Another side-effect of reading and writing better is an increase in bleggalgazing (though with me, a side-effect of severe reading slumps and writer's blocks is an increase in bleggalgazing). The side-project will continue (or not) - and this will be the last bump here, though it's blegrelled for you to ignore at your pleasure. In the meantime, for your consideration, the awesomest bleggalgazing ever. Fine ironies abound! Maybe I'll write about them (or not). Everything is negotiation, yo.
- Template. Where my brain spins is that every niche struggles against the niche above, fights the struggle from the niche below.
- Inequality 101.
- Zizek on Egypt: The hypocrisy of western liberals is breathtaking: they publicly supported democracy, and now, when the people revolt against the tyrants on behalf of secular freedom and justice, not on behalf of religion, they are all deeply concerned. Why concern, why not joy that freedom is given a chance? Today, more than ever, Mao Zedong's old motto is pertinent: "There is great chaos under heaven – the situation is excellent."
- UPDATE! Heh!
- Pitiful helpless giant.
- Related to the above.
- Making the mummies dance.
- Cause and effect?
- Being a vampire.
- The Egyptian Revolution, brought to you by Fox.
- On motherfucking crackers.
- 23 things they don't tell you about capitalism.
- 10 tricks to exercise your brain.
- 50 best blogs for humanities scholars? Again, I must be 51st.
- Charlie Davis?
- Vintage year for heresy and blasphemy.
- Eight dog chronicles.
- Re-visioning post-rock.
- [American Journal]
- Further than funkdream.
- Sandpaper kisses.
ADVICE TO A PROPHET
When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city, Mad-eyed from stating the obvious, Not proclaiming our fall but begging us In God's name to have self-pity, Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range, The long numbers that rocket the mind; Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind, Unable to fear what is too strange. Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race. How should we dream of this place without us?-- The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us, A stone look on the stone's face? Speak of the world's own change. Though we cannot conceive Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost, How the view alters. We could believe, If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy, The lark avoid the reaches of our eye, The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn As Xanthus once, its gliding trout Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without The dolphin's arc, the dove's return, These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken? Ask us, prophet, how we shall call Our natures forth when that live tongue is all Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean Horse of our courage, in which beheld The singing locust of the soul unshelled, And all we mean or wish to mean. Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding Whether there shall be lofty or long standing When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.