Thursday, October 30, 2014

Clay That Tastes of Care or Carelessness

Blessed and motherfucking Serendipity fucks with me: I accept gratefully. First, I hear news that music from Pere Ubu's latest release Carnival of Souls is being used as incidental music on some motherfucking Fox motherfucking gratuitously violent shit show; second, I remember that tomorrow is Robert Pollard's birthday, and fuck me. Yes, My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game. Do I regret bumping Pollard out of one of the three permanent seats to make room for Lambchop? I'm seeing Lampchop five weeks from tomorrow night, opening for Yo La Tengo, Yo La Tengo being one of the bands in the innermost circle of bands that rotate in and out of the two open spots in My Sillyass Deserted Island Game. I do not regret removing Pollard from a permanent seat but I do regret installing Lambchop into a permanent seat. When I discovered yesterday that Pere Ubu (which has a permanent seat on My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game) is providing incidental music for a shitty Fox gratuitously violent and creepy show IT DID NOT PISS ME OFF. What the fuck is happening to me? I discovered yesterday that while I do not regret removing Robert Pollard from a permanent seat on My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game and though I do regret installing Lambchop in a permanent seat on My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game I don't feel like anguishing over the seat or anguishing over the stupid game, I feel like anguishing I am not anguishing over the motherfucking game. This is the root of my problem with self-enforced damnlessness: I am not always capable of selectively choosing where damn is decreased. My damn-switch raises and lowers my damn's volumn across most spectrums, and while by and large this is perhaps a plus in a process to find the correct balances, I find I feel the minuses more.

  • Kate's permanent seat is safe as long as I can summon a smidgen of damn.
  • One ticket remains for the Yo La Tengo/Lambchop show - it turns out Earthgirl WAS setting up Hamster, Hamster said no, credit Earthgirl for asking; whenever I am at the stoplight on Rockville Pike, heading north, at Tuckerman, looking at the Grosvenor station, I will remember the look on Hamster's face when he realizes he WAS being set up, I swear, Brother, I DID NOT KNOW!
  • Involuntary simplicity?
  • The posthuman and the information guerrilla.
  • Relocation (the new ABCs).
  • For the record, once I would have been furious if Pere Ubu provided incidental music for ANY mainstream production, not just fucking Fox - Clapton's Michelob commercial in the 70s: the outrage would have been as great if the beer had been Schlitz.
  • Altschmerz.
  • Thomas Pynchon pranks the National Book Awards (circa 1974).
  • Well, I liked (and Planet liked) the Bob Ross/death thrash mash-up last night.
  • RIP Galway Kinnell. While he didn't rock my world, his passing needs noting.
  • Woke up with this Reivers' song in my head.


Jane Hirshfield

You work with what you are given,
the red clay of grief,
the black clay of stubbornness going on after.   
Clay that tastes of care or carelessness,
clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.

Each thought is a life you have lived or failed to live,   
each word is a dish you have eaten or left on the table.   
There are honeys so bitter
no one would willingly choose to take them.
The clay takes them: honey of weariness, honey of vanity,   
honey of cruelty, fear.

This rebus—slip and stubbornness,
bottom of river, my own consumed life—
when will I learn to read it
plainly, slowly, uncolored by hope or desire?   
Not to understand it, only to see.

As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,   
we become our choices.
Each yes, each no continues,
this one a ladder, that one an anvil or cup.

The ladder leans into its darkness.   
The anvil leans into its silence.   
The cup sits empty.

How can I enter this question the clay has asked?

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

He Tried the Sweet, the Gentle, the "Oh, Let's Hold Hands Together," and It Was Awful, Dull, Brutally Inconsequential

There is a whole new subset of music I'm digging that I am not allowed to listen to when Earthgirl is in the car. Tom yesterday posted Elephant Memories. I still haven't - and won't - read it, though I love Tom's posts (and his poetry). I responded to his email to me (he lets me know when there are new posts) that I was afraid to open the post. I crib from my emails in the chain: I saw a photo year ago, poachers surrounding a fallen-to-his-knees elephant, laughing, about to do the kill shot, it seared me, I see it and will see it every fucking second for the rest of my life, when I saw it the first time I filled with such a desperately impotent fury, it...  when I think about the Dark I feel more often and for longer times during bouts and point to the key that unlocked it, it was that photo. Tom often posts horrible scenes of human-on-human atrocities - he's been especially observant of the recent Gazan pogrom - but human-on-human atrocities don't provoke the same dark impotent fury I've caused myself last night and this morning by not only seeing but looking at that seared image of poachers laughing at a wounded elephant. I wrote: I have a troll that mocks me via email weekly that my "Kind" act in Blegsylvania is self-serving both as protection against ridicule and means for illusions of superiority. Sure. I think it more gratitude for the the opportunity to engage and not be an asshole as well as needed penance for the asshole I know I can be. Is Kindness dissent? I try to be Kind in real life (I am trying to be less catty in comments, though I do treat people as Kind as I am able), Kind, a small tiny moral position at which I fail repeatedly. Tom recommended a passage from a Robert Creeley poem:

I sd to my friend, as
I am always talking, 
a desperately impotent fury, it
surrounds us
and he sd, etc 
Where would we be without the Dark and Fury. 
Well, in a better place, but still. 

I don't think I stole desperately impotent fury from Creeley, but the poem is familiar so I admit the possibility of unconscious plagiarism. I'm still googling it, but can't find it yet. Meanwhile, have some Internal Rot (and others) and the Creeley poem below.

  • The Future as Posthuman Game Strategy.
  • Motherfucking professional Liberals. Michael Kinsley - if you still wear a Kinsleyian face-mullet, REVOLUTION! free yourself! lose the face-mullet!
  • The moral blindness of our leading Liberals.
  • Sad and anxious? You might be suffering from.....
  • Frances is in Ecuador, invites you to visit!
  • No, it's not this blog's most renowned troll, you long-timers who are curious. This one is a relative newcomer to hating me. A blogfriend tells me she delights in trolls, extrapolates readership from the number of trolls she's amassed.
  • I no longer hold myself to the Fuck-Me-Jig that I would record and post in front of my new season-ticket holder seat at a new soccer stadium in DC since I am no longer a season-ticket holder for reasons over-yodeled (click on the DCU tag for over-yodeling), but I still maintain there will never be a new soccer stadium in DC. This does not give me pleasure. I don't give a shit anymore when United says Fuck DC and moves, but I know people who do.
  • Grouper.


Robert Creeley

He wants to be
a brutal old man,
an aggressive old man,
as dull, as brutal
as the emptiness around him,

He doesn’t want compromise,   
nor to be ever nice
to anyone. Just mean,
and final in his brutal,
his total, rejection of it all.

He tried the sweet,   
the gentle, the “oh,
let’s hold hands together”
and it was awful,
dull, brutally inconsequential.

Now he’ll stand on
his own dwindling legs.   
His arms, his skin,   
shrink daily. And
he loves, but hates equally.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

9. New Mutants #14


Alice Notley

1. X-Men #141 & 142

2. Defenders #125

3. Phoenix: The Untold Story

4. What if. . .? #31

5. New Mutants #1

6. New Mutants #2

7. Micronauts #58

8. Marvel Universe #5

9. New Mutants #14

10. Secret Wars #1

Monday, October 27, 2014

The Six Berio Berryman Gubaidulina Birthday Posts Merged into One Because Me, or: It's Not a Hiatus Bluff, but See New Tag