- I've got your fucking sunny day: my timeline (via DC sports, I'm a closet Nats fan, and then there is United, which won it's fourth league game, one more than last season, Saturday) filled last night with the scariest word combination imaginable for my motherfucking eternity: Obinray Ickerfay.
- This is true: I want to believe that Obinray Ickerfay is not only consciously aware he is an ironic-cubed performance artist, I would pretend to believe him if he said he was. But he's not.
- It's a mocomofo thing, the ick called Obinray Ickerfay, though it's a universal thing too, you've had, have, will have a Obinray Ickerfay too.
- If ever there was a reason to Pig Latin someone's name at this shitty blog, it's Obinray Ickerfay.
- We kill people based on metadata.
- The New York Times, Tim Geithner, and the Three Card Monte Model of Propaganda.
- Piketty is singing to our choir.
- Territorial rights for languages?
- The New Inquiry's Sunday reads.
- Maggie's weekly links.
- HIKING UPDATE! or Earthgirl and I are getting our fat asses in shape doing what we love to do: Friday after work four mile circuit in Little Bennett, only one small circuit and we would have done it all; Saturday, seven mile circuit, Sugarloaf, Blue to Purple to Blue to Northern Peaks; Sunday, four mile circuit to the above, Blockhouse Train off River Road to the above cliffs above the Potomac, just ten miles from the DC line.
- How to tell a loved one her favorite book sucks.
- Circe and Charlie will get an Elkin novel, I'm ordering today at lunch, get requests in by one today.
- Sergio Chejfec (the anti-Escher?), for those of you who do. I saw his name and thought I should investigate and promptly forgot.
- Hilda Hilst?
- Beckett, for those of you who do.
- Samuel Delaney, for those of you who do.
- Zombie update (with Sun Kil Moon soundtrack).
- C.A.K.E. Dave's new project.
- It's hard to believe that after all these years Dean Wareham is putting out his first solo album.
A poem I keep forgetting to write
Is about the stars,
How I see them in their order
Even without the chair and bear and the sisters,
In their astronomic presence of great space,
And how beyond and behind my eyes they are moving,
Exploding to spirals under extremest pressure.
Having not mathematics, my head
Bursts with anguish of not understanding.
The poem I forget to write is bursting fragments
Of a tortured victim, far from me
In his galaxy of minds bent upon him,
In the oblivion of his headline status
Crumpled and exploding as incomparable
As a star, yet present in its light.
I forget to write.