Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Do These While Holding Your Arm Out Above the Paper Like the Outstretched Leg of a Crane




  • Activating the Hamster Emergency Alert System! Dude, check your email. Also, need you to confirm you're in for Yo La Tengo/Lambchop. Earthgirl is inviting a friend, a woman. THIS IS NOT A SET-UP! Repeaten sie: THIS IS NOT A SET-UP! Also, let's have dinner this Friday or Sunday.
  • Post-nihilism? I believe the task of conscious observers (and not just intellectuals) today is to begin to indulge rather than mask the nihilistic forces of contemporary life – forces that manifest and register existentially, environmentally, and poltically in a variety of objective ways. We must partake instead of continuing to deny the dark revelations of current crises in order to push each other towards more earthly, or creaturely, that is to say ecological modes of thinking and doing. Realizing and coping-with the transcorporeal facticity of life entails communicating and making explicit our intimate connections with the planet and its beings, but it also requires us to explore and engage the inherent precarity and ontological vulnerability with-in the natural world through association, design and infrastructure.
  • Mind, my subject<object<object<subject is weak, but this line of thinking I find myself seeking both inside and outside my head.
  • Triskelions.
  • The Paris Review just tweeted out a link to a 1977 interview with William GassGetting even is one great reason for writing. The precise statement of the motive is tricky, but the clearest expression of my unwholesome nature and my mean motives (apart from trying to write well) appears in a line I like in “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country.” The character says, “I want to rise so high that when I shit I won’t miss anybody.” But maybe I say it’s a motive because I like the line. Anyway, my work proceeds almost always from a sense of aggression. And usually I am in my best working mood when I am, on the page, very combative, very hostile. That’s true even when I write to praise, as is often the case. If I write about Colette, as I am now, my appreciation will be shaped by the sap-tongued idiots who don’t perceive her excellence. I also take considerable pleasure in giving obnoxious ideas the best expression I can. But getting even isn’t necessarily vicious. There are two ways of getting even: one is destructive and the other is restorative. It depends on how the scales are weighted. Justice, I think, is the word I want.
  • The right to remain silent: Anne Carson on poetry and silence.
  • Sophocles for modernity.
  • Zbigniew Herbert, for those of you who do.
  • Re: blogrolls - maintenance tonight or tomorrow or next time I have the energy and will, moribund will be moved to Moribund, the dead will be culled. I have added a few new places, please check them out as they rise to top of rolls.
  • Bartok, for those of you who do.








CALLIGRAPHY ACCOMPANIED BY THE MOOD OF A CALM BUT DEFINITIVE SAUCE

Dick Allen

Make your strokes thus: the horizontal:
as a cloud that slowly drifts across the horizon;
the vertical: as an ancient but strong vine stem;
the dot: a falling rock;
and learn to master the sheep leg, the tiger’s claw,
an apricot kernel, a dewdrop, the new moon,
the wave rising and falling. Do these
while holding your arm out above the paper
like the outstretched leg of a crane.
The strength of your hand
will give the stroke its bone.
But for real accomplishment, it would be well
if you would go to live solitary in a forest silence,
or beside a river flowing serenely.
It might also be useful
to look down a lonesome road,
and for the future
to stare into the gray static of a television screen,
or when lost in a video game
to accept you may never reach the final level,
where the dragon awaits, guarding the pot of gold,
and that you’ve left no footprints, not a single one,
despite all your adventures,
anyone following you could ever follow.



Monday, October 20, 2014

I Saw Nobody Coming, So I Went Instead





Yes, I know the blog loads slower than ever. Since I'm posting more music than ever that means more youtubes and youtubes slow the blog loading. I thought, why not take every youtube that isn't the first youtube of a post on every post and replace the embed with a simple link two days after the initial posting date? Do youtubes on archived posts slow the blog loading? Once a post disappears from the front page, do archived youtubes impact the loading of the front page? There are some major High Egoslavian Holy Days which will require many youtubes the last third of October (including John Berryman). I just looked at a year ago in archives - I cheat, yo, I don't know most (I know some) of the dates of the Egoslavian Holy Days; I'm not, mostly, obsessive, much - those pages took much longer to load than the slow-loading front page of this blog today. But say that two days after a post I took all that post's youtubes but the one at the top and replaced the embed with a simple link? What time in the blog's slow loading could be saved by spatially crinkling the post's aesthetic design like a can of (I would say cheap but designer beers now come in specially constructed easy-crinkle, light weight alloys to make chic packing it in means packing it out, of these I recommend Mama's Little Yellow Pils) beer. But since the bottom of the bottom post must reach below the Official Seal of Egoslavia at the bottom of the blogroll because I say it has to re: Egoslavian regulations I would need to add so many posts to the front page - or kill the blogrolls, all at once or selectively; but how selectively? kill particular blogrolls? kill people on some? or all blogrolls? - that all the youtubes at the top of all the posts would equal or exceed the number of youtubes that are already slowing loading on the front page. Whatever I decide someone gets fucked, just as much as someone is fucked now plus or minus major insignificance. Is doing nothing a decision based more on the chance that fucking up major is minor, the chance for affecting change for the better more minor still, or the overwhelming odds anything I do won't make a fuck's difference, and is this a moral argument for - not apathy: I've been told that's a disease* - for complicity, or worse, complicity's sake?














DREAM SONG 76 (HENRY'S CONFESSION)

John Berryman

Nothin very bad happen to me lately.
How you explain that? —I explain that, Mr Bones,
terms o' your bafflin odd sobriety.
Sober as man can get, no girls, no telephones,
what could happen bad to Mr Bones?
—If life is a handkerchief sandwich,

in a modesty of death I join my father
who dared so long agone leave me.
A bullet on a concrete stoop
close by a smothering southern sea
spreadeagled on an island, by my knee.
—You is from hunger, Mr Bones,

I offers you this handkerchief, now set
your left foot by my right foot,
shoulder to shoulder, all that jazz,
arm in arm, by the beautiful sea,
hum a little, Mr Bones.
—I saw nobody coming, so I went instead.



Sunday, October 19, 2014

Sixty-Nine Today





The traditional Egoslavian birthday post for Divine:

Divine was born sixty-nine years ago today. I was twenty-two when Polyester was released. No doubt I'm romanticizing significance, but these movies were buzzworthy once for margins they crossed, or so it seemed to us at the midnight showings. That self-aggrandizing assertion offered to justify my iconography of Glenn Milstead. We also enjoyed playing Where the fuck is that in Baltimore? when watching the movies. Plus they remind me of a distinct segment of my life when I was Bawlmer-centric. Plus: nostalgia for what was one outrageous, now old.



Saturday, October 18, 2014

What Is the Boy Now, Who Has Lost His Ball




Buns in Delaware Ohio is celebrating its 150th anniversary, that's the sweet pint glass I scored (and not shown, a sweet 150th Buns tshirt emblazoned on the back with the famous street sign) at dinner last night. It is not a self-portrait - I am bald. In background of photo, Bryce's playlist from yesterday, two pieces here today. I highly recommend the Pigeon. Thanks to three friends for very Kind emails yesterday, beloved L who encouraged me in the Fuck It/Me/This here, and the brilliant and generous Tom (here, as he put it, "on a subject that is currently pre-empting mood swinging here in the immobilized ward."), who in his own way encourages me in the Fuck It/Me/This here. E, the third, has seen some of what I've recently done, but I haven't posted there since I stopped posting there, she encourages me to Fuck It/Me/This there, or at least put there back on the Me and Mine. Not yet, not yet, we'll see. Yes, of course Fuck It/Me/This, in format, reminds me of You? Me? Us? There are no accidents in free association. Yes, I know Berryman's birthday is a week from today, have this poem anyway, it is needed for this post. Think about that comma in the first line.






THE BALL POEM

John Berryman

What is the boy now, who has lost his ball.
What, what is he to do? I saw it go
Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
Merrily over—there it is in the water!
No use to say 'O there are other balls':
An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy
As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
All his young days into the harbour where
His ball went. I would not intrude on him,
A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now
He senses first responsibility
In a world of possessions. People will take balls,
Balls will be lost always, little boy,
And no one buys a ball back. Money is external.
He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
The epistemology of loss, how to stand up
Knowing what every man must one day know
And most know many days, how to stand up
And gradually light returns to the street,
A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight.
Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark
Floor of the harbour . . I am everywhere,
I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move
With all that move me, under the water
Or whistling, I am not a little boy.