Sunday, November 28, 2021

But What About the Predatory Hand?

Now in my hand!



Which I had been waiting for for weeks in all expectation that I'd begin reading immediately, not having read anything that stuck until earlier this week when suddenly, for the first time in months, I reconnected with that seven volume 4000 page translated from the French obsessive monologue masked as a novel, I'm in volume three, the narrator has just discovered that his friend Saint-Loup's mistress is a whore the narrator had seen (if not had) on sale for twenty francs in a brothel years earlier, if I disconnect from that cinderblock now to try to connect to the cinderblock above (translated from the Polish) - and I might not *if* I tried - I may not reconnect to the French cinderblock until when? Twenty-seven new covid plague strains from now? Meanwhile:




Moon above our house Wednesday night, below our house after Earthgirl installed a present for me Thursday night, it's so inside a joke (and not what you think), a small but huge offering, the telling would bore you but happy smile for me



They will never fuck off to the sea
American kleptocracy
Let this radicalize us
Politically expendable deaths
Pathologized Totalitarianism
The Left's covid failures
Attitudes toward the locals
The Terror of Electronic Money
Our shitlords' flagship shitspewer
Deconstructing econospeak
Exhausted planet at the end of growth
Disaster calculus
The new normal is more normalized censorship 1
The new normal is more normalized censorship 2
How many deaths can you live with
Walking America: Albany NY
Promethean Beasts
No, I will not vote on the best book of the past 125, revolution, fuckers
Fun, games, extractivism!
New age of cultism or cult panic? (D2E/O)
The finest metaphor for m**********g America
Maggie's weekly links
{ feuilleton }'s weekend links
Frost at Midnight
Visit to the Elizabeth Bishop House
Insignificance turns twenty!





ROSES ONLY

Marianne Moore

You do not seem to realize that beauty is a liability rather than 
    an asset – that in view of the fact that spirit creates form we are justified
      in supposing 
      that you must have brains. For you, a symbol of the unit, stiff
        and sharp,
    conscious of surpassing by dint of native superiority and liking
      for everything self-dependent,
 
on anything an ambitious civilization might produce: for you, unaided, to attempt 
      through sheer 
    reserve to confute presumptions resulting from observation is
      idle. You cannot make us 
      think you a delightful happen-so. But rose, if you are brilliant, it
    is not because your petals are the without-which-nothing of pre- 
      eminence. You would look, minus
thorns – like a what-is-this, 
 
a mere peculiarity. They are not proof against a storm, the elements, or mildew
    but what about the predatory hand? What is brilliance without
      coordination? Guarding the 
      infinitesimal pieces of your mind, compelling audience to
    the remark that it is better to be forgotten than to be remembered too
      violently,
your thorns are the best part of you.

Tuesday, November 23, 2021

The Radio Operator's Name Is Sparks

Slowest week of the Blegsylvanian year I type this week every year but wasn't going to this year though it's also the bleggalgaziest because it's the slowest, but then I just watched The Sparks Brothers which spent five minutes celebrating one of this shitty blog's two Bleggalgazing Anthems



People can vouch. If you like Sparks you'll love them after seeing the documentary, if you love Sparks like me you'll adore Sparks after seeing the documentary. 

O, hey! I have two tickets to see Sparks at Lincoln Theater on U Street on March 23, 2022 on the condition the world not destroyed by then! 2nd ticket gleefully claimed, happy laugh




I'm stupid for Sparks. Remember the guy who youtubed himself reading his poems that I posted here? Ran into him on campus and he turned and ran away, I had sent him Joyelle McSweeney's Toxicon & Arachne which he said he admired (I sent him some of my poems at his request which he praised then hinted to help me get published in small mags but I said no), and then I sent him Johannes Göransson's (McSweeney's husband) The Sugar Book, he emailed me as soon as he received it, called it an example of the disgusting disturbing trend in modern poetry (without elaborating further) and cut off all communication with me, not responding to my O, say more email, not sending another youtube of his poetry, now running from me when he saw me on campus, today in bleggalgazing (and fine metaphors abounding)



Haven't link mined since the last post and no grid today though do see this and this and this. The compulsion to post remains but the compulsion to post at regular intervals now feels like a job and fuck that. The recurrent complaint regarding the increasing duhiness of reiterating the accelerating pace towards and sheer volume of our impending death by duh depresses yes but doesn't shut me up mostly, this the slowest week of the Blegsylvanian year notwithstanding

I'm sideways too, reading Murnane again reminds me how his fascination with personal lodestar events and images is my fascination with personal lodestar events and images, when I knew I would write about the Sparks documentary past weekend I remembered the Silliman poem below so I'd have the title of the post but also remembered the last line of the poem which triggers my worse constant nightmare, the Humane Society tv ad I saw fifty years ago where a guy in a pick-up drives to a dead end, gets out of the truck with his dog, throws a tennis ball into the woods and when the dog races after it the guy gets in his truck and drives off, the dog comes back to where the truck was parked, the dog drops the ball, his tail stops wagging, there is not a single day I don't think of this and not a single dog I meet that I don't think of this and every time I think of this I'm thrown completely sideways, all my dark started then



YOU, PART 1

Ron Silliman


Hard dreams. The moment at which you recognize that your own death lies

in wait somewhere within your body. A lone ship defines the horizon. The

rain is not safe to drink.

In Grozny, in Bihac, the idea of history shudders with each new explosion.

The rose lies unattended, wild thorns at the edge of a mass grave. Between

classes, over strong coffee, young men argue the value of a pronoun.
 

When this you see, remember. Note in a bottle bobs in a cartoon sea. The

radio operator’s name is Sparks.
 

Hand outlined in paint on a brick wall. Storm turns playground into a

swamp. Finally we spot the wood duck on the middle lake.
 

The dashboard of my car like the keyboard of a piano. Toy animals anywhere.
 

Sun swells in the morning sky.
 

Man with three pens clipped to the neck of his sweatshirt shuffles from one

table to the next, seeking distance from the cold January air out the coffee

house door, tall Styrofoam cup in one hand, Of Grammatology in the other.

Outside, a dog is tied to any empty bench, bike chained to the No Parking

sign.

Friday, November 19, 2021

whirling in a spangled frenzy toward a riddle and a doom

I'd typed a full description of a happy and surprisingly kind and generous event aimed at me at work, me, who strives for invisibility then resents my invisibility at work, it reminded me how often wrong I am (I am not Data and Lor's father) and always sideways in my perpetual dark anger, momentarily broke my perpetual dark anger and reminded me, laughingly, how dependent I am on my perpetual dark anger for self-definition.

Description deleted, perpetual dark anger back. Angry links below harvested before the happy interlude, even if I'd kept the not dark and angry description of a happy event I'd have given you the dark and angry links, fine metaphors abound (lame TNG allusions too), fuck me




The resources of reaction
Liberalism, Racism, and the White Unconscious
M***********g Democrats
are our shitlords' most m************g weapon
M***********g Republicans
M***********g Democrats
Welcome to the quagmire
Democrats and Republicans both work for shitlords
This m***********g country
Imagine the worseSay "corruption" in English?
INCREDIBLY CAPABLE CRONE
Meta-moves and cancel culture
Disclosure: above written by a friend
Avedon Carol's occasional links
Ten questions ignored by philosophy
Johannes Göransson interview
Alice Notley reading!More New York School news
Beckett on richter scaleOn Dara
The Argument is 20 (and I miss Fort Reno shows)
But I don't want to post a Fugazi song, I am often wrong and always sideways in my comfortable snuggable dark anger, it pleases me how angry it made me at me when I tried to listen to my Dischord compilation two weeks ago and failed it completely





THE CHASTE STRANGER

James Tate

All the sexually active people in Westport
look so clean and certain, I wonder
if they’re dead. Their lives are tennis
without end, the avocado-green Mercedes
waiting calm as you please. Perhaps it is
my brain that is unplugged, and these
shadow-people don’t know how to drink
martinis anymore. They are suddenly and
mysteriously not in the least interested
in fornicating with strangers. Well,
there are a lot of unanswered questions
here, and certainly no dinner invitations
where a fella could probe Buffy‘s inner-
mush, a really complicated adventure,
in a 1930ish train station, outlandish
bouquets, a poisonous insect found
burrowing its way through the walls
of the special restaurant and into one
of her perfect nostrils—she was reading
Meetings with Remarkable Men, needing
succor, dreaming of a village near Bosnia,
when a clattering of carts broke her thoughts—
“Those billy goats and piglets, they are
all so ephemeral ...” But now, in Westport
Connecticut, a boy, a young man really,
looking as if he had just come through
a carwash, and dressed for the kind of success
that made her girlfriends froth and lather,
can be overheard speaking to no one
in particular: “That Paris Review crowd,
I couldn’t tell if they were bright
or just overbred.” Whereupon Buffy swings
into action, pinning him to the floor:
“I will unglue your very being from this
planet, if ever ...” He could appreciate
her sincerity, not to mention her spiffy togs.
Didymus the Blind has put three dollars
on Total Departure, and I am tired of pumping
my own gas. I’m Lewis your aluminum man,
and we are whirling in a spangled frenzy toward
a riddle and a doom—here’s looking up

your old address.

Sunday, November 14, 2021

Careening Over the Highway in My Lightweight Japanese Death Star

In my new car's console I've a GbV rune and a WFMU woof-moo bumpersticker but haven't me-branded the car yet, I think about it then decide no

This reflects no changed feelings towards GbV or WFMU, both continue to get monthly donations, clang clang ho

Doesn't reflect fear of jinxing the new car, I've jinxed this car because I don't want to drive a spaceship and I'll never find as basic a new car again, I like it, just run and play music

What percentage of humans who saw the GbV rune and woof-moo stickers (and muted trumpet and osprey wings stickers) on my dead subaru's ass (a) knew what they represented then (b) felt that sad tiny tribal tingle?

The new car a silver car and the black and white GbV rune and WFMU woof-moo bumpersticker, if and when I apply them, won't pop against the silver versus the dead black, this might have small impact on my delay, today in me and my complicity

If I had some place to move the stuff to I'd love to get everything I've accumulated at work and empty myself of the building but for the forty hours, one of inity things typed but classified, forbidden to be posted here, nine-tenths of what I type now

Why individualize my new car when I won't individualize this shitty blog the way I want despite the hundreds of hours a year I waste not individualizing this shitty blog

The new silver car is a sedan, I've a trunk, after a month I haven't used it for useless storage yet, the thing I find in a new car that I had to have left there at least six months ago makes the new car old not the muddy floor mats after a hike in the rain





Shakey turned seventy-five Friday past
You can't hide from your cat (though why would you?)
David Graeber's possible worlds
Notes on Losing: US in Afghanistan
Loopholes for kleptocrats
Tenured, trapped, and miserable!
Casablanca for conservatives
The state of elite academia
Democrats' reliance on false narratives
Doomed to succeed, or: Downsizing Subjectivity
Rise of intangible capitalism
Maggie's weekly links
Polemic against the empathy racket
{ feuilleton}'s weekend links
"As is the case with most serious weirdos, the details of Barthelme’s life have always provided readers with ample opportunity to misinterpret his work."
Ordered Books of Jacob last night!
I vouch for both *Drive Your Plow* and *Flights*
Proust's Panmnemonicon
When Roxy Music covered Neil Young







BUMPER STICKER

Rebecca Wolff

Careening over the
highway in
my lightweight
Japanese
Death Star
buffeted by the great and powerful
winds
 
icy winds
of winter warming
cold air with hot air
under it
 
accordion pleats
of natural disaster
my disaster
 
in the past if you were to say to me
 
or to rage at me
in a poem
about America I would charge you
a great failure
 
to even use the word. It is
banality
this land is suffering because poets—
 
their great cohort—
 
 
I look twice
to save lives.

Wednesday, November 10, 2021

A Tiny Universe in Your Hand Made of Stringy Oil, Cats' Hair



Fleabus, photo from Monday night past, now in dotage, eats too much then won't eat at all, still poops in box but pisses next to it, kidneys drying to raisins, the meds and the special RX food she eats too much then won't eat at all working as well as possible says vet, the cat is eighteen, now going blind too, like the old fuck below, photo from last night, in hat knit by Planet holding the phone with a Fleabus protective case, a gift from Planet

Animals distill into their essence getting older, Fleabus getting sweeter day by day, the fuck below more sideways




Washington Post has an article on digital front page: Why Do People Mistreat Dogs, won't link to, won't read, will rip out my blinding eyes with a butterknife before I look at the photos, need more proof the eternal and infinite assholosity of humans than sillyass helmetball which is only the finest metaphor? watch in reality how humans treat animals (including the shittiest animal when they can, daydream of doing so if they can't)
The Great Tree Migration
The Economics of Repulsion
The Great DuhI work at a university whose most profitable programs teach students to Zero Sum Win at Clusterfuck, it's training for Shitlordia, I particularly like how cohorts are mandatory, Shitlordia HR using death matches in each cohort then pitting cohort top dogs against each other to find the brightest, most amoral ensigns they can then make more vicious and sociopathic by dangling bonuses and promotions over their noses. So no, Democrats won't save you, the university I work at gave you Bill Clinton
Shitlords hold the planet for ransom
I have two utterly useless in a professional sense degrees from the university where I work- I took (and still have) the tool job before I took advantage of tuition benefits and then getting fun but useless degrees, a BA in Antifa Hand Signals and an MA in Critical Race Theory, was fun! you are reading this because my trajectory would be different had Earthgirl not badgered me to apply to a job I thought you'd need at least a college degree to get
Planetary Rift
The problem with safety
Everything is an argument
Wallace Stevens and the New York School of Poets
The Villainous EmpathLink in part related to my thinking about Auster writing an autobiography of Crane which made me think about Henry James (who is the half the subject at the link) and my peculiar itch to read James though every single voluntary attempt (I read, and disliked, for assignments) fails, but two dear friends, both whose opinions I trust and value, tell me that once I get the breakthrough I will work my way through James' canon, and for some nagging reason I think they're right
Big Star live concert tribute!
New Jack Spicer uncollected!




BE BRAVE TO THINGS

Jack Spicer

Be brave to things as long as
As long as
As long as the plot thickens
As long as you hold a tiny universe in your
hand made of stringy oil, cats’ hair,
tobacco, remnants
Of what was once wide.
As it was once as long as, the plot thickens.
Be brave to thinkers in the night, rusted
boxes, anything
That has dimension.
As if it were a foot wide
Tall, square, as long as boxes
Were.