- As of three o'clock EST yesterday afternoon I had never heard or heard of Derek Bailey, but then Kurt played three hours and Mr Alaram and Shahar sent me these youtubes.
- Mr Alaram also recommended this album and I'm now happily out $10.
- First, I like, lots.
- Second, I want to bump yesterday's post from the top, thanks to everyone for the Kind words.
- There is far more music I've never heard than music I've heard, I've only two ears, one brain, so much time. Please turn me on to what I'm missing you think I should know.
- Similarly, tomorrow is Blogroll Amnesty Day. Please turn me on to blogs I'm missing you think I should know. Not that I can add them to blogrolls, my motherfucking free blogging platform's blogroll function here is fucked still.
- Trigger warming.
- Fashion Week.
- Tortured debate. I'd add: torture exists as crowd control - it's not what you'd say under torture, it's that you can be tortured and the choices you make under that threat that matters.
- Live-blogging the death of a blog.
- All the difference in the world.
- This week in water.
- On being a late bloomer.
- Screen studies.
- The Lost World.
WHAT YOU HAVE TO GET OVER
Stumps. Railroad tracks. Early sicknesses,
the blue one, especially.
Your first love rounding a corner,
that snowy minefield.
Whether you step lightly or heavily,
you have to get over to that tree line a hundred yards in the distance
before evening falls,
letting no one see you wend your way,
that wonderful, old-fashioned word, wend,
meaning “to proceed, to journey,
to travel from one place to another,”
as from bed to breakfast, breakfast to imbecile work.
You have to get over your resentments,
the sun in the morning and the moon at night,
all those shadows of yourself you left behind
on odd little tables.
Tote that barge! Lift that bale! You have to
cross that river, jump that hedge, surmount that slogan,
crawl over this ego or that eros,
then hoist yourself up onto that yonder mountain.
Another old-fashioned word, yonder, meaning
“that indicated place, somewhere generally seen
or just beyond sight.” If you would recover,
you have to get over the shattered autos in the backwoods lot
to that bridge in the darkness
where the sentinels stand
guarding the border with their half-slung rifles,
warned of the likes of you.