Two years ago I would have calculated all the implications I could of the below, good and bad - and I think good here is attempted, all hypocrisy and complicity implicit by all assumed - and then anguished over each one, but fuck it.
My black and white with red crest Swiss Army watch is suddenly losing minutes but only minutes between minute hand ten and twelve the past eight hours. If I reset the minute hand to one it keeps time until ten then loses three minutes between ten and eleven and two minutes between eleven and twelve. This can't be the battery, right?
- Blackout and criminalizing dissent.
- Attaboy, Bloomberg.
- Practical protesters, extremist elites.
- David Harvey at Occupy London.
- Occupy Salt Lake City.
- I'd never heard of Frank Miller, but apparently he's a fascist mouthpiece and cranky old hack.
- Said, so I don't have to.
- Special pleading.
- Also, motherfucking crackers.
- One dumb motherfucker.
- More new Earthgirl paintings.
- Occupy Wall Street's library evicted.
- Beckett's letters.
- Epigraphs for an imaginary novel.
- Marianne Moore was born 124 years ago today.
- Reading 1Q84. I started it and stalled, which is on me - it feels like it might be wonderful if and when I'm able.
- The cabins.
- Deerhunter covers Pylon.
- Posting Pollini yesterday sent me on a Pollini-quest.
THE PAPER NAUTILUS
For authorities whose hopes
are shaped by mercenaries?
Writers entrapped by
teatime fame and by
commuters' comforts? Not for these
the paper nautilus
constructs her thin glass shell.
Giving her perishable
souvenir of hope, a dull
white outside and smooth-
edged inner surface
glossy as the sea, the watchful
maker of it guards it
day and night; she scarcely
eats until the eggs are hatched.
Buried eight-fold in her eight
arms, for she is in
a sense a devil-
fish, her glass ram'shorn-cradled freight
is hid but is not crushed;
as Hercules, bitten
by a crab loyal to the hydra,
was hindered to succeed,
watched eggs coming from
the shell free it when they are freed,--
leaving its wasp-nest flaws
of white on white, and close-
laid Ionic chiton-folds
like the lines in the mane of
a Parthenon horse,
round which the arms had
wound themselves as if they knew love
is the only fortress
strong enough to trust to.