As soon as I remembered Mark Rothko's birthday I knew I'd spend the next two days listening to Morton Feldman. I mentioned in the Shostakovich birthday post that I don't do my Sillyass Deserted Island Five game with non-rock composers but if I did Shostakovich would have one of the permanent spots. So would Morton Feldman.
- A quick FUCK YOU to google on its birthday.
- Oligarchs applaud Snowden.
- Chicken-shit US media.
- This past summer the North Pole melted.
- Playing with icons.
- Batch of links.
- Architectures of pedagogy.
- Contemporary research paradigms.
- Silliman's always generous litlinks.
- Investigations into the essence of daily writing.
- Internal Tough-Lock.
- Another review of Pynchon's Bleeding Edge archived here to read after I've finished, which will be this weekend if all goes as planned. Which means if there is content here this weekend, it might be just songs and poems and birthdays (if there are any worth noting).
- Looking for each of us.
- Click on the Feldman tag below for much more.
- When Feldman met Beckett. Unfortunately, I can't find the whole opera, if anyone can please send me the link(s).
LINE OF DESCENT
Against the backdark, bright
riband flickers of heat lightning. Nearer
hills begin to show, to come clear
as a hard, detached
and glimmering brim
against light lifting there. And here, pitched over
the braided arroyo choked with debris,
a tent, its wan, cakey,
road-rur color. On the front stake, two
green dragonflies, riding each other, pause,
Look! cries the boy, running, the father behind him
and the canyon opening
out in front of them its magisterial consequence, cramming
vertiginous air down its throat—
to snatch him
from the scarp.