- Yes, re-posted again, this new GbV song, I couldn't resist posting it last night, posted again especially considering the Tomasky link below the next new GbV song. New Guided by Voices out today. Yay! I recently saw a review of Guided by Voices which used a baseball metaphor to describe Pollard as essentially Rob Deer or Steve Balboni, and fuck you and heh!
- Header photo of Fleabus, Best Cat Every, via my daughter Planet. This shitty blog used to feature a Fleabus photo per post back when Planet was in middle school, first years of high school, and was taking photos regularly. Not going to make it a regular feature again, am going to post some now and then more than I have of late.
- Epistemic panic and the problem of life: This image of the fragile and naked human-animal, now hopelessly out-performed, manipulated and threatened by its own technological systems, presents itself as the risk and stakes of epistemic acceleration as a strategy of resistance to capitalism’s lethal acceleration. It begs the question of whether accelerationism demands that we somehow leave behind the frailty of the organism, with its limited scope of experience and self-interestedness, in order ultimately to defend it and its environment at the brink of man-made planetary extinction? In other words, whether we must work against the inherent proclivities of the living in order to protect ‘Life itself’? Or, taking this one anti-humanist step further, even to free thought itself from the limitations of the life-form, with its inherent conservatism, in the interest of knowledge itself! Or whether we must liberate reason from its capitalist control in order that particularity, which includes the contingent experiences of actual lives, may reemerge as a basis for understanding and action? What has knowledge based in embodied experience got to do with all this?
- I saw Steve Balboni ground into a triple play against the Orioles at Memorial Stadium once. Saw him strike out numerous times at Memorial Stadium over multiple games. Rob Deer too back when the Brewers were in the American League.
- Tomasky and the New York Review hop the Elizabeth Warren train. Offered for your consideration - Tomasky, NYRB, Warren; I feel sure you know my yodel - and for old time's sake.
- The new nature of maps.
- The New Inquiry's Sunday readings.
- Burying violins.
- A history of synthesizers.
- Santino Quaranta new head coach of wonderfully named Baltimore Bohemians!
- [[I] [Lied] [Dog] [Died] [Sword] [Profess] [Thimbles] [No]] abandoned, for now.
- Beckett, for those of you who do.
- Marvin Bell poem.
- Walt Whitman, for those of you who do.
- Flarf is life.
- Have I ever mentioned that GbV/All Pollard Projects have one of three permanent seats in My Sillyass Deserted Island Game and that any day in which there is a new release is a High Egoslavian Holy Day, cause it's true.
Of the sleeves, I remember their weight, like wet wool,
on my arms, and the empty ends which hung past my hands.
Of the body of the shirt, I remember the large buttons
and larger buttonholes, which made a rack of wheels
down my chest and could not be quickly unbuttoned.
Of the collar, I remember its thickness without starch,
by which it lay against my clavicle without moving.
Of my trousers, the same—heavy, bulky, slow to give
for a leg, a crowded feeling, a molasses to walk in.
Of my boots, I remember the brittle soles, of a material
that had not been made love to by any natural substance,
and the laces: ropes to make prisoners of my feet.
Of the helmet, I remember the webbed, inner liner,
a brittle plastic underwear on which wobbled
the crushing steel pot then strapped at the chin.
Of the mortar, I remember the mortar plate,
heavy enough to kill by weight, which I carried by rope.
Of the machine gun, I remember the way it fit
behind my head and across my shoulder blades
as I carried it, or, to be precise, as it rode me.
Of tactics, I remember the likelihood of shooting
the wrong man, the weight of the rifle bolt, the difficulty
of loading while prone, the shock of noise.
For earplugs, some used cigarette filters or toilet paper.
I don’t hear well now, for a man of my age,
and the doctor says my ears were damaged and asks
if I was in the Army, and of course I was but then
a wounded eardrum wasn’t much in the scheme.