The programming networks run to fill time between prescription drug commercials blows. Forensic this, forensic that. Tortured bodies, corpses still shackled in woods; on something called NCIS, in a morgue, after the actor who was the sidekick in Man from Uncle (who's called Ducky in NCIS and is apparently a world-class autopsy specialist) steps out to take a phone call, over the table where a torture victim lies with her sternum cracked open so we see all the organs, two special agents flirt.
I'm not offended, I'm bored, bored as only training sessions can make me. After the soft porn and graphic violence, I'm told I need to stop taking Cymbalta for my depression if it increases the suicidal thoughts I'm taking it to prevent. Will do.
- Priorities in the land of the free.
- Why we're great.
- This can't end well.
- A silly question.
- Move along.
- On the above.
- Coming to a puke funnel near you.
- Defining deviancy down.
- What constitutes news to Politico.
- Things you might have missed.
- Hand signals.
- Nobody reads my blog.
- The blog as mask and gravestone.
- More on Melonhead Schaefer.
- I enjoyed a love affair with Iris Murdoch novels in my twenties.
- Great New York novels.
- Top Ten douchebags at Coachella.
- Ties, slurs, ligatures.
CROWDS SURROUND US
agile founderings and piecemeal flotations.
The crowd constitutes a gravitational field
that slaps back at the ground, numbed
and maddened by ground’s constant suckling.
The crowd embodies a depression in fabric
more than an attraction. Its angled, arteried, fleet
fantasias of need sway in
a loopy, bobbing dance without strings.
It’s this sense of movement the organism uses
to believe in its own existence, the palpable presence
of an intangible parade, uncertain
planetary marches, a supernumerary of stars.
In its mania for artifice the crowd has sewn the sky
with these shiny extras. Embodied
adoration, they snap the organism shut
before tickling it open again
with reedy gestures. Breathe.
The crowd’s louche body
clings and parts in place, an ovation
rigid and adrift, alive. It is the sea
that sweeps the sea.
Broom tight with inner bickering.
A mortal scour. Meaning,
how the crowd hates the crowd.
Outwardly. It admits you or me
as an enormous lidless eye admits glittering
beams. Endless watching, washing us in.
The crowd’s object, its point,
is always vanishing into its own mass. It is a sea
with no concern for us, even as it scores.