Fleabus is slowly going blind. Twilight is worse but always she can't parse the necessary grays. We're not sure how old she is. Fourteen, no, sixteen, no, thirteen, no, fifteen. We didn't write down the date we brought her home, remember how old she was when she arrived. We don't know how old Napoleon is, and he was born in our shed.
- Pallas's cats.
- There is no power but in base men.
- Fellowjeff is alive!
- So is Arthur. Please consider sending him the coins in your pocket.
- So is flowerville!
- The neoliberal erasure of history.
- The human geography of attention.
- One of my Hillaryite Colleagues now thinks Clinton will lose. No HC doesn't, yes HC does, no HC doesn't, yes HC does. I'm not enjoying HC's distress, a sign of something good, a sign of something bad.
- Occasional reminder that Clinton is a despicable fuck.
- Cochise's living descendants.
- Bored in the USA. Crispy and I disagree on Bowie (he thinks Bowie sucks - he's wrong) and Rolling Stones (he thinks they're great, I know they suck - suck suck suck suck suck, and I'm right), but we both agree that Springsteen sucks and sucks very much.
- Jesus fuck, the Rolling Stones suck.
- Three very short Walser short stories.
- Wrong Norma, an Anne Carson poem.
- Thirty years of reading.
- New Nick Cave song. It's one of his dirges. You might like it, but I don't like his dirges.
In the flame of the flickering fire
The sins of my soul are few
And the thoughts in my head are the thoughts of a bed
With a solitary view.
But the eye of eternal consciousness
Must blink as a bat blinks bright
Or ever the thoughts in my head be stilled
On the brink of eternal night.
Oh feed to the golden fish his egg
Where he floats in his captive bowl,
To the cat his kind from the womb born blind,
And to the Lord my soul.