Compulsive and futile weekend blogging: As promised, Theme Song March 2014. That song has been Theme Song of Month more than any other. No, I can't say how many times, that would be too compulsive even for me.
Two friends, one analog, one digital, have been urging me to give Star Trek: Deep Space Nine another chance. DS9 was my least favorite of the four shows for reasons I forget (I don't count Enterprise, which I've never seen and had and have no desire to see), though I remember thinking moving Worf to the show seemed a particularly desperate Hail Mary. But I trust the judgment of my friends and will give DS9 a new viewing. I watched the premier last night, things I had forgot: Sisco's wife was killed by Locutus; his son is motherfucking irritating; Dax is a trill; cameras will fixate on Kira's tits; the doctor is motherfucking irritating; Sisco will never call anyone Rockfish.
- Eight pronunciation errors that make English what it is today.
- Did Roger Ailes win POTUS 12 for Obama?
- The tyranny of money.
- Of being numerous: In that image—where a desire for insurrectionary freedom is paired with advanced technocapitalism’s surveillance-control apparatus—our current problem is crystallized. The devices we rely upon to communicate and gather information and build the solidarity necessary for contemporary protests also offer us up as ripe for constant surveillance. The surveillance state could not be upheld without its always already trackable denizens. To sidestep our tacit complicity in this would be to fail to recognize how deep it runs—it’s how we live. As my Salon colleague Andrew Leonard noted, “In 2013, the negative consequences of our contemporary lifestyles were impossible to ignore.”
- The nyancatcentipedes really tie the post together.
- Brad's serialized short story, part five.
- Brad's serialized short story, part six.
- Thomas Hardy's afterwards.
- Heart's Needle.
- Two new tags.
GYMNODPÉDIES NO. 3
Adrian Matejka
This sunlight on snow.
This decrescendo
of covered stumps & brush —
stop for it.
Stop before the sled end-
over-ends down
the chin of the hill —
the way it always will
at the rock ⅔ of the way down.
Stop & shiver in it: the ring
of snow inside gloves,
the cusp of red forehead
like a sun just waiting to top
the hill. Every ill-built
snowball waiting to be thrown,
every bell-shaped angel
stamped over the brown leaves.
When my daughter ranges
in winter, she works
every dazzling angle —
the crestfallen pinecones,
the grizzled beards
of bushes in the morning,
a furnace’s windup huffing
in this throat-
clearing of snow.
