- Olive reacts last night to news that Melania Trump plagiarized Michelle Obama.
- Actually, a better caption would be Olive reacting to people outraged - OUTRAGED! - that Melania Trump plagiarized Michelle Obama.
- Better yet: Olive reacting to people who think Melania Trump plagiarizing Michelle Obama is a campaign-altering event.
- The Machine of Morbius: What Trump is for many of his closest supporters is someone that scares and horrifies their social enemies, and that’s all he needs to be. Trump is the leader of a social crusade: his meaning is the crusade itself. Trump is a sign, not a man. Nothing I and many haven't yodeled, but reminder.
- Reminder: 2020 is going to make 2016 look ordinary and civil.
- Playtime behind closed doors.
- The fading away of Peace as a political goal.
- Embracing Total War.
- Living death and dying death.
- The Forgotten State.
- 24 tips for buying your first house.
- Happy Birthday to my dad!
- Sonic Youth live in Dusseldorf twenty years ago.
- Two last Alan Vega songs for the RIP.
THE WAY ONE ANIMAL TRUSTS ANOTHER
Somewhere between what it feels like, to be at
one with the sea, and to understand the sea as
mere context for the boat whose engine refuses
finally to turn over: yeah, I know the place—
stumbled into it myself, once; twice, almost. All
around and in between the two trees that
grow there, tree of compassion and—much taller—
tree of pity, its bark more bronze, the snow
settled as if an openness of any kind meant, as well,
a woundedness that, by filling it, the snow
might heal…You know what I think? I think if we’re
lost, you should know exactly where, by now; I’ve
watched you stare long and hard enough at the map
already…I’m beginning to think I may never
not be undecided, about all sorts of things: whether
snow really does resemble the broken laughter
of the long-abandoned when what left comes back
big-time; whether gratitude’s just a haunted
space like any other. This place sounds daily
more like a theater of war, each time I listen to it—
loss, surprise, victory, being only three of the countless
fates, if you want to call them that, that we don’t
so much live with, it seems, as live for now among. If as
close as we’re ever likely to get, you and I, is this—this close—