Friday, August 17, 2012

Lurid Conditions Are Facts

Colin Moulding is 57 today. I may have mentioned it already. I generally dig Partridge's songs much more, but still, Egoslavian Holy Day. Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team? It's true! (and they made a trade yesterday), and I looked at the schedule yesterday and I've a moral quandary. There was no Thursday Night Pints last night because there's a Sunday Night Barbeque at L's house for her birthday and SHAZAM! motherfucking MLS scheduled a soccer game for motherfucking five o'clock on a motherfucking Sunday, the motherfuckers. L wins unless a possible clusterfuck in her life materializes, won't know until Sunday morning. >>Deleted bleggalgazing<< Hey, be Kind, check out some new bips on the blegrells.


Lisa Robertson

It was Jessica Grim the American poet
who first advised me to read Violette Leduc.
Lurid conditions are facts. This is no different
from daily protests and cashbars.
I now unknowingly speed towards
which of all acts, words, conditions—
I am troubled that I do not know.
When I feel depressed in broad daylight
depressed by the disappearance of names, the pollen
smearing the windowsill, I picture
the bending pages of La Bâtarde
and I think of wind. The outspread world is
comparable to a large theatre
or to rending paper, and the noise it makes when it flaps
is riotous. Clothes swish through the air, rubbing
my ears. Promptly I am quenched. I’m talking
about a cheap paperback which fans and
slips to the floor with a shush. Skirt stretched
taut between new knees, head turned back, I
hold down a branch,



    Heh to the oh yeah, all the profs are short termers. The Duchess was telling me that a teacher she knows at another university sometimes doesn't hear if he'll be hired until a week before the semester. A foolish uncertainty is the flesh-eating hobgoblin of bigwigs, or something.