Friday, April 21, 2017

Eat Some Every Day




  • Iggy is 70 today.
  • Anger is hostile to understanding.
  • The thrall of battle as Hillary: Crucified Martyr or Craven Moron? is fucking fought again.
  • Death to the Either/Or. Though more Or than Either.
  • See? Was that necessary?
  • Robert Smith is 58 today.











THE LOST PILOT

James Tate

Your face did not rot
like the others—the co-pilot,   
for example, I saw him

yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,   
the poor ignorant people, stare

as if he will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.   
But your face did not rot

like the others—it grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their

distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,   
down from your compulsive

orbiting, I would touch you,   
read your face as Dallas,   
your hoodlum gunner, now,

with the blistered eyes, reads   
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested

scholar touches an original page.   
However frightening, I would   
discover you, and I would not

turn you in; I would not make   
you face your wife, or Dallas,   
or the co-pilot, Jim. You

could return to your crazy   
orbiting, and I would not try   
to fully understand what

it means to you. All I know   
is this: when I see you,   
as I have seen you at least

once every year of my life,   
spin across the wilds of the sky   
like a tiny, African god,

I feel dead. I feel as if I were   
the residue of a stranger’s life,   
that I should pursue you.

My head cocked toward the sky,   
I cannot get off the ground,   
and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling   
to tell me that you are doing   
well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune   
placed these worlds in us.



Saturday, April 15, 2017

It Must Seem Like We Sought to Leave You Nothing but Benzene, Mercury, the Stomachs of Seagulls Rippled with Jet Fuel and Plastic



  • Olive never takes a bad photo. I fuck up the composition more often than not, but once I get the composition right she never takes a bad photo.
  • Here, on that angry melancholia and bitter nostalgia you've been feeling: It is useless to berate the insufficiently woke. We are all sleep-walking, and all half-dreaming, even if we dream of being awake. We are all hastening toward the last syllable of recorded time. And the point of melancholic subjectivity is that we are already berating ourselves. Our experience of powerlessness in the face of loss, and isolation before gigantic, tectonic forces, has already become our mantra of self-hate. Adding reproach in the name of the future would only accentuate our resentment of future generations, and our desire to punish them.
  • Tribalism: refresher essay.
  • Basic Income and the Left.
  • This is going to hurt.
  • 335654344 / 455344334 / 355554443 yesterday at Seneca, pins the same. Once I lose my release point all's fucked, it only gets worse. Where the fuck are my eyes when I throw, what's the significance? I DON'T KNOW! that level of mechanical self-affectation when the more I concentrate on correct thoughts the worse the correlated actions become. Fine metaphors abound.
  • Meeting Dr Z today at eleven for more. Seneca is in bloom, boom. 
  • UPDATE! 333533344 / 334344334 / 344435344, so 14 better than yesterday.
  • UPDATE! since the 27 pins will never again be in this exact configuration I need AAACAAABA /  ACCAACAAC / ACCCABABA
  • Every idea I have is nostalgia.
  • UPDATE! { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
  • Reminder: Simic reviewed Tate's last book.
  • I'm sensing a complete dose of pollard oncoming....






LETTER TO SOMEONE LIVING FIFTY YEARS FROM NOW

Matthew Olzmann

Most likely, you think we hated the elephant,
the golden toad, the thylacine and all variations
of whale harpooned or hacked into extinction.
    
It must seem like we sought to leave you nothing
but benzene, mercury, the stomachs
of seagulls rippled with jet fuel and plastic.
   
You probably doubt that we were capable of joy,
but I assure you we were.
  
We still had the night sky back then,
and like our ancestors, we admired
its illuminated doodles
of scorpion outlines and upside-down ladles.
  
Absolutely, there were some forests left!
Absolutely, we still had some lakes!
   
I’m saying, it wasn’t all lead paint and sulfur dioxide.
There were bees back then, and they pollinated
a euphoria of flowers so we might
contemplate the great mysteries and finally ask,
“Hey guys, what’s transcendence?”
   
And then all the bees were dead.



Thursday, April 13, 2017

Yeah and All of the Things That I Said That I Wanted




  • My avatar's arch-nemesis born 94 years ago today. He was also Tennessee Tuxedo.
  • Required Egoslavian mention of the black & white to color television toggle when I was early elementary school aged and its everlasting impact on my worldview and melancholy.
  •  
  • I just passed my Eye Doc mid-term, surgery pushed back again. 
  • Today's outfit for Eye Doc was short-sleeve lavender/pink checkered shirt, red golf pants, salmon bow tie.
  • My Eye Doc dresses like Andy Sipowicz (w bow tie instead of long tie).
  • He uses an elaborately complex program (I assume most Eye Docs do) and doesn't mind typing his comments while I watch. Last appointment he wrote, Jeff needed another White Cane Speech. So, I said this morning, no White Cane Speech today? Want one? he asked.

  • Rest in Peace, J. Geils
  •  
  • Fuck this. 
  •  
  •  
  • Verily. Today disc, tomorrow disc, Saturday disk, Sunday hike.
  • UPDATE! Seneca today (dogwoods blooming!) 333453(!)33(!)3 / 3353(!)34344 / 344433343



  • I love all Mac, early, middle, late, but really, but this song? love love love: