I found myself old-thinking: if this storm wrecks the Metroplex, it is Obama's Katrina, he could PR-propel this as effective compare-contrast, then thought, what the fuck am I doing? There are comment fields in Blegsylvania on which fellowwankers try to out-Hobbes each other to be King of Anarchists, and it angrily amuses me enough to type this sentence, and what the fuck am I doing? I hit publish before this post was finished instead of draft, and what the fuck am I doing?
So much for strangely happy. Until Monday, voluntarily hopefully untainted by unavoidabilty, song, few links, song, poem, song.
- Why Americans won't embrace the Left.
- Marx and communism.
- What is debt?
- Meeting needs.
- Some kind of maxim.
- Prepare thyself.
- Libya there.
- Coil of lies.
- Perpetual war.
- Why Obama's prospects aren't so bad.
- The pick-up artist.
- Friday butterflies.
- It's alright.
A FELICITOUS LIFE
Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee
His old age fell on years of abundant harvest.
There were no earthquakes, droughts or floods.
It seemed as if the turning of the seasons gained in constancy,
Stars waxed strong and the sun increased its might.
Even in remote provinces no war was waged.
Generations grew up friendly to fellow men.
The rational nature of man was not a subject of derision.
It was bitter to say farewell to the earth so renewed.
He was envious and ashamed of his doubt,
Content that his lacerated memory would vanish with him.
Two days after his death a hurricane razed the coasts.
Smoke came from volcanoes inactive for a hundred years.
Lava sprawled over forests, vineyards, and towns.
And war began with a battle on the islands.