- Earthgirl clearing path for Momcat and Frankie to get to food this morning. They didn't stay in the heated cat tents we bought. There's eighteen inches so far, we're supposedly only halfway as I type this. While it is true that I don't mind being marooned as much as I once did, I still hate motherfucking snow as much and more than ever.
- Snow, not laziness, is why Earthgirl left the giftmas lights up.
- Blegsylvanian news. I've had zero response to my one solicitation to revive Blogroll Amnesty Day on February 1. I followed a link a few days ago to a blog that rolled all the blogs I tried to gain a spot on the rolls in 2008 - remember Booman and Dohiyi Mir and Upyernoz and etc? - and it was like visiting a Western Pennsylvania ghost town both politically (before my apostasies, when I was still a tribalist) and bleggally (Blegsylvania dying, yo). As for Dusty - she was always Kind to me.
- I think Dohiyi Mir once blogrolled me, I think he was the only Eschatonian who did.
- Be Kind, motherfuckers.
- Attacking Sanders is about attacking Warren?
- Today's rhetorical question.
- Hillary laughs.
- The day someone bombs a US wedding.
- An intolerable enormity. Worth the read, but also, the first time in ages I've seen the word enormity used correctly.
- Rivers and mountains.
- Here's the big news: NEW TINDERSTICKS!
CROSSROADS IN THE PAST
That night the wind stirred in the forsythia bushes,
but it was a wrong one, blowing in the wrong direction.
“That’s silly. How can there be a wrong direction?
‘It bloweth where it listeth,’ as you know, just as we do
when we make love or do something else there are no rules for.”
I tell you, something went wrong there a while back.
Just don’t ask me what it was. Pretend I’ve dropped the subject.
No, now you’ve got me interested, I want to know
exactly what seems wrong to you, how something could
seem wrong to you. In what way do things get to be wrong?
I’m sitting here dialing my cellphone
with one hand, digging at some obscure pebbles with my shovel
with the other. And then something like braids will stand out,
on horsehair cushions. That armchair is really too lugubrious.
We’ve got to change all the furniture, fumigate the house,
talk our relationship back to its beginnings. Say, you know
that’s probably what’s wrong—the beginnings concept, I mean.
I aver there are no beginnings, though there were perhaps some
sometime. We’d stopped, to look at the poster the movie theater
had placed freestanding on the sidewalk. The lobby cards
drew us in. It was afternoon, we found ourselves
sitting at the end of a row in the balcony; the theater was unexpectedly
crowded. That was the day we first realized we didn’t fully
know our names, yours or mine, and we left quietly
amid the gray snow falling. Twilight had already set in.