Friday, November 28, 2014

Crested and Turbid


Lisa Robertson

First all belief is paradise. So pliable a medium. A time not very long. A transparency caused. A conveyance of rupture. A subtle transport. Scant and rare. Deep in the opulent morning, blissful regions, hard and slender. Scarce and scant. Quotidian and temperate. Begin afresh in the realms of the atmosphere, that encompasses the solid earth, the terraqueous globe that soars and sings, elevated and flimsy. Bright and hot. Flesh and hue. Our skies are inventions, durations, discoveries, quotas, forgeries, fine and grand. Fine and grand. Fresh and bright. Heavenly and bright. The day pours out space, a light red roominess, bright and fresh. Bright and oft. Bright and fresh. Sparkling and wet. Clamour and tint. We range the spacious fields, a battlement trick and fast. Bright and silver. Ribbons and failings. To and fro. Fine and grand. The sky is complicated and flawed and we’re up there in it, floating near the apricot frill, the bias swoop, near the sullen bloated part that dissolves to silver the next instant bronze but nothing that meaningful, a breach of greeny-blue, a syllable, we’re all across the swathe of fleece laid out, the fraying rope, the copper beech behind the aluminum catalpa that has saved the entire spring for this flight, the tops of these a part of the sky, the light wind flipping up the white undersides of leaves, heaven afresh, the brushed part behind, the tumbling. So to the heavenly rustling. Just stiff with ambition we range the spacious trees in earnest desire sure and dear. Brisk and west. Streaky and massed. Changing and appearing. First and last. This was made from Europe, formed from Europe, rant and roar. Fine and grand. Fresh and bright. Crested and turbid. Silver and bright. This was spoken as it came to us, to celebrate and tint, distinct and designed. Sure and dear. Fully designed. Dear afresh. So free to the showing. What we praise we believe, we fully believe. Very fine. Belief thin and pure and clear to the title. Very beautiful. Belief lovely and elegant and fair for the footing. Very brisk. Belief lively and quick and strong by the bursting. Very bright. Belief clear and witty and famous in impulse. Very stormy. Belief violent and open and raging from privation. Very fine. Belief intransigent after pursuit. Very hot. Belief lustful and eager and curious before beauty.Very bright. Belief intending afresh. So calmly and clearly. Just stiff with leaf sure and dear and appearing and last. With lust clear and scarce and appearing and last and afresh.  

Thursday, November 27, 2014

What It Must Be Like to Be an Angel or a Squirrel We Can Imagine Sooner

  • MST3K: Thanksgiving tradition from when Comedy Central didn't suck.
  • Three hours of music in the wake of Ferguson.
  • Offered for your consideration: Barack Obama, Ferguson, and Evidence of Things Unsaid: In the case of Michael Brown, this is more disappointing than enraging. The genre of Obama race speeches has always been bounded by the job he was hired to do. Specifically, Barack Obama is the president of the United States of America. More specifically, Barack Obama is the president of a congenitally racist country, erected upon the plunder of life, liberty, labor, and land. This plunder has not been exclusive to black people. But black people, the community to which both Michael Brown and Barack Obama belong, have the distinct fortune of having survived in significant numbers. For a creedal country like America, this poses a problem—in nearly every major American city one can find a population of people whose very existence, whose very history, whose very traditions, are an assault upon this country's nationalist instincts. Black people are the chastener of their own country. Their experience says to America, "You wear the mask."
  • Here, an abridged version of a conversation I had with a friend Tuesday - Friend: I still think Obama is an honest broker. Me: Isn't that the worse-case scenario?
  • The Strangling of Nonsense.
  • A Thieves' Thanksgiving: It’s never been such a good time to be a crook. In what other country of laws does one enjoy so much freedom to defraud one’s government and fellow citizens without having to worry about cops showing at the door? Small-time crooks sooner or later end up in the slammer, but our big-time con artists, as we’ve come to learn, are now regarded as the untouchables, too well-heeled and powerful to lock up. Not only that, the most famous among them are widely admired, not just by their peers and politicians on the take, but even by our president, who, six years after the worst financial crisis since the Depression, calls them good businessmen (he said it at least once). No wonder the graduates of our most prestigious schools speak openly of emulating their ways, discarding those antiquated altruistic values university students in previous generations aspired to. Besides, where else in our weak economy are there so many good job opportunities as in racketeering?
  • Dark Age of America: The Suicide of Science.
  • Riots and Reason.
  • Reminder.
  • I applaud Hillary for visiting Ferguson and meeting with Al Sharpton. Oh wait, that was Rand Paul.
  • US GDP divided in half: a map. Yes, I live in the orange. I have always said that I don't live in America.
  • Removing the brown M&M's: Hillary-style. What a despicable asshole.
  • Learning from the billionaire journalism model.
  • How cats became domesticated.
  • Cinerama reuniting!
  • Yes, it's the slowest day of the year in Blegsylvania, I was collecting these links and watching MST3K anyway, thank you for reading.
  • On the Meredith poem below.


William Meredith

What it must be like to be an angel
or a squirrel, we can imagine sooner.
The last time we go to bed good,
they are there, lying about darkness.
They dandle us once too often,
these friends who become our enemies.
Suddenly one day, their juniors
are as old as we yearn to be.
They get wrinkles where it is better
smooth, odd coughs, and smells.
It is grotesque how they go on
loving us, we go on loving them
The effrontery, barely imaginable,
of having caused us. And of how.
Their lives: surely
we can do better than that.
This goes on for a long time. Everything
they do is wrong, and the worst thing,
they all do it, is to die,
taking with them the last explanation,
how we came out of the wet sea
or wherever they got us from,
taking the last link
of that chain with them.
Father, mother, we cry, wrinkling,
to our uncomprehending children and grandchildren.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

If It Would Help I Would Paint My House Silver or Sell It or Buy a Red Convertable

Today marks the start of the five slowest days of the year in Blegsylvania. Egoslavian tradition requires bleggalgazing, and there will be though it might be posted here, elsewhere, or not at all. It will be posted here, elsewhere, or not at all regardless the five slowest days of the year in Blegsylvania. I have worked myself to peace over that. Planet and I (Earthgirl, suffering grippe, couldn't make it) had dinner last night with Landru and Ilse and Databoy at a restaurant that puts bacon on a skewer and calls the dish a lollypop, in an hour and a half no mention of the Clusterfuck, topical and/or longterm, was made. Landru did immediately check to verify I was adhering to my rule for short pants. Planet forgot her drivers license and couldn't have a Brooklyn Lager on tap, too bad. Here, because I love you, Egoslavian Thanksgiving presents: First, the New Yorker cover followed by, copied and pasted in full: Rolling Stone names Dan Snyder assholiest owner in sports:

If you've been paying attention to football this last year, you probably know Snyder as the staunch defender of an unambiguously racist name who can't stop putting a loafer in his mouth every time he opens it.

Snyder has marshaled every resource of the rich white asshole invoking tradition to defend the indefensible. There's this pro-Redskins AstroTurf campaign from a giant PR firm. There's Snyder co-opting any local media going knives-out on the name or the fact that his team is stupendously mismanaged. There's Snyder trying to buy silence from Indian tribes. There's Snyder trotting out multiple Indian defenders of the name who aren't even Indians, when he's not sitting in his luxury box with a Navajo Nation leader recently kicked out of office under corruption allegations and in disgust at partnering with Snyder's "Original Americans Foundation," a disingenuous whitewash PR group. There's Snyder sticking his fingers in his ears and pretending the Redskins were named to "honor" an "Indian" coach who turned out to be a German-American misrepresenting his race to avoid the WWI draft. Or sometimes he decides the name is meant to "honor" Indian "heritage" in general, and not as a marketing gimmick by their legendarily racist owner to identify the team with a much more popular baseball franchise.

And that's just the name. You could go on for pages about the paranoid, Hitler-in-the-bunker mentality of the team, or the blithe unconcern with a shredded field and player health that already nearly Cuisinarted RG III's knee. And you could go on for pages and pages and pages of what a clusterfuck of tire fires the Redskins have become under Snyder's tenure, all set ablaze by the flaming sack of dogshit that is what passes for his conscience. In fact, someone already has. Dave McKenna of the Washington City Paper wrote a devastatingly hysterical A-to-Z guide to every contemptuous, miserly, greed-headed, soul-dead move Snyder has pulled in D.C., every bit of it true. Snyder sued McKenna and the paper anyway, because he wanted to see if the size of his war chest would back them down. Because he could. Because he's Daniel Snyder, and because fuck you. Fuck your access to a true narrative, fuck your local pride, fuck your fandom, fuck your pocketbook, fuck your fun and fuck a genocide.

Whatafucker. I'm thankful for Tiny Daimon Snyder, Ferengi, Triskelion, metonym of clusterfuck. Hate I can embrace, hate I can focus, hate I can enjoy. Gratuitous, self-indulgent, delicious impotent hate.


Neal Bowers

Lately, the weather aches;
the air is short of breath,
and morning stumbles in, stiff-jointed.

Day by day, the sun bores the sky,
until the moon begins
its some disappearing act,
making the oceans yawn.

Even the seasons change
with a throb of weariness—
bud, bloom, leaf, fall.

If it would help,
I would paint my house silver
or sell it or buy
a red convertible.

I would, but who am I
to try to cheer up
the self-indulgent universe.