Saturday, January 7, 2012
Sultry Moon-Monsters Are Dissolving
Finished Murakami's 1Q84 and will be thinking about it for months if not until I reread it in two or three years - it's now in the reread rotation. I urge you to read it - it is an astonishing feat of imagination on multiple levels, some which I'm sure haven't dawned on me yet, some which I'm sure will kaboom me out of nowhere in the years to come, some which I'm sure will never dawn on me even after rereadings. My initial takeaway: in a book about a parallel world with two moons in which Little People march out of a dead ogre's mouth, the redemptive power of love that saves the world is what seems most far-fetched, and that's not an accident.
FABLIAU OF FLORIDA
Wallace Stevens
- Bowie's gonna be 65 tomorrow. You'll hear a bunch this weekend.
- I was going to try to read Graeber's Debt next, but who the fuck am I fooling. I've said this ad nauseum: I will read the prologues and intros and conclusions of non-fiction to get the author's thesis, I've no interest in the author's meticulous (or not) arrangement of selectively edited and compiled facts justifying his thesis when there are novels and poems I could be reading.
- Where did the money go?
- Madrick on how austerity is killing Europe.
- The fall of the Third Hungarian Republic.
- Talking about my comrades.
- I'm afraid of Americans.
- Ron Paul and the propriety of criticism.
- GOP mendacity.
- 2012 Obama fans shaping up to be worse than 2008's.
- Norwood!
- I do have Tariq Ali's quick Idea of Communism which I hope to read this weekend as a sherbet between novels, then what? Beckett's Trilogy I'm not sure will work after Murakami, maybe Gass's Tunnel - it's on the 2012 reread schedule.
- Pound's Cantos for those of you who do.
- This is one of my ten most air-guitared songs ever:
FABLIAU OF FLORIDA
Wallace Stevens
Barque of phosphor
On the palmy beach,
Move outward into heaven,
Into the alabasters
And night blues.
Foam and cloud are one.
Sultry moon-monsters
Are dissolving.
Fill your black hull
With white moonlight.
There will never be an end
To this droning of the surf.
Labels:
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Mocomofo,
Music,
My Complicity,
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Friday, January 6, 2012
And in Moon's Eyes I See the Moon
- So, that's about a tenth of what I've been thinking about that I can't write directly about here. I need to work through new rules, including no rules, which is of course a rule.
- Occupy and space.
- Occupy and transformational strategy.
- Memetics, dissent, and doomed hierarchy.
- How the revolution went viral.
- Shredding the curtain of an enduring atrocity.
- Drones, spec ops, cyber war.
- White people need to shut up.
- Where do corporations live?
- In Montana, corporations aren't people.
- Motherfucking Corporate.
- Asking Romney if corporations are people.
- Overturning Citizens United.
- Fred Hiatt loves him any and all executive power grabs.
- Though he gives fucking Ed Meese column inches to disagree.
- Piles of piles.
- More domestic terrorism.
- Class war graphed.
- David Graeber is funny.
- Thomas Frank interview by Bat Segundo.
- John McCain sure can pick them.
- World's Shittiest Human loves him some Frothy Mix!
- Same day, YFWP and YFNYT run pieces on Frothy Mix's lobbying fortune.
- Myth and object.
- How the pope is chosen.
- Moly.
- Hilltop is rated one of the top ten hipster universities? My cubicle is 75 yards to the left of the statue.
- Twenty free albums.
- Fugazi live series.
- Some Gourds.
- I was looking for some Sandy Denny since she was born seventy years ago today and found this, pre-Denny Fairport Convention, and holyfuck, look at how young Richard Thompson was, how he'd already found his guitar's voice:
MOON
William Jay Smith
I have a white cat whose name is Moon;
He eats catfish from a wooden spoon
And sleeps till five each afternoon.
Moon goes out when the moon is bright
And sycamore trees are spotted white
To sit and stare in the dead of night.
Beyond still water cries a loon,
Through mulberry leaves peers a wild baboon
And in Moon's eyes I see the moon.
Labels:
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Thursday, January 5, 2012
As We Go Up, We Go Down
Irwin generously responded to my email to him:
But wait, there's more, a second email appeared two hours later!
I wrote him back and told him it'd be OK w/me if he keeps wearing the jet pilot flight suit. Speaking of old men defiantly not aging gracefully:
Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?
Just doing my part to clean up the airwaves. Now to get to work on banishing those 1-877-KARS4KIDS spots. The T&C hour will not be my premium CD, as I feel it has too limited appeal, but I will definitely give away a few as prizes during the fundraising mayhem.
But wait, there's more, a second email appeared two hours later!
I've put away the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED banner. Ten minutes ago I heard the original spot on a local AM station. I have heard another, completely different SQ spot, but it's been circulating for at least six months and rarely airs in these parts.
I wrote him back and told him it'd be OK w/me if he keeps wearing the jet pilot flight suit. Speaking of old men defiantly not aging gracefully:
Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?
Labels:
Aargocalyptic,
Autoblogography,
DCU,
Fuck-Me Jig,
Music,
My Complicity
After a Couple of Faint Knocks at the Door, He Slowly Opens the Book of Blank Pages
Was driving around, heard a new Select Quote commercial, just a week after Irwin's magnificent Tullis and Clark Expedition (if you haven't listened, please try), dashed off this email to Irwin (who doesn't know me from bip on the ping chart Ken the Station Manager shows him, or doesn't):
Tullis and Clark are dead. Heard tonight on Washington DC radio a new Select Quote ad, an earnestly concerned mid-thirty timbered voiceover over bedded synth-harp concern muzak. I'm guessing it's cause they can't do the $21 a month shit anymore, but I'll give you credit if you give you credit for destroying Tullis, crushing Clark. Hope the hour is your premium this coming marathon. Thanks!
Also, sorry for the bad post last night - it was the start of this one and I'm a klutz. Also, busy, no time to read last night so three songs one poem but no links here today (a few @BLCKDGRD), maybe some later, more likely tomorrow.
MORNING ARRIVES
Franz Wright
Morning arrives
unannounced
by limousine: the tall
emaciated chairman
of sleeplessness in person
steps out on the sidewalk
and donning black glasses, ascends
the stairs to your building
guided by a German shepherd.
After a couple of faint knocks
at the door, he slowly opens
the book of blank pages
pointing out
with a pale manicured finger
particular clauses,
proof of your guilt.
Labels:
Aargocalyptic,
Autoblogography,
Music,
My Complicity,
Poem
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Fifty-Five Today
That is either the most or second most air-guitared song of my life. Bernard (The Good) Sumner is fifty-five today. There is always a New Order song in my head.
The Goat of the Universe Believed What People Told Him About Universes and Came into Existence
Last night, when I was writing about something I won't write about here, the above song was suddenly, loudly, in my head. Furies and Serendipity, yo.
O, Ron Paul. He's yesterday's Occupy, the media-fueled rube's pumice that lets us kayfabe our dirty hands. He's the biggest sideshow ever in American political discourse since the last until the next! Oof! our presumptions have been challenged, we will vote the way we always vote but be more aware we wish there was a third alternative. Who wasn't a homeless schizophrenic sleeping in a city park or a crotchedy old koot who rants about the UN invading Texas and has a documented history of racism*, that is. Ten dreadful months and countless biggest sideshows since and until from now until the start of POTUS16.
- Everything's fine, everyone's fine, all is fine, all is good, in the house of the crazy people with nine cats and garden statuary.
- Thoughts on Graeber's Debt.
- A synopsis of the Clusterfuck.
- Conserving the self in a culture of productive narcissism.
- *For the record, I have no idea whether Ron Paul is a racist or a bigot. I'm glad he's in the race not because he pisses off the professional Right but because he pisses off the professional Left. Yes, I understand he serves Corporate re: his positions on, to name two, American militarism and the War on Drugs; demonize Paul, demonize his policies, reify common wisdom on American militarism and the War on Drugs.
- Ron Paul hysteria.
- Ron Paul calls Newt a chickenhawk.
- The tribe.
- The Apostate Paul and Iowa.
- The greatness of Ron Paul.
- On the above.
- Why are Democrats attacking Ron Paul?
- She who is as shitty takes credit for Paul's not winning, dances on Perry's and Gingrich's graves.
- Ron Paul has two problems.
- The obamafucker.
- More HRC and POTUS16. (h/t)
- Obama is the only true Conservative in the race.
- Obama versus civil liberties.
- The "truth" about Conservatism.
- Civility trolling.
- The collected jokes of Slavoj Zizek!
- MOCO speed cameras. Assuming that photo is of MOCO, identify the location.
- Church of Anthrax.
- Feminist music worlds.
- The 25 most powerful songs of the past 25 years?
- Yo La Tengo Hanukkah show.
THE GOAT
Aaron Fogel
If you are a goat, do you believe
What people tell you about
Goats, and eat
Tin cans?
There's no goat that foolish.
Or is there?
The goat of the universe believed
What people told him about universes
And came into existence.
Bang! How naive can you get?
Even the scapegoat is not as naive
As (God help him) the universe that
Agreed to exist.
A word to the wise: Don't eat tin cans.
Don't listen. Don't exist.
Labels:
Aargocalyptic,
Autoblogography,
Books,
Mocomofo,
Music,
My Complicity,
Obamapostasy,
Poem,
Theme Song
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Forgot the song for New Years, forgot this video, I remember it from long ago but I've no idea why I never found it while looking for George songs like I always am. Also: I can simultaneously believe Obama is the worse malevolent fuckstick in American presidential history and believe he's the best malevolent fuckstick America will vote for in Pwoggles v Crackers, Corporate's reality game show, and believe Corporate will never break kayfabe though every move is made for the day Corporate can break kayfabe because it can. Also, it occurs to me that in the two recently written novels that haunt me the most, Littell's The Kindly Ones and Murakami's 1Q84, the protagonists are all pursued by Furies, it can't be an accident (that the authors employ Furies, that these are the two novels that haunt me). Also, what I can't write here, nothing to do w/here. I'm wrung. Regular programming resumes soon enough.
Labels:
Aargocalyptic,
Autoblogography,
Books,
Music,
My Complicity,
Obamapostasy
Monday, January 2, 2012
The Strength of Your Hand Will Give the Stroke Its Bone
As someone who bleggalgazes in each and every post, I believe I have credibility when I say that if anything can define bleggalgazing as an embarrassingly odious exercise in self-congratulation, this is it:
In one largish ballroom, a different sort of panel was happening. It featured the Dish’s Andrew Sullivan and two other men who looked like Andrew Sullivan — pleasant, bearded, round-faced men, which is a chic sub-style among many of the attendees here, optionally accessorized with square glasses and male-pattern baldness. The panel was called “From Philosophical Training to Professional Blogging.”
Male pattern baldness and glasses. Gah. I have two regular readers in Missoula, one at the University of Montana, if it's you, David, Hi!
CALLIGRAPHY ACCOMPANIED BY THE MOOD OF A CALM BUT DEFINITIVE SAUCE
Dick Allen
In one largish ballroom, a different sort of panel was happening. It featured the Dish’s Andrew Sullivan and two other men who looked like Andrew Sullivan — pleasant, bearded, round-faced men, which is a chic sub-style among many of the attendees here, optionally accessorized with square glasses and male-pattern baldness. The panel was called “From Philosophical Training to Professional Blogging.”
But the three men on the panel have done so, and splendidly, with varying degrees of national recognition for their thoughtful punditry on political and cultural issues. Besides Sullivan, who has a PhD in political philosophy and is known for his writings on conservatism and gay marriage, the other participants included Slate blogger Matthew Yglesias, who majored in philosophy at Harvard, and Grist magazine writer/blogger David Roberts, who has a master’s degree in philosophy from the University of Montana.
Male pattern baldness and glasses. Gah. I have two regular readers in Missoula, one at the University of Montana, if it's you, David, Hi!
- Bleggalgazing! Once again, I must have been eleventh.
- Bleggalgazing!
- When your bleggal overlords clash.
- Blogwhoring.
- Blogwhoring: @BLCKDGRD - you get many of these links faster that way.
- Pastor Sanctimonious goes after Ron Paul. YFWP's Villagers have backed off their Gingrich attacks, probably feeling they've done their job and Gingrich is meat. If Paul finishes strong in Iowa, expect a week of YFWP Villager open-warfare at Paul.
- The reactionary mind.
- The view from an Iowan.
- Hitchens was an asshole. You knew that, but...
- You'd better sing the anthem Right.
- The church of the consumer.
- Bernhard, for those of you who do.
- Beckett, for those of you who do and shortly will. I need to decide - after Murakami (I'm almost done, and holyfuck, it'll take at least a week to think about before I read any more fiction) whether to first Beckett's trilogy or Gass' Tunnel.
- Silliman's astonishingly generous litlinks.
- Binge and purge.
- A band I love covers a band I hate. Song still sucks.
- Banned by the BBC.
- Destroyer covers New Order.
CALLIGRAPHY ACCOMPANIED BY THE MOOD OF A CALM BUT DEFINITIVE SAUCE
Dick Allen
Make your strokes thus: the horizontal:
as a cloud that slowly drifts across the horizon;
the vertical: as an ancient but strong vine stem;
the dot: a falling rock;
and learn to master the sheep leg, the tiger’s claw,
an apricot kernel, a dewdrop, the new moon,
the wave rising and falling. Do these
while holding your arm out above the paper
like the outstretched leg of a crane.
The strength of your hand
will give the stroke its bone.
But for real accomplishment, it would be well
if you would go to live solitary in a forest silence,
or beside a river flowing serenely.
It might also be useful
to look down a lonesome road,
and for the future
to stare into the gray static of a television screen,
or when lost in a video game
to accept you may never reach the final level,
where the dragon awaits, guarding the pot of gold,
and that you’ve left no footprints, not a single one,
despite all your adventures,
anyone following you could ever follow.
Labels:
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Sunday, January 1, 2012
This Heavy Carcass I Derive from Yours Is Tutelage of Love, and Yet Each Year Though Older Another Notch I Still Cannot Stand to Reach You, or to Emigrate from the Monolithic Shadow You Left
TO THE GARBAGE COLLECTORS IN BLOOMINGTON, INDIANA, THE FIRST PICKUP OF THE NEW YEAR
Philip Appleman
(the way bed is in winter, like an aproned lap,
like furry mittens,
like childhood crouching under tables)
The Ninth Day of Xmas, in the morning black
outside our window: clattering cans, the whir
of a hopper, shouts, a whistle, move on ...
I see them in my warm imagination
the way I’ll see them later in the cold,
heaving the huge cans and running
(running!) to the next house on the street.
My vestiges of muscle stir
uneasily in their percale cocoon:
what moves those men out there, what
drives them running to the next house and the next?
Halfway back to dream, I speculate:
The Social Weal? “Let’s make good old
Bloomington a cleaner place
to live in—right, men? Hup, tha!”
Healthy Competition? “Come on, boys,
let’s burn up that route today and beat those dudes
on truck thirteen!”
Enlightened Self-Interest? “Another can,
another dollar—don’t slow down, Mac, I’m puttin’
three kids through Princeton?”
Or something else?
Terror?
A half hour later, dawn comes edging over
Clark Street: layers of color, laid out like
a flattened rainbow—red, then yellow, green,
and over that the black-and-blue of night
still hanging on. Clark Street maples wave
their silhouettes against the red, and through
the twiggy trees, I see a solid chunk
of garbage truck, and stick-figures of men,
like windup toys, tossing little cans—
and running.
All day they’ll go like that, till dark again,
and all day, people fussing at their desks,
at hot stoves, at machines, will jettison
tin cans, bare evergreens, damp Kleenex, all
things that are Caesar’s.
O garbage men,
the New Year greets you like the Old;
after this first run you too may rest
in beds like great warm aproned laps
and know that people everywhere have faith:
putting from them all things of this world,
they confidently bide your second coming.
NEW YEAR'S DAY
Kim Addonizio
The rain this morning falls
on the last of the snow
and will wash it away. I can smell
the grass again, and the torn leaves
being eased down into the mud.
The few loves I’ve been allowed
to keep are still sleeping
on the West Coast. Here in Virginia
I walk across the fields with only
a few young cows for company.
Big-boned and shy,
they are like girls I remember
from junior high, who never
spoke, who kept their heads
lowered and their arms crossed against
their new breasts. Those girls
are nearly forty now. Like me,
they must sometimes stand
at a window late at night, looking out
on a silent backyard, at one
rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls
of other people’s houses.
They must lie down some afternoons
and cry hard for whoever used
to make them happiest,
and wonder how their lives
have carried them
this far without ever once
explaining anything. I don’t know
why I’m walking out here
with my coat darkening
and my boots sinking in, coming up
with a mild sucking sound
I like to hear. I don’t care
where those girls are now.
Whatever they’ve made of it
they can have. Today I want
to resolve nothing.
I only want to walk
a little longer in the cold
blessing of the rain,
and lift my face to it.
TO THE NEW YEAR
W.S. Merwin
With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning
so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible
REQUIEM FOR THE NEW YEAR
Mary Karr
On this first dark day of the year
my daddy was born lo
these eighty-six years ago who now
has not drawn breath or held
bodily mass for some ten years and still
I have not got used to it.
My mind can still form to that chair him
whom no chair holds.
Each year on this night on the brink
of new circumference I stand and gaze
towards him, while roads careen with drunks,
and my dad who drank himself
away cannot be found. Daddy, I’m halfway
to death myself. The millenium
hurtles towards me, and the boy I bore
who bears your fire in his limbs
follows in my wake. Why can you not be
reborn all tall to me? If I raise my arms
here in the blind dark, why can you not
reach down now to hoist me up?
This heavy carcass I derive from yours is
tutelage of love, and yet each year
though older another notch I still cannot stand
to reach you, or to emigrate
from the monolithic shadow you left.
Labels:
Aargocalyptic,
Autoblogography,
Music,
My Complicity,
Poem
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