Thursday, January 31, 2013

A Vagueness at the Center Whose Slow, Persistent Movements Some Sentence Might Explain If We Had Time or Strength for Sentences

Holyfuck, have I ever mentioned I love Roxy Music. Phil Manzanera is sixty-two today. Incredibly busy, I'd love to tell you about it, can't, won't - just links, music, poems today. Lying or stupid? I'll let Yves answer: The willful blindness of Good Dems continues to amaze me. Obama did not want filibuster reform. He didn’t want it because he wants to be able to blame the Big Bad Rs for selling out his base. That is his plan, not the result of a lack of will or foresight. Notice the lack of agency in this piece? “Democrats” not “Obama”. Losing the deficit warWhy anti-authoritarians are diagnosed as mentally ill (via Fellowjeff in comment at this guy's post). Federici, for those of you who do. Foucault, for those of you who do. Between ideation and agitationFree Kathryn BigelowThings you might have missed (where perhaps Fellowjeff found the article above). This fat Frederick fucker wants to be governor of Maryland. Riffle Ford Road! You can see Seneca Hole 14 from there. I remember being told, Shut up, Najar's not going to Europe. Will be told Shut up, Hamid is not going to Europe this summer. Will Zlatan kick Beckham? Here's hoping. Looking for today's birthdays, saw Norman Mailer born 90 years ago today. That's the first time I thought about Norman Mailer in at least a decade. Imagine a jump. Reminded by Agi of the David Lee Roth Soundboard! Hours of fun. New Yo La Tengo video. A moment to mention FUCK BLOOGER! Hey, Philip Glass is sixty-six today, it's not love though major like and deep respect. Here's his most famous piece:


Timothy Donnelly

After knowledge extinguished the last of the beautiful
fires our worship had failed to prolong, we walked
back home through pedestrian daylight, to a residence
humbler than the one left behind. A door without mystery,
a room without theme. For the hour that we spend
complacent at the window overlooking the garden,
we observe an arrangement in rust and gray-green,
a vagueness at the center whose slow, persistent
movements some sentence might explain if we had time
or strength for sentences. To admit that what falls
falls solitarily, lost in the permanent dusk of the particular.
That the mind that fear and disenchantment fatten
comes to boss the world around it, morbid as the damp-
fingered guest who rearranges the cheeses the minute the host
turns to fix her a cocktail. A disease of the will, the way
false birch branches arch and interlace from which
hands dangle last leaf-parchments and a very large array
of primitive bird-shapes. Their pasted feathers shake
in the aftermath of the nothing we will ever be content
to leave the way we found it. I love that about you.
I love that when I call you on the long drab days practicality
keeps one of us away from the other that I am calling
a person so beautiful to me that she has seen my awkwardness
on the actual sidewalk but she still answers anyway.
I say that when I fell you fell beside me and the concrete
refused to apologize. That a sparrow sat for a spell
on the windowsill today to communicate the new intelligence.
That the goal of objectivity depends upon one’s faith
in the accuracy of one’s perceptions, which is to say
a confidence in the purity of the perceiving instrument.
I won’t be dying after all, not now, but will go on living dizzily
hereafter in reality, half-deaf to reality, in the room
perfumed by the fire that our inextinguishable will begins.


  1. Holy hell I forgot about that bit o' Diamond Dave. I know how I'm going to annoy my kids this evening.

  2. Blogger sits, awaiting your abuse, allowing you to use him like a cheap condom, then spreads your seed through the blogosphere free of charge because he loves you, longs for your abuse, for your chains and high heels. And you swear at him again and again and again.

  3. Yes, I know, I'm getting what I pay for. I actually am coming to peace with the inability to change the template's colors and title font sizes, it's freeing in a certain sense. It's formatting the poetry that drives me nuts, the long poems that would take too much time to type out. Plus screaming at blooger is safer than screaming at those referenced in this post's third sentence who *deserve* screaming at but will never be screamed at.