Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Once There Was a Detective on a Bridge Who Longed to Tell Everyone Everything He Knew and Therefore He Started Running Across the Bridge as Fast as He Could

Most important things first: the new Juana Molina is out Wednesday.

For an hour or so yesterday half the youtubes on this blog wigged out, showed an error message (I paraphrase): Haha, we fucked up, thousands of monkey's are working to fix it. No really, it did say monkeys were working to fix it. Thank you, monkeys, everything seems fine now. I don't know if it was blogger or youtube or Daddy Google that produced the quirk. Now that Daddy Google rules the world and says its children have to play with each other or else all Google's children act skeevy.

I got three emails from friends, each slobbering to tell me, hey, have you seen your blog, IT'S FUCKED UP! See the last line in the Franz Wright poem on Sunday's post. Heh! sorry to disappoint, I didn't go blogspastic, I saw the fucked-up youtubes, I thought, fuck my free blogging platform, it'll fix itself or not, fuck it. Didn't run to the abandoned wordpress blog and hissy-fit the google-fart. Once, always until as recently as early last summer (during the Renew Domain Name in Blogger episode), I would have. Since the youtubes did fix themselves I've no way to prove what I'd do right now as you read this, hours after the event, if blooger was still broken. I'm certain the fuck it wouldn't be as relaxed and unconcerned. The fuck-up occurred at the back-up blogger blog too, so when I say that spiritually that blog is no longer the back-up blog, this is now the back-up blog (though you'll notice no difference in product or production because this is totally symbolic and important only to me), that's because I can manipulate the appearance there while I'm suffocating in green here because this blog's Apply to Template button is permanently broken, not because of yesterday's and today's and tomorrow's inevitable Daddy Google fuck up.

  • Graham Chapman is still dead, but one last money grab.
  • UPDATE! From the hallelujahs on twitter and blogs I am apparently the only person who doesn't think of this as a marvelous miracle. Forgive me, I took members seriously when they said there would be a reunion when Graham Chapman rose from the dead, forgive me, I'm a cynic, in light of those statements I question current motives. On top of which, reunions not only always suck compared to the original, they diminish the original by the reunion's suck.
  • Purgatory/paradise. At least he's not on blooger.
  • Earthgirl hired Planet's bestfriend's boyfriend to set up a professional looking website for her art work, he always uses wordpress. Will add to Me and Mine once it's up and running.
  • He doesn't blame youtube.
  • A blog called Golden Notebooks remembers Lessing.
  • I announced that I wasn't going to worry that not only does Arcade Fire's music suck unto suck but that the band is comprised of insufferable poseurs, but they are making it fucking difficult.
  • A friend asked yesterday if Lyn Hejinian is currently the most important writer working in English. Maybe.
  • I don't know why I never created a Juana Molina tag until today, but search her name in the top box on this blog and on the old blogs for lots more songs.


Lyn Hejinian

     Once there was a goose who floated midstream from the moment she woke to the moment she slept.

     Once there was a girl who knocked a spider into a river and was thus compelled to put a leaf between her teeth and swim far out into the current holding her head above the stream to rescue it.

     Once there was a family gathered in a small backyard and once there was a turtle on a log and when the family and the turtle are mentioned one after the other the turtle flops off its log and the members of the family laugh.

     Each such episode suggests a moment in an imaginable universe - or, rather, each fills an imaginable and not (by our standards) unreal universe with its own uniqueness, and each uniqueness has staying power.

     Once there was a branch that fell into a stream and the new patterns that swirled around it spelled a name that drifted downstream and disappeared around a bend and no one spoke it nor knew whose it was.

     Once there was a detective on a bridge who longed to tell everyone everything he knew and therefore he started running across the bridge as fast as he could.