Weeks like this (it's always fascinated me that the kaboomier the news the quieter gets Stringtown) - plus maybe it's Spring - create outbreaks of hiatusitus. At least two buds have announced hopes to suspend production at least temporarily, and a glance at the blogrolls shows fewer and fewer new posts in all categories. I don't daydream anymore of shutting down My House of Can't Shut Up; I don't even daydream anymore of telling you why I don't daydream anymore of shutting down My House of Can't Shut Up. I have resolved to bleggalgaze when and how (which means there will be less, knowing me), and I resolved last night to try and avoid gratuitously snarky obamapologist baiting for all the good my resolve will serve me (though I've by and large held to my resolution to not bait motherfucking rightwingers, what good does it do to do so daily? they are not the problem, they are props). So rather than comment beyond mentioning Obama's delight in scolding Republicans over gun control, let me say last night I tried twitter-replying to three of my twitter overlords - wittily, in fact - and was summarily ignored by all. (My theory on kaboomier/quieter is that many Stringtowners look to their bleggal overlords for cues on how to react to the kaboom, btw.) This did not, I hasten to add, make me daydream of shutting down that sub-branch of My House of Can't Shut Up. Bleggalgazing. Annals of lack of self-awareness. The tragedies of other places. Moral panics and managerialism. Materialism and patriarchy. Thirteen words. Postcard from the End of the World: Missouri. Ten myths about Thatcher. Apparition of the exile. Suffered teeth searching for tongue. Immortality ode. Lisa Robertson. The advance of the father. Clark Coolidge and Morton Feldman. We had seen a pig. Bittova. The Deux Filles re-release is my favorite CD of 2013 so far, by far.
SO GOING AROUND CITIES
“I order you to operate, I was not made to suffer.”
Probing for old wills, and friendships, for to free
to New York City, to be in History, New York City being
History at that time.” “And I traded my nights
for Intensity; & I barter my right to Gold; & I’d traded
my eyes much earlier, when I was circa say seven years old
for ears to hear Who was speaking, & just exactly who
was being told….” & I’m glad
I hear your words so clearly
& I would not have done it
& I’m amused at such simplicity, even so,
inside each & every door. And now I’m with you, instantly,
& I’ll see you tomorrow night, and I see you constantly, hopefully
though one or the other of us is often, to the body-mind’s own self
more or less out of sight! Taking walks down any streets, High
Street, Main Street, walk past my doors! Newtown; Nymph Rd
(on the Mesa); Waveland
Meeting House Lane, in old Southampton; or BelleVue Road
in England, etcetera
Other roads; Manhattan; see them there where open or shut up behind
“I’ve traded sweet lines for answers …”
They don’t serve me anymore.” They still serve me on the floor.
as now, as floor. Now we look out the windows, go in &
out the doors. The Door.
(That front door which was but & then at that time My door).
I closed it
On the wooing of Helen. “And so we left schools for her.” For
She is not one bit fiction; & she is easy to see;
& she leaves me small room
For contradiction. And she is not alone; & she is not one bit
lonely in the large high room, &
invention is just vanity, which is plain. She
is the heart’s own body, the body’s own mind in itself
& she talks like you; & she has created truly not single-handedly
Our tragic thing, America. And though I would be I am not afraid
of her, & you also not. You, yourself, I,
Me, myself, me. And no, we certainly have not pulled down
our vanity: but
We wear it lightly here,
here where I traded evenly,
& even gladly
health, for sanity; here
where we live day-by-day
on the same spot.
My English friends, whom I love & miss, we talk to ourselves here,
& we two
rarely fail to remember, although we write seldom, & so must seem
In the stained sky over this morning the clouds seem about to burst
What is being remembering
Is how we are, together. Like you we are always bothered, except
by the worst; & we are living
as with you we also were
fired, only, mostly, by changes in the weather. For Oh dear hearts,
When precious baby blows her fuse / it’s just our way
of keeping amused.
That we offer of & as excuse. Here’s to you. All the very best.
What’s your pleasure? Cheers.