowest reading four days of the year, at least in my Stringtown Blegsylvania, now through the New Year are the slowest posting days of the year in Stringtown. It's not that I am not fishing for links - a look at the blogrolls show people are busy and not posting per usual. Which is to say, if there are fewer links provided here the next couple of weeks, I'm sorry to say you can't blame that suck on me.
  • The End of the Fracking Bubble?
  • Police Navidad.
  • On Beefheart and Zappa.
  • Bolts.
  • Tom McCarthy (for those of you who do) on fiction, realism, the real.
  • Keeping it real.
  • This should neither surprise or anger me but I'm stupid, it angers and surprises me. And pleases me: my final divorce with professional football is on the horizon. Fuck the Premiership.
  • So yes, I need mention that DC United's quest for a new stadium has never seemed more obtainable. I gave up my season tickets: there will be no Fuck-Me-Jig, though when shovels break ground - and I've still doubts they will - I will admit I was wrong.
  • Between the next two songs, updated bleggalgaze from yesterday. Click, yo.
















MY MOTHER SENT ME

Michael Meyerhofer

a text message
from her coffin.
It said, Glad
you're not here.
She's always doing
stuff like that. She says
it's to help me
savor my remaining
days. But I know
it's because I'm
the only one left
who hasn't changed
his number.



Wednesday, December 17, 2014

The Blegsylvanian December 17 Post Since 2010!





Beefheart died four years ago today. Have I ever mentioned I love Beefheart? Innermost rotation My Silly Ass Deserted Island Five Game. The Blegsylvanian December 17 post since 2010. Most of the boatload of youtubes still work, many if not most of the links below and in links to links below don't. Fuck the it.

This paragraph is 2014: I mentioned Zappadan yesterday because one of it's originators, after a hiatus from all things Blegsylvanian, reappeared in Blogroll Moribund, and there are multiple issues and angles bleggalgazing I am sure to torture that will appear here or elsewhere soon enough (the below is a first draft) as a result, but I also mentioned Zappadan because I remembered today was the anniversary of Beefhearts's death, and, as I mention somewhere in the posts linked above, the connection between Zappa and Beefheart needs addressing. As for the bleggalgazing, this: Fellow Motherfuckers, be Kind.






  • America's apotheosis of women-hating.
  • A Neoliberal Spring.
  • Our nutcase elites. People have been commenting along the lines of imagine if North Korea had made a movie about assassinating Obama. A better line is imagine if North Korea had made a movie about assassinating a Republican president popular on his party's right.
  • The William Jefferson Clinton Prize for.....
  • Art and Capitalism, one more time....
  • We'll leave a light on.
  • Pasolini, for those of you who do.
  • End of the Year Reading Lists and PornIt isn’t so clear to me, however, why the aesthetic effect of porn and end-of-the-year reading lists should be so close to the same on me. I mean, masturbation can be a whole lot of fun and all, but there haven’t been (m)any times in my life where a real human woman has wanted to have sex with me but I thought I’d prefer to rub one out on my own. Books, on the other hand, though they lack many of the virtues of real humans, do have the substantive advantage that they are never too tired or too busy; they never have a headache; they never tell you that they are no longer attracted to you or were never attracted to you in the first place. I can’t have sex whenever I want, so masturbation, so porn. I can read whenever I want, so why don’t I? The substitutive function of pornography, in other words, is clear to me, while the substitutive function of reading about reading in a way that doesn’t feel like reading isn’t.
  • The Year at Off-Vesta.
  • Photos of people standing next to their televisions.
  • Anne Carson, for those of you who do.








ERRORY

Tom Raworth

joined harmonising the best
so it needn’t wait
phrase: the question are you sure?
hanging three feet off the ground
silent, absolutely quiet
headquarters – we travelled north
clawing back small shelter
hung with screaming
on the same rig
blended in enthusiasm
as the race approached
through cracks in snow
free-falling into mind
alive with brightness shivering
instantly into sleep
changed, re-formed
they run, they run
with madness into chutes
of changed values
all of them conventional
vibrations of division
dare to refuse the glass
lazily through long green
discrete landing sites
to a transmitting unit
over the protective line
wave patterns in space
form black against
sifted patches of moonlight
birds move in the dark
their faint contours
singing small notes
to the rhythm of a train
so empty at this hour
silence in between
contains the words
things whiz past
once more
the sound of calculation
by indirect means
receives its full due
along the wet pavement
human flesh
fallen in all directions
to fresh eyes
something to do with the sky
senselessly dishevelled
resolves and fixes
the foundation
desirable to guard against
relative soundness of approach
including human shapes
used by the dealer
connecting them
to a sense of common
unforeseeable properties of relics
considered in place
so deceptive
their firesides play
optimism for its object
without arousing
constitutional tradition
beyond the rules of the game
hailstones imagine
moist sea air
disordered beyond it rise
drearier philosophies
to resist retrogression
faster than anything
directly stimulating receptors
attention moves
many possible representations
inside the heart
decayed into blackness
fine details of the scene
creep along for years
hard to become
immune to a predator
silhouettes of participants
dangle in their own data
faint green clouds
in almost pure alcohol
calibrate the equipment
to assume a more personal form
susceptible to psychic influences
does not contempt breed
often in disguise?
slipping past a window
on communal stairs
into faded yellow
flashed with orange
slanting through smoke
swished into a perfect dome
dissatisfied when calm returns
centered around a food animal
mastery of areas
managed to neutralise
subjects into waves
to destroy communication
more easily on scanty pasture



Tuesday, December 16, 2014

But If I Didn't Make the Ham Flowers, How Can I Make Him Get Up? or: Born 244 Years Ago Today





  • Forgive me, I don't love all Beethoven but what I do I love, think everything with a maximum ensemble of four, three better, two better yet, one best, I love. He was born 244 years ago today.
  • Send Arthur and his cats the coins in your pocket, please.
  • Salaita revisited.
  • A depraved population IS the plan.
  • Hoback sighting! See, this is why I recommend keeping a Moribund blogroll! I may have, probably would have caught it in a busy blogroll, but maybe not!
  • Whatever happened to Zappadan? I'm not the one to start it - I'm a Beefheart guy - but where are all the Zappa freaks?
  • UPDATE! A (not mine) bleggalgaze.
  • Foucault and neoliberalism.
  • Hell.
  • Heavy Weather.
  • Thank you who sent Kind the past week. I do recognize the echo - someday I'll merge.
  • This week in water.
  • How did I miss the World Cup of Arm-Folding?
  • Breams of the sea-rabbit fiend.
  • Rules of VNTY'SJNKYRD.
  • Thanking my mother for piano lessons.
  • SeatSix sent me this last night, Every Star Trek Episode Ranked. "Inner Light" is two, "Darmok" is five, they should be one/two. I tweeted out last night - I don't know if that's what prompted SeatSix to send the link - that I had just watched an Original episode, "Requiem for Methuselah," one of the stupidest fucking fifty minutes of television ever. I had forgot. In two hours Kirk falls hopelessly in love with Brahms da Vinci's android sex toy. I've watched a few Original episodes since I finished watching DS9 from start to finish. Christ, it's shitty, mostly, and fat with filler. It's true there was less commercial time in the Original that TNG and DS9 - Originals are 50 minutes, TNG and DS9 45, but that five minutes is all bullshit filler.
  • Elegy.
  • New Modest Mouse song. New album out soon. Forgive me, I like Modest Mouse.
  • Sonata.








IMPLICATIONS FOR MODERN LIFE

Matthea Harvey

The ham flowers have veins and are rimmed in rind, each petal a little meat sunset. I deny all connection with the ham flowers, the barge floating by loaded with lard, the white flagstones like platelets in the blood-red road. I’ll put the calves in coats so the ravens can’t gore them, bandage up the cut gate and when the wind rustles its muscles, I’ll gather the seeds and burn them. But then I see a horse lying on the side of the road and think You are sleeping, you are sleeping, I will make you be sleeping. But if I didn’t make the ham flowers, how can I make him get up? I made the ham flowers. Get up, dear animal. Here is your pasture flecked with pink, your oily river, your bleeding barn. Decide what to look at and how. If you lower your lashes, the blood looks like mud. If you stay, I will find you fresh hay.