One of five, stupid-ass desert island game. I love the early stuff, I love the late stuff.
I played a great 3CD compilation I found in London two years ago as we drove west on the Turnpike towards Oberlin and Kenyon this past summer on the last of Planet's college tours. How 'bout you don't play that again this trip please came from the backseat. Well, I hate Vampire Weekend, so nyah.
- A far from happy new year.
- Sovereign truths.
- The moment of convulsion.
- President Continuity.
- Erasing history.
- Writing history.
- Virginia history.
- My future hell.
- My future hell.
- If this were the last poem of the year.
- Reference, allusion, parody, unreliability.
- This is murder.
- Under pressure.
- Sinfonia agridulce.
- That bitch can't sing. I do want to thank KxXP's morning and midday hosts for pissing me off enough that last week that I bitched and a blegfriend reminded me to try WFMU again, and brilliant! WFMU hasn't hasn't played one motherfucking Arcade Fucking Fire song since I've been listening. I'm warned there's a crappy Decembrists' album coming in January, and holyfuck, a crappy Decembrist song each DJ shift at KxXP all January. (I do like El Toro, who plays Kate Bush (the morning guy does, but only either Hounds of Love or Running Up That Hill) and has the biggest and best palette of the bunch by miles.)
- UPDATE! KxXP morning DJ went all of twenty-one minutes into his shift before playing motherfucking Arcade Fucking Fire this morning and then played - I swear to god, check the playlist for 12/29/10 6AM hour - Kate Bush's Running Up that Hill. I wasn't listening, just looked for a giggle, and heh. (Those three dozen who read this post before the DJ started his shift may be called upon to vouch I'm not making this shit up.)
- Speaking of blegfriends, one reminds me how fascinating blogrollology can be. Thanks!
GREETER OF SOULS
Ponds are spring-fed, lakes run off rivers. Here souls pass, not one deified, and sometimes this is terrible to know three floors below the street, where light drinks the world, siphoned like music through portals. How fed, that dark, the octaves framed faceless. A memory of water. The trees more beautiful not themselves. Souls who have passed here, tired, brightening. Dumpsters of linen, empty gurneys along corridors to parking garages. Who wonders, is it morning? Who washes these blankets? Can I not be the greeter of souls? What's to be done with the envelopes of hair? If the inlets are frozen, can I walk across? When I look down into myself to see a scattering of birds, do I put on the new garments? On which side of the river should I wait?