There, a full facial, copper, turned sideways for aesthetic reasons, not to be coy. Friend Jim (asks what if everything you believe turns out to be wrong) in comments, friend Randal too, joked I'd exposed myself to facial recognition profiles by posting photos of my eyes, joke being my yodels over the years about my compulsive digital self-implication that if Power wants to know who I am they know who I am. Two years or so ago I ran a gag on Senator Barbara Mikulski, D-Fort Meade/NSA, showing a photo of Divine as Babs (serendipitous, Waters' recent birthday) and a youtube I regret now posting* in which I compared her to a wombat. I got openly fingered by Senate bots and DoJ bots, I assume routinely, not primarily with intention to intimidate (though certainly with intention to intimidate) but as a cod caught in some word search algorithm. You, if you gave a damn, could discover my name, maybe not find images of my face since I've always been (folk can vouch) camera-phobic, believe me, if I am anyone of interest to Power Power knows where to find me.
- Fire escapes. My first thought was escapes used as verb, not noun.
- Killer klowns.
- Defining the precariat.
- Posthuman politics under biocapitalism.
- The ruins of the future.
- Let's get it on.
- One of your American professional progressive overlords.
- UPDATE! On the above: Twitter tells me that Jeb Lund, General Gandhi, and Mark Brendle are in trouble, because they wrote this (wonderful and necessary) response to Matt Yglesias's justification of the conditions that killed hundreds of people through explicit reference to their national difference. They are charged with being mean and trafficking in "ad hominem," which is a term that means "when someone accurately criticizes someone else in a way that others would prefer to not have to offer a defense against." Well, as far as the charges against them go, I suppose they're guilty. They did say mean things about Matt Yglesias, which I'm sure hurt his feelings as he paced the halls of his million dollar mansion. In contrast, Matt Yglesias justified the conditions that killed hundreds of people through explicit reference to their national difference.
- City of ruins.
- Journalism fail.
- I've never regretted not pursuing the PhD (and I'd a free ride, the student loan shitsmear wasn't an issue).
- *Mikulski may be despicable in her open advocacy of the police state, but I'm trying - I fail often, I know - to not gratuitously attack people (except me) for their physical appearance.
- Organic v conventional.
- The Death of Helmetball?
- Rachel Kushner as next big thing.
- Benjamin, for those of you who do.
- UPDATE! 88 Sonnets. I can vouch.
- When a bad James Tate imitator and a bad John Ashbery imitator merge.
- UPDATE! Plagiarism.
- Knausgaard, for those of you who do.
- UPDATE! Notes towards a film adaptation of 2666.
- Le Jolie Rousse.
- UPDATE! Return of the Son of Drummage.
- I promised more Anthroprophh. Shazam! the great music Earthgirl is going to scream at me to turn off when we Kensington-Frederick-Hagerstown-Hancock-Cumberland-Morgantown-Washington-Wheeling-Zanesville-Bambier and back to bring Planet home for the summer two weeks from tomorrow, yay!
"AN ARCHIVE OF CONFESSIONS, A GENEALOGY OF CONFESSIONS"
Now the summer air exerts its syrupy drag on the half-dark
City under the strict surveillance of quotation marks.
The citizens with their cockades and free will drift off
From the magnet of work to the terrible magnet of love.
In the far suburbs crenellated of Cartesian yards and gin
The tribe of mothers calls the tribe of children in
Across the bluing evening. It’s the hour things get
To be excellently pointless, like describing the alphabet.
Yikes. It’s fine to be here with you watching the great events
Without taking part, clinking our ice as they advance
Yet remain distant. Like the baker always about to understand
Idly sweeping up that he is the recurrence of Napoleon
In a baker’s life, always interrupted by the familiar notes
Of a childish song, “no more sleepy dreaming,” we float
Casually on the surface of the day, staring at the bottom,
Jotting in our daybooks, how beautiful, the armies of autumn.