Friday, October 11, 2013

Not Just Me Being Here Again, Old Needer, Looking for Someone to Need





While I was on K's macbook last night at Thursday Night Pints - we discussed Apple's recent upgrade to a new operating system and how it fucked up our iPads and iPhones and I mentioned that earlier in the day Windows Update informed me it wanted to fuck my laptop for an hour, go away, come back after, and how it all sucks sooooo much and then drank to what complicit privileged fucks we are - I read out loud eight of the most recent of dozens of spam comments I get every day, they amuse me, I said. Talk of course turned to Clusterkabukifuck, stories of friends and family fucked and fucked more exponentially daily, we live in DC, we know people fucked and more fucked each compounding-interest fucked day:


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Rubes talking past each other, said K. Same news every day, said L. Fucking helmetball, I said, the people at the table next to us, three tailored-suited white guys of apparent influence, cursing all liberal pussies who think the name Redskins is racist and want the local helmetball team to change its name.






  • To be truthful, the preceding three sentences were spoken, the gag was promised but not actually acted out. 
  • Above Monk requests via Pere Lebrun, who used to blog.
  • Excellent chaw for the three day weekend. It reminds me that you can't spell revolution without revolution.
  • How Sam missed a flight because of Slavoj Žižek.
  • Linky Friday.
  • The story of the tramp.
  • Dan's review of Bleeding Edge - I've finished it, he nails it: Bleeding Edge is a book worth reading simply because it’s by Thomas Pynchon, although anyone contemplating it as an introduction to Pynchon’s work should instead go immediately to V or Gravity’s Rainbow or even The Crying of Lot 49, which, although now apparently somewhat disdained by Pynchon, has long served as a more accessibly condensed example of Pynchon’s literary strategies and worldview. Ultimately, however, Bleeding Edge is not so much “minor” Pynchon as it is a kind of synthetic replica of a Thomas Pynchon novel, all the more disappointing because it was written by Pynchon himself
  • Twelve free online Alice Munro stories
  • Munro links.
  • Munro links.
  • I don't like reading short stories for reasons for multiple reasons I'll spare you in this post from hearing. Short stories are the boarding schools of novelists, mostly, but Alice Munro made it clear it was the tenement in which she lived and I've no complaint at all about her Nobel Prize, her books on shelves about my house.
  • Sun Ra.
  • I missed Lennon's birthday on the 9th. More noteworthy than sad. Strangest days of my life.






ACCIDENTS OF BIRTH

William Meredith

Je vois les effroyables espaces de l’Univers qui m’enferment, et je me trouve attaché à un coin de cette vaste étendue, sans savoir pourquoi je suis plutôt en ce lieu qu’en un autre, ni pourquoi ce peu de temps qui m’est donné à vivre m’est assigné à ce point plutôt qu'à un autre de toute l’éternité qui m’a précédé, et de toute qui me suit.

—Pascal,
Pensées sur la religion


The approach of a man’s life out of the past is history, and the approach of time out of the future is mystery. Their meeting is the present, and it is consciousness, the only time life is alive. The endless wonder of this meeting is what causes the mind, in its inward liberty of a frozen morning, to turn back and question and remember. The world is full of places. Why is it that I am here?

—Wendell Berry,
The Long-Legged House


Spared by a car or airplane crash or
cured of malignancy, people look
around with new eyes at a newly
praiseworthy world, blinking eyes like these.

For I’ve been brought back again from the
fine silt, the mud where our atoms lie
down for long naps. And I’ve also been
pardoned miraculously for years
by the lava of chance which runs down
the world’s gullies, silting us back.
Here I am, brought back, set up, not yet
happened away.

                     But it’s not this random
life only, throwing its sensual
astonishments upside down on
the bloody membranes behind my eyeballs,
not just me being here again, old
needer, looking for someone to need,
but you, up from the clay yourself,
as luck would have it, and inching
over the same little segment of earth-
ball, in the same little eon, to
meet in a room, alive in our skins,
and the whole galaxy gaping there
and the centuries whining like gnats—
you, to teach me to see it, to see
it with you, and to offer somebody
uncomprehending, impudent thanks.


2 comments:

  1. 1)never heard 'meat city' before

    2)meredith's poem reminds me of

    The Last Rites of Bokononism
    (Each line is said once by the person giving the rites and then repeated by the dying person.

    God made mud.
    God got lonesome.
    So God said to some of the mud, "Sit up!"
    "See all I've made," said God, "the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars."
    And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around.
    Lucky me, lucky mud.
    I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done.
    Nice going, God.
    Nobody but you could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have.
    I feel very unimportant compared to You.
    The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around.
    I got so much, and most mud got so little.
    Thank you for the honor!
    Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep.
    What memories for mud to have!
    What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!
    I loved everything I saw!
    Good night.
    I will go to heaven now.
    I can hardly wait...
    To find out for certain what my wampeter was...
    And who was in my karass...
    And all the good things our karass did for you.
    Amen.

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  2. At a recent Patriots/Falcons game I attended (why? you might ask: because I could), I sat next to a Pats fan who had traveled down from Boston to see his beloved team and who was complaining about kickoffs and how now kickers can kick the kickoff completely through the endzone. They ought to move it back where it used to be, he moaned. I think they did it, I told him, because most of the concussions and injuries were happening when you had big men hurtling toward collision at speed down- and up-field at each other. Oh yeah, right, he said. Yeah, didn't the NFL recently settle some billion-dollar lawsuit with brain-injured veterans? Oh yeah, right, he said. Probably the beginning of the end of the sport, I couldn't resist quipping, because so many moms and even some dads now don't want their little juniors out getting concussed and their bells rung and permanent pugilist syndrome. That pretty much ended that convo.

    Hell, my little bro', who was a creditable HS QB and was recruited but turned down a 'ship with an SEC school (for reasons not important here) is 50 now and can't walk. Needs a new knee but doesn't want to get one now b/c you can only get two and they only each last about 10 years. So, he doesn't want to be kneeless at like 70. And that was only from a few years of HS ball. Same thing with the rest of his backfield with whom he's still buds.

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