Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Amorous Ghosts Will Pursue Us for a Time, but Sometimes They Get, You Know, Confused and Forget to Stop When We Do, as They Continue to Populate This Fertile Land with Their Own Bizarre Self-Imaginings

I don't have a plan. I don't mean a plan like down in links your bleggal overlords wonk policy, with math and graphs and everything! They still believe enough of our elite are rational assholes misguided on best practices, that an equilibrium between elite greed and the helps' needs can be fairly negotiated. Our elite are rational assholes, and they've decided those Micronesian islands with no extradition treaties don't buy themselves. Our bleggal overlords are morons.

No, I mean I don't have a plan how I'm to integrate reading The Recognitions into the daily tongue-diving with kayfabe that is this shitty blog, but:

Three years later, that partisan Deity whose most recent attention to the family had been Aunt May's rescue from mortality, acted in Wyatt's direction (though as the boy and his father independently suspected, perhaps it was a different God altogether). Wyatt was taken with a fever which burned him down to seventy-nine pounds. In this refined state he was exhibited to medical students in the amphitheater of a highly endowed hospital. They found it a very interesting case, and said so. In fact they said very little else. Physicians, technicians, and interns X-rayed the boy from every possible angle, injected his arms with a new disease they believed they could cure, took blood by the bottleful from one arm to investigate, and poured the blood of six other people into the other. They collected about his bed and pounded him, tapped his chest, thrust with furious hands for his liver, pumped his stomach with a lead-weighted tube, kneaded his groin, palped his spleen, and recorded the defiant beats of his heart with electronic machinery.

Please read that out loud for full effect, to feel your mouth move.

I don't have a plan for The Recognitions beyond reading it (out loud when possible) and posting snippets that make me giggle and/or gasp here. No reading group is suggested nor will be housed here. Go find a copy yourself if you're curious, but POW! a novel about the nature of kayfabe in an era when the elite are breaking kayfabe? When nothing is more fun to consider than kayfabe? In July, during the Blog Days of Summer, in dying Stringtown Blegsylvania, the summer before a presidential election Blog Days of Summer year?


John Ashbery

Something was about to go laughably wrong,
whether directly at home or here,
on this random shoal pleading with its eyes
till it too breaks loose, caught in a hail of references.
I’ll add one more scoop
to the pile of retail.

Hey, you’re doing it, like I didn’t tell you
to, my sinking laundry boat, point of departure,
my white pomegranate, my swizzle stick.
We’re leaving again of our own volition
for bogus patterned plains streaked by canals,
maybe. Amorous ghosts will pursue us
for a time, but sometimes they get, you know, confused and
forget to stop when we do, as they continue to populate this
fertile land with their own bizarre self-imaginings.
Here’s hoping the referral goes tidily, O brother.
Chime authoritatively with the pop-ups and extras.
Keep your units pliable and folded,
the recourse a mere specter, like you have it coming to you,
awash with the new day and its abominable antithesis,
OK? Don’t be able to make that distinction.


  1. I hate the comma in this sentence. Both times.

    "They found it a very interesting case, and said so."

  2. I feel like I'm in Switzerland. Where's Sepp's house?

    Oh goody, now our agents of information gathering (hope that was sufficiently euphemistic) are going to be skimming ideas out of novels.

  3. The ASPCA has been notified.
    See you when I get back.