First, all praise to Serendipity, the Holyfuckingest. I concede Circumstance planted the Heh, but it was Serendipity that harvested the fruit. This applies to Steve from Bethesda too, not just the two of you who think I'm just talking about us. Steve emailed to tell me he grew up in Richmond Indiana, went to Earlham, but Steve found me via United blegging and STANDS! in Eagles the section below where we STAND! As soon as United fixes its shitty beer distribution system, I'm buying him a beer, he's buying me a beer. Serendipity is the Holyfuckingest.
So the traditional post-manic bleggalgazing liturgy, offered as tribute to Serendipity, the Holyfuckingest: new links in both Because Left and Because Right; suggestions for who I should be reading solicited; if you're doing me a Kind and I'm not you please let me know; as always, thanks for the Kind.
I'm going to try to not post again until Sunday when I drive even more readers away with a Toronto/United wrap-up, but either KABOOM! or lack of willpower wins probably. Death to the either/or! Standard tropes are honored, in any case:
- Abortion post.
- Democracy rethunked.
- Membership has its privileges.
- Fantasy eleven-dimensional chess.
- This is your mission: pretend it's television.
- On the above.
- Bread and circuses.
- Feral news: Cream Puff, the female of the litter, is inside and we'll try to convert her to an indoor cat. We knew Frankie is a stupid and mean cat, that he chases off his sister when she tries to get to food, but Napoleon had always seemed cool until Earthgirl saw him chasing Creamy off today. We hadn't seen Creamy in weeks. Who knows how long Napoleon's been a dick. Creamy's skin and bones. She's fed and purring this minute I type this. It's her call, but we're gonna try to convince Creamy, bird-killer supreme, she's an indoor cat. Good luck with that.
- My future hell.
- Four times in three weeks.
- Serendipitously, we were talking about Barry Hannah in comments the other day.
- Some lit-links.
- Laidback and breezy but wistful.
- Titanic days.
- Sea talk.
- When you sleep.
You step from the bus into a sequencing tool that is moist and carries the scent of
You move among the eight banner-like elements and continue to the edges of either
an object or a convention
And in Cascadia also
As in the first line of a nursery rhyme
Against cyclic hum of the heating apparatus
You’re resinous with falsity
Which might be tent-scented or plank-scented
Their lands and goods, their budgets and gastronomy quicken
You want to enter into the humility of limitations
Coupled with exquisite excess
You walk in the green park at twilight
You read Lucretius to take yourself towards death, through streets and markets
In a discontinuous laboratory towards foreignness
You bring his prosody into your mouth
When you hear the sound of paper
C. Bergvall says space is doubt—
What emerges then?
Something cast in aluminum from a one-half scale model of a freight shed
The slight smudge of snow in the shadow of each haycock in the still-green field
The hotel of Europe. Its shutters.
Fields and woods oscillate as in Poussin
While the vote is against renewed empire, or at least capital temporarily
Each wants to tell about it but not necessarily in language
I overbled the notational systems in transcription
And my friend was dead
What is the rigour of that beauty we applaud
At the simple vocal concert?
The otherworldly swan wearing silver and white passes on into current worldliness
The steeple-shaped water bottles ranged on the conference table seem unconditioned
I had been dreaming of Sol LeWitt and similarity
In somebody’s visual universe walking
In the sex of remembering
But I have not made a decision about how to advance into your familiarity
This trade has its mysteries like all the others
It is a labyrinth of intricable questions, unprofitable conventions, incredible delirium,
where men and women dally in the sunshine, their clothes already old-fashioned
They can still produce sounds that are beyond their condition
Here is the absurdist tragical farcical twist
In order to enter I needed an identity
In identifying this figure of reversal
The vital and luminous project
Will measure itself against women
And this has seemed poetical
When it is the ordinary catastrophe
I will take the poem backwards to this mistake
I will take your rosy mouth backwards
It is my favourite mistake
This masquerade of transcription
Hands torn crisscrossed
As the medicinal scent rises from books
Like a boat floating above its shadow
Build here the soul of thread
Pluck here the ordinary doubleness
Like delicate men in positions of power
They want the mental idea of the perfect plant
They want the perfect plant also
And I am the person who sits beneath the tree, listening to Calliope, attended by luck
Like curiosity translated as society
At 6:30 A.M. it was heavily snowing
The hills not visible, everything blanketed
I watched a pilot boat go out
Into mildness and vowels
Into this great desire to see
Always a boat in the middleground
And in the foreground, the men’s powerfully moulded torsos
Twisting and bending persons of the foreground in turmoil
Make livid a philosophy
But not under circumstances of their own choosing
In these persons we glimpse belief
Establishing the fact of perception
Its inherence in history
Now that philosophy is collapsing before our eyes
Our former movements are integrated into a fresh entity, into a freshened sensing
And once more I go screaming into sheer manifesto
Also called shape
In several ways, each pigmented and thing-like
In the use of hollow space, which has in it pure transitions
Calm and hostile and alien
In the chirring from the yard
And in the appropriation of falsity
The She is thrown headlong into transcendent things
She swims into splendidness
She bites into her invention and it runs down her face
In this way she is motility
This is different from saying language is volition
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre
Someone sits and murmurs
This dog that swims in toxic Latin
Licks his Latin paws
This is the middle of my life
Bringing with me my skin
I go to the library
How will I recognize disorder?
Yesterday I felt knowledge in the afternoon
The alcohol relaxed my body, which made me feel pain
My whole life straddled distance
Who is so delicately silent
By accident, procrastination, debt
I sat in the material tumble of fact in a T-shirt
Say I’m a beautiful animal who has mastered laziness
In reddened clearing in the occidental forest
In the album
Purse of goddess clicking
I long to see how it will continue to behave
And I am walking in her garments
In rooms made of pollen and chance and noise
Towards the errors in humanism
To untwirl that life, puffed and rifled
In the old clothes market
In a tangible humbleness
Smelling of copper and shellac and solder
To the extremity of predication, decay
Among the 804 works, merely to sit in unfamiliar light
In a mauve-toned customized van
Called the Presidential Tiara
Out of belief comes
The yellow light of previous decades in a movie
With flag-iris and wild-rose overhanging
There exists an obsession with structures that dominate position
To produce a deep unease
A hencoop and a kennel
Of high-nosed dogs. Odour
Of sulfur emanating from
A dream of paradise
Speaking of Gowron, you have seen this, right?ReplyDelete
To be honest, I forget what once and abandoned bit I used to use that avatar for years ago. Part of breaking the bleggalgaze fever is the ritualistic posting of old gags.
But as long as I'm here and mentioned bleggalgazing, jeebus, Blegsylvania be dying.
Pretender! Where's Kahless the Clone, dammit.ReplyDelete
I can't wait until he starts playing 11-dimensional Stratego. Oh, wait.
Good luck with your felines. We still can't get some of ours to tolerate the rest.
It's thoroughly heart-breaking to see Napoleon, who up till now we thought a wonder-cat, be such a dick.ReplyDelete
As opposed to Fleabus, the best cat ever, who responds to competition by being more interactive and sweet than before.
Housebreaking a feral: lotsa luck with that, me bucko. Been there, done that. House smelled forever of cat piss. Tho' learned about "Nature's Miracle". Get to know it, learn to love it.ReplyDelete
I'm hoping my Crappy Cable Company® will allow me the privilege of maybe just maybe seeing one of the Barca/Real matches. All would be too much for which to hope. How're the VW Uniteds doing these days? I suspect one or two of the players are not going to play up to par this upcoming and that the coach is going to keep someone on the bench who by all goddam right ought to be on the fucking field of play and that there's going to be cards presented that absolutely should've remained pocketed and cards pocketed that should've been out for flagrant red-like activities. I mean, really. But at least one side will be loud and STAND! and one won't. And there simply won't be enough beer vendors to keep anybody happy.
You know, that's what's so confusing to Amurricans: how can one soccer club play in several leagues and championships and cups at the same time? I mean FA, Premiership, Europa, Champions, FIFA, whatever. And then they all go play for their national teams and there's world cups, Olympics, CONCACAFs. Gaaaah. It's dizzying. One league to rule them all like in our holy football association.
Oh, and what part of the chicken does the nuggets come from? I mean, is it the wattles? the testicles? the comb? You tell me.
Like you said yesterday, sumbitch sprung a fuckin' beartrap on their asses and they stumbled into it head first. You can still hear their pussy whining. You wanted a leader, mofos? You just got one. With a facial to boot. From a black man. Trump that. And sure, it's all cynical at that level—but it's a question of how cynical and how sincere. The admixture. If you're not both, you're out on your ass in the BIGS; and you can go home and write a book about it.
Yes, I have little hope Creamy will be indoor-only, but (a) I'm not driving this bus (though go happily for the ride) and (b) the way she's horking down the wet food, at least she'll be a bit healthier when she goes back outside.ReplyDelete
You...didn't know...that Napoleon is a dick?ReplyDelete
Dood. They're CATS. They're motherfucking CATS. What the fucking fuck are you fucking TALKING about? You are a wise, seasoned, rounded, and experienced man with a brilliant analytical mind and superhuman information absorption and processing capabilities who has spent his life mulling over everything to the nth power, and you didn't know that ALL cats, no matter how loveable, are DICKS?????
Jeebus, I love you fiercely and unconditionally, but...Jeebus. Tell me you're baiting me. Even if you're lying.
They're like humans - 99% are DICKS.ReplyDelete
How I lucked into Earthgirl AND Planet AND Fleabus I'll never know, but I'm thankful for winning the lottery.
Creamy's outside. Piss smell wins.
"Piss smell wins"ReplyDelete
Unfortunately, not true of our elections. But it would be one heckuva campaign slogan.