Agi sent me the above for my birthday. Jim made me a cascade for my birthday. And again, icymi, my favorite present of all. Thanks to everyone who sent good wishes and attention at an attention-slut for his birthday! It's just what he wanted!
Hey, it's Charlie Parker's birthday today too (besides Thom Gunn's). Playlist via Hamster, who knows jazz much more that I do, from a few years ago.
- Arthur's meditation on pain, depression, and suicide, part one, part two.
- phantamasgoric capitalism.
- Free speech absolutism and the Twitter Foley ban.
- Of the Villagers, I've always considered Elizabeth Drew (this is one of the old yodels, long-timers can vouch) more honorable than most if not all. Here's her Villager take on the upcoming mid-terms, offered without endorsement but for consideration.
- Finding the gentrification spot.
- The meantime.
- Lordy, Agi, how long has it been since Agitprop died and The Malcontents went their separate - and still friendly - ways?
- Well then, I need to read 10:04. A novel about the boxes of one's complicity. Hmm.
- No sharp corners.
- Robinson Jeffers, for those of you who do.
- More news on the new Aphex Twin album!
ON THE MOVE
The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows
Some hidden purpose, and the gust of birds
That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows,
Has nested in the trees and undergrowth.
Seeking their instinct, or their poise, or both,
One moves with an uncertain violence
Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense
Or the dull thunder of approximate words.
On motorcycles, up the road, they come:
Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boys,
Until the distance throws them forth, their hum
Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh.
In goggles, donned impersonality,
In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust,
They strap in doubt – by hiding it, robust –
And almost hear a meaning in their noise.
Exact conclusion of their hardiness
Has no shape yet, but from known whereabouts
They ride, direction where the tyres press.
They scare a flight of birds across the field:
Much that is natural, to the will must yield.
Men manufacture both machine and soul,
And use what they imperfectly control
To dare a future from the taken routes.
It is a part solution, after all.
One is not necessarily discord
On earth; or damned because, half animal,
One lacks direct instinct, because one wakes
Afloat on movement that divides and breaks.
One joins the movement in a valueless world,
Choosing it, till, both hurler and the hurled,
One moves as well, always toward, toward.
A minute holds them, who have come to go:
The self-defined, astride the created will
They burst away; the towns they travel through
Are home for neither bird nor holiness,
For birds and saints complete their purposes.
At worst, one is in motion; and at best,
Reaching no absolute, in which to rest.
One is always nearer by not keeping still.