- Dave Mandl's played the above on his show this past Sunday (though I actually heard the piece yesterday morning), I liked it, I went out and found the Soundcloud. I assume they enable the embed so that people much bigger than me disseminate the sound. I will not be permitted to listen to it this Friday's K2F2H2H2C2M2W2W2Z2G nor during Sunday's return trip (though I'll play some for Planet on Saturday's long drive around Ohio on roads we've never been on and hope Earthgirl doesn't complain so much I have to stop so long I don't push it).
- I don't write about work much, but I can say I am, in the natural net of my staffer's responsibility, caught in an inescapable copyright committee. Lord fuck me. For giggles - and out of genuine curiosity on several levels of descending shamelessness - I almost sent the following to the email address provided at The Vocal Constructivists website: Hello I heard one of your pieces on Dave's show I very much dug, found your Soundcloud page, posted the three songs, OK w/you, let me know then discovered this extensive page of youtubes of performances on their website and couldn't imagine they'd even think to give a fuck if I post their music.
- UPDATE! Within minutes of my tweeting out this post it was favorited by a twitter account named Vocal Constructivist, so I'm guessing I was right to not worry about copyright when posting the music.
- Lord fuck me. I'm caught in an inescapable copyright committee.
- I very much dig the music, I don't know choral - especially contemporary choral - like I want to, any guidance and suggestions would be much appreciated.
- Anyone who has heard me sing knows I must be blacked-out drunk - which I haven't been in years - or hate you to sing for you.
- All too often periodic reminder of the world and its clusterfuckers.
- Towards a new theory on ghosts.
- On fear.
- Badiou, for those of you who do. When the library gets it I will read the Introduction, be enthralled early, amazed middle, satisfied late and feel no moral obligation to read his incredibly recondite reasoning for and justifications of his theses as stated beautifully in the Introduction. Or so I hope.
- Richard Flanagan?
- RIP Mark Bell.
The last time I saw father alive he was using
a black umbrella, closed, to beat off some pigeons
hanging outside the marble portals of a museum.
We were visitors, walking very slowly, so father
could stoop and examine everything. We had not been
in the museum, but were resting on its steps.
We saw it all—the fountains, the statues, the parks
and the post office. Cities are made of such things.
Once we encountered a wedding coming out of the cathedral
and were caught in a shower of rice; as the bride
flicked her veiled head father licked his little finger
and in this way saved a grain. On the next block
he announced he was going to heaven. But first let’s
go back to the hotel and rest, he said: I want my mint.
Those were practically his last words. And what did I want
more than anything in the world? Probably the ancient Polish
recipe for blood soup, which was finally told to me
in an empty deli in a deserted mill town in western Massachusetts
by the owner’s mother, who was alone one day when I burst
in and demanded a bowl. But, she said, lacing her fingers
around a jar of morello cherries, it requires one cup of
new blood drawn from the goose whose neck you’ve just wrung
to put in the pot, and where in these days can I find
anything as fresh as that? I had lost track of my life
before, but nothing prepared me for the onslaught of
wayfarer’s bliss when she continued to list, one
by one, the impossible ingredients I needed to live.
We sat at the greasy table far into the night, while
snow fell on the locked doors of the church next door,
dedicated to St. Stanislas, which was rumored to be
beautiful inside, and contain the remains of his beloved head.