Saturday, April 5, 2014

Would He Like It Would Napoleon Would Napoleon Would He Like it. If Napoleon if I Told Him if I Told Him if Napoleon. Would He Like It if I Told Him if I Told Him if Napoleon. Would He like It if Napoleon if Napoleon if I Told Him. If I Told Him if Napoleon if Napoleon if I Told Him




That's Napoleon in a green vet's bag (and the vet's right arm) yesterday afternoon. Three days ago we noticed a bump on his back above the right leg, Thursday night we saw an open would seeping pus. I tried getting him in a cat carrier Friday morning, but that wasn't working, so I called the vet I had made an appointment with for Napoleon and they recommended a vet out of Gaithersburg that makes home visits. Their receptionist asked me to put Napoleon in a bathroom or walk-in closet before vet arrived so if he freaked out he couldn't hide. Vet walked into bathroom, walked out in thirty seconds with Napoleon in a bag.

This is our fault. We've tried to get him into cat carriers in the past couple of years to get him to a vet for rabies shots but his resistance has been such that we were afraid - he was born feral, he comes and goes - he'd be so traumatized by the caging, the vet, the shots, that as soon as we let him out he'd disappear and never come back. 

Bite, probably a cat bite, infected, abscessed. Napoleon spent last night recovering from surgery. The vet says though there is a 99% chance it was a cat bite and a 99% chance the cat that bit Napoleon wasn't rabid (he may have been bit countless times before but since none because infected we would never have known), but we are going to need quarantine him for six months in a crate in a room. We can let him out of the crate while we're in the room but he must be in a crate when the door to the room is opened to let us in or out: since there is a 99% chance he won't get rabies there's a 99% chance we won't need to get rabies shots as long as Napoleon is present to present no signs of rabies after six months; if he disappears, it's shots for us. MOCO Animal Control doesn't care whether or not we get shots but is concerned (reasonably) that a possibly rabies infected cat be released outdoors.






  • This is going to be hard on Napoleon. Will keep the six or seven of you who personally know him updated as well as those Kind few of you who follow along here updated too. 
  • So, a Futile Weekend Blogging Post! Have some links engaging the clusterfuck.
  • Ink black triptych.
  • Call him irresponsible... please: This brings us to the heart of the matter. Just as I view the State as monstrous and illegitimate, so too I view any and all spying and surveillance activities as entirely illegitimate and almost completely without merit of any kind. I've been over this ground many times. For the detailed argument as to why "intelligence" generally is an elaborate (and very profitable) fraud, you can start here and here. The links provide much more background. Always remember that "intelligence" is almost always wrong. I said that spying and surveillance are "almost completely without merit of any kind" only because there are very rare instances where the "intelligence" stumbles upon a small piece of information that is correct. And as rare as it is, even correct information will be disregarded when it runs counter to a policy that the government has already embraced.
  • A war on the imagination: Culture and politics, or at least the presentation of politics, have merged. Politics are entertainment. They are thought of as a movie, for the most part. Violence is expected in movies. What is perhaps more troublesome, however, is the trivializing of the entire culture. The validation of taking pride in one’s immaturity. The consciousness of, I think, a majority of the U.S. population, and probably a clear majority of those under thirty five, has created intellectual mechanisms to fuse and synthesize categories of experience. Watching Vice TV specials becomes the same as critical theory, and the same again as fictionalized History channel specials, and the same too with kitsch science fiction. I am not sure Battlestar Gallactica is perceived much differently than, say, 60 Minutes.
  • The Birth of Thanaticism: The role of the state is not to manage biopower but to manage thanopower. From whom is the maintenance of life to be withdrawn first? Which populations should fester and die off? First, those of no use as labor or consumers, and who have ceased already to be physically and mentally fit for the armed forces.





  • The Passenger.
  • The Crisis of Capitalism This Time Around. The prologue to David Harvey's new book, Seventeen Contradictions and the End of Capitalism.
  • The last two chapters of Harvey's book: The difficulty with the humanist tradition in short is that it does not internalise a good understanding of its own inescapable internal contradictions, most clearly captured in the contradiction between freedom and domination. The result is that humanist leanings and sentiments often get presented these days in a somewhat offhand and embarrassed way, except when their position is safely backed by religious doctrine and authority. There is, as a result, no full-blooded contemporary defence of the propositions of or prospects for a secular humanism even though there are innumerable individual works that loosely subscribe to the tradition or even polemicise as to its obvious virtues (as happens in the NGO world). Its dangerous traps and foundational contradictions, particularly questions of coercion, violence and domination, are shied away from because they are too awkward to confront. The result is what Frantz Fanon characterised as ‘insipid humanitarianism’. There is plenty of evidence of that manifest in its recent revival. The bourgeois and liberal tradition of secular humanism forms a mushy ethical base for largely ineffective moralising about the sad state of the world and the mounting of equally ineffective campaigns against the plights of chronic poverty and environmental degradation. It is probably for this reason that the French philosopher Louis Althusser launched his fierce and influential campaign back in the 1960s to eject all talk of socialist humanism and alienation from the Marxist tradition. The humanism of the young Marx, as expressed in The Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, Althusser argued, was separated from the scientific Marx of Capital by an ‘epistemological rupture’ that we ignore at our peril. Marxist humanism, he wrote, is pure ideology, theoretically vacuous and politically misleading, if not dangerous. The devotion of a dedicated Marxist like the long-imprisoned Antonio Gramsci to the ‘absolute humanism of human history’ was, in Althusser’s view, entirely misplaced.
  • Hey, new places on the blogrolls. Please check them oout as they float to the top.
  • Three guesses what I fell asleep listening to. 






IF I TOLD HIM, A COMPLETED PORTRAIT OF PICASSO

Gertrude Stein

If I told him would he like it. Would he like it if I told him.
            Would he like it would Napoleon would Napoleon would would he like it.
            If Napoleon if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told him if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told him would he like it would he like it if I told him.
            Now.
            Not now.
            And now.
            Now.
            Exactly as as kings.
            Feeling full for it.
            Exactitude as kings.
            So to beseech you as full as for it.
            Exactly or as kings.
            Shutters shut and open so do queens. Shutters shut and shutters and so shutters shut and shutters and so and so shutters and so shutters shut and so shutters shut and shutters and so. And so shutters shut and so and also. And also and so and so and also.
            Exact resemblance to exact resemblance the exact resemblance as exact resemblance, exactly as resembling, exactly resembling, exactly in resemblance exactly and resemblance. For this is so. Because.
            Now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat at all.
            Have hold and hear, actively repeat at all.
            I judge judge.
            As a resemblance to him.
            Who comes first. Napoleon the first.
            Who comes too coming coming too, who goes there, as they go they share, who shares all, all is as all as as yet or as yet.
            Now to date now to date. Now and now and date and the date.
            Who came first Napoleon at first. Who came first Napoleon the first. Who came first, Napoleon first.
            Presently.
            Exactly do they do.
            First exactly.
            Exactly do they do.
            First exactly.
            And first exactly.
            Exactly do they do.
            And first exactly and exactly.
            And do they do.
            At first exactly and first exactly and do they do.
            The first exactly.
            And do they do.
            The first exactly.
            At first exactly.
            First as exactly.
            As first as exactly.
            Presently
            As presently.
            As as presently.
            He he he he and he and he and and he and he and he and and as and as he and as he and he. He is and as he is, and as he is and he is, he is and as he and he and as he is and he and he and and he and he.
            Can curls rob can curls quote, quotable.
            As presently.
            As exactitude.
            As trains.
            Has trains.
            Has trains.
            As trains.
            As trains.
            Presently.
            Proportions.
            Presently.
            As proportions as presently.
            Farther and whether.
            Was there was there was there what was there was there what was there was there there was there.
            Whether and in there.
            As even say so.
            One.
            I land.
            Two.
            I land.
            Three.
            The land.
            Three
            The land.
            Three.
            The land.
            Two
            I land.
            Two
            I land.
            One
            I land.
            Two
            I land.
            As a so.
            The cannot.
            A note.
            They cannot
            A float.
            They cannot.
            They dote.
            They cannot.
            They as denote.
            Miracles play.
            Play fairly.
            Play fairly well.
            A well.
            As well.
            As or as presently.
            Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches.



Friday, April 4, 2014

The Soft Whirr of the Hygrometer Promises Oxidation of Iron

 


  • Serendipitously, news of David Letterman's retirement announcement coincides with an urge to bleggalgaze, gives me opportunity to satisfy the second with the above, this blog's Theme Song Seven.
  • James Boyd's hills.
  • How the FBI goes after activists
  • A meditation on America.
  • The decline of Europe.
  • The Pointlessness of Unplugging: Unplugging seems motivated by two contradictory concerns: efficiency and enlightenment. Those who seek efficiency rarely want to change their lives, only to live more productively; rather than eliminating technology, they seek to regulate their use of it through Internet-blocking programs like Freedom and Anti-Social, or through settings like Do Not Disturb. The hours that they spend off the Internet aren’t about purifying the soul but about streamlining the mind. The enlightenment crowd, by contrast, abstains from technology in search of authenticity, forsaking e-mail for handwritten letters, replacing phone calls with face-to-face conversations, cherishing moments instead of capturing them with cameras. Both crowds are drawn to events like the Day of Unplugging, and some members even pay premiums to vacation at black-hole resorts that block the Internet and attend retro retreats that ban electronics. Many become evangelists of such technological abstinence, taking to social media and television, ironically, to share insights from their time in the land of innocence.
  • Not only do I not daydream any longer of detaching my cords, I no longer daydream I ever daydreamed of detaching my cords.
  • The oceanic void.










SESTINA: AS THERE ARE SUPPORT GROUPS, THERE ARE SUPPORT WORDS

Albert Goldbarth

The name of his native country pronounced on a distant shore
could not please the ears of a traveller more than hearing
the words “nitrogen,” “oxidation of iron” and “hygrometer.”
—Alexander von Humboldt, nineteenth-century scientist-explorer

When visiting a distant (and imponderable) shire,
one longs to hear the cry “Hygrometer!
Fresh hygrometer for sale!” Yes, and when the fair
sex sidles close and coyly murmurs “nitrogen”
into a burly masculine ear, I guarantee you: the translation
is very easy. The allurements of a local siren,

whispering the kind of patois a traveler like Lord Byron
favors, never fail to comfort, and to reassure,
evoking pleasant memories of one’s own beloved hygrometer
at home, kept fresh in Cosmoline and camphor
and awaiting one’s rearrival back in his native xenon and nitrogen.
Without these occasional reminiscences, any translation

from nation to nation, tongue to tongue, becomes a translation
difficult to sustain. I think of my grandmother: “We're not hirin’
today” “Go away” “Dumb Jew”—her share
of the language that greeted her here in the land of alien hygrometer
and freedom, where she was only one more funny-skirted for-
eigner yearning to hear a lulling Hungarian nitrogen

hum her to sleep. Eventually, of course, the American nitrogen
sufficed. Her daughter could speak, in free translation,
both uranium and argon; and her granddaughter gigs with Fire ’n
Ice, a skinhead punk-grunge group that performs in sheer
black nighties and clown wigs—she plays mean electric hygrometer
in the first set and then, for a twofer,

(very American, that) plays paper-and-comb. Far
out. She’s so fluent in various World Wide Webbery that nitrogen
in a thousand different inflections is her birthright, and almost any translation,
mind to mind, gender to gender, is second nature. “I earn
my keep, I party, I sleep” is her motto. Though she’s for-
tunate in having a lover who’s CEO at Hygrometer,

Potassium, Klein & Wong: it helps to pay the “hygrometer
man” when he knocks at the door. I won’t say that they fear
this guy exactly, but he’s a major badass nitrogen-
sucking cyberwired ninja-kicking shitheel (or, translation:
call him Sir). It makes one pine for a land where the birds all choir in
sweetly trilling melodies on a flower-scented shore,

and a translation sings all night. Row gen-
tly toward it. The tender forests sigh, and the soft whirr
of the hygrometer promises oxidation of iron.



Thursday, April 3, 2014

[It's Important]

It's important
I disclaim
I cannot write
how I write.

I write about
how I cannot
write how I
would write. This missed

rhyme: my subject
object subject
conceits, I don't
object subject

object, object
to being told
I should though my
object subject

object is suspect
at best, inconsistent always,
organized for incoherence,
susceptible to self-idolatry,
dress uniforms, broken
game plans, stanzas

as cairns to my
ability
to stack stones I
wish I wasn't,

pretending I
wish I wasn't,
fucking object
subject object.

Sixty-Five Today





High Egoslavian Holy Day. Earthgirl and I saw a show in Harrisburg a decade and a half ago or so ago, not Thompson solo but Richard Thompson Band, they encored with Crawl Back, a fifteen minute version that morphed into The Israelites then back out, one of the best nights of my life.

Earthgirl and I and Hamster saw a Richard Thompson Band concert at the Senator Theater in Govans in 1996, closed the second set with a twelve-minute Shoot Out the Lights, one of the best nights of my life.







Earthgirl and I and Hamster saw a Richard Thompson Band concert at Lisner Auditorium in DC in late 1990s, it was the You, Me, Us tour, it was one of the best nights of my life, they drilled my favorite Richard Thompson song:







Earthgirl and Planet and I saw a Richard Thompson Band concert at the Keswick Theater in Philadelphia in the mid-00s, it was one of the best nights of my life, he opened with a killer:







Another one of the best nights of my life (thirty-fucking-two years ago, youngsters), I was there for the below, serendipitously my relationship with Blondie was falling apart as Richard and Linda screamed at each other between songs:



Wednesday, April 2, 2014

And Diving the Salt Will Kiss a Convex Eye


      


Since few saw this last night and of those only a few clicked below the fold, here again, ten songs from the 1990s via the first set of Therese's March 30th show. I confess, I didn't/haven't paid as much attention to Shellac as I should have/am. As for P.J. Harvey, who does after all have a tag on this shitty blog, I've theories why I haven't played her here as much as once, Occam's suggesting I played her to much. As for why I don't play more Stereolab, they do after all have a tag on this shitty blog, I've no idea.





   




   





CABOCHON

Nick Laird

She still has some cousins in Leitrim, 
the tall nurse broadcasting our secret, 
and bright eyes bright as trinkets 
when her pink nail taps the screen. 
Between the coda and the dipped head 
a flicker in the quadrant's grain 
steadies to a light bobbing 
rhythmically, unhindered ...

We stand before the elevator's 
mirror now like any other passengers 
disembarking at the gate, late, 
a silent weight of uncut gems 
stitched meticulously in the hems 
of your winter coat, my leather case.





   



PROFESSIONAL MIDDLE-CLASS COUPLE, 1922

Adam Kirsch

What justifies the inequality
That issues her a tastefully square-cut
Ruby for her finger, him a suit
Whose rumpled, unemphatic dignity
Declares a life of working sitting down,
While someone in a sweatshop has to squint
And palsy sewing, and a continent
Sheds blood to pry the gemstone from the ground,
Could not be justice. Nothing but the use
To which they put prosperity can speak
In their defense: the faces money makes,
They demonstrate, don’t have to be obtuse,
Entitled, vapid, arrogantly strong;
Only among the burghers do you find
A glance so frank, engaging, and refined,
So tentative, so conscious of  its wrong.




  


ANOTHER THING

David Mason

Like fossil shells embedded in a stone,
you are an absence, rimmed calligraphy,
a mouthing out of silence, a way to see
beyond the bedroom where you lie alone.
So why not be the vast, antipodal cloud
you soloed under, riven by cold gales?
And why not be the song of diving whales,
why not the plosive surf   below the road?

The others are one thing. They know they are.
One compass needle. They have found their way
and navigate by perfect cynosure.
Go wreck yourself once more against the day
and wash up like a bottle on the shore,
lucidity and salt in all you say.








[She goes, she is, she wakes the waters]

Karen Volkman

She goes, she is, she wakes the waters
primed in their wave-form, a flux of urge
struck into oneness, the solid surge
seeking completion, and strikes and shatters
and is its fragments, distinction’s daughters
and now, unholding, the cleave and merge
the hew and fusing, plundering the verge
and substance is the scheme it scatters
and what it numbers in substantial sun.
Her hands hold many or her hands hold none.
And diving the salt will kiss a convex eye
and be salt fact and be the bodied sky
and that gray weight is both or beggared one,
a dead dimensional, or blue begun.







A PRAYER FOR RAIN

Lisel Mueller

Let it come down: these thicknesses of air
have long enough walled love away from love;
stillness has hardened until words despair
of their high leaps and kisses shut themselves
back into wishing. Crippled lovers lie
against a weather which holds out on them,
waiting, awaiting some shrill sign, some cry,
some screaming cat that smells a sacrifice
and spells them thunder. Start the mumbling lips,
syllable by monotonous syllable,
that wash away the sullen griefs of love
and drown out knowledge of an ancient war—
o, ill-willed dark, give with the sound of rain,
let love be brought to ignorance again.







LIKE HOLDERLIN

Rosmarie Waldrop

got up early
left the house immediately
tore out grass
bits of leather in his pockets
hit fences with his handkerchief
answered yes and no
to his own questions
lies under grass
wilted flowers in his pockets
at the fence I pull my handkerchief
he liked to say no
“I’m no longer the same man”
and
“nothing is happening to me”


Tuesday, April 1, 2014

April Fools, It's the 1990s




The April Fools' Day song. I haven't listened to Rufus in a while (I listen to his mother and her sister all the time, they are on the Trip to Ohio and Back playlist), I forget how much he channels Todd Rundgren some songs.

Yes, there were 90s songs here, I'm moving them to Wednesday's post because I want to.

Latitudinal Desires Scatter His Seed, and in Political Climates Sprout New Freedom





  • Gil Scott Heron born 65 years ago today. Here's a link to his RIP post from 2011 with lots of info and music. 
  • A message from the zeitgeist: Mr. Carl Kandutsch, a business lawyer down Plano way (and, it turns out, a fellow CounterPunch contributor), writes in to take issue with a recent post I put up here in these run-down precincts. I had written what I thought was a straightforward piece asking readers to consider giving some support to a writer I admire -- Arthur Silber -- who is going through a serious medical crisis. I must say I was a bit taken aback by some of the responses, which seemed to come from the Paul Ryan school of social compassion: "Losers who are sick and low on money don't deserve any help because they want to be sick and low on money. They're just ungrateful malingerers, fakers, takers, they like to beg." And so on. Pretty depressing stuff. But as I noted in the comments, this is just the zeitgeist of the age: a hard, mean spirit blowing through our times, where compassion has curdled and vulnerability is considered a cause for scorn and suspicion.
  • UPDATE: Do read the comments at the above for more zeitgeist.
  • You stinking traitor: on the moral obligation to borrow money at 17%.
  • A mudslide foretoldYes, but who wants to listen to warnings by pesky scientists, to pay heed to predictions by environmental nags, or allow an intrusive government to limit private property rights? That’s how these issues get cast. And that’s why reports like the ones done on the Stillaguamish get shelved. The people living near Oso say nobody ever informed them of the past predictions.
  • Object Lesson #1.
  • Lifespan of an English football kit.
  • Palindromic poems.
  • Some might think it laziness, but I've reached a point where some days the links say everything I was going to say anyway.
  • Iowa City: Early April.
  • Well, fuck. I didn't know about this.
  • April inventory.
  • Four Minutemen songs.






THE TOPOGRAPHY OF HISTORY

Thomas McGrath

All cities are open in the hot season.
Northward or southward the summer gives out
Few telephone numbers but no one in our house sleeps.

Southward that river carries its flood
The dying winter, the spring’s nostalgia:
Wisconsin’s dead grass beached at Baton Rouge.
Carries the vegetable loves of the young blonde
Going for water by the dikes of Winnetka or Louisville,
Carries its obscure music and its strange humour,
Its own disturbing life, its peculiar ideas of movement.
Two thousand miles, moving from the secret north
It crowds the country apart: at last reaching
The lynch-dreaming, the demon-haunted, the murderous virgin South
Makes its own bargains and says change in its own fashion.
And where the Gulf choirs out its blue hosannas
Carries the drowned men’s bones and its buried life:
It is an enormous bell, rung through the country’s midnight.

                  *    *    *

Beyond the corrosive ironies of prairies,
Midnight savannas, open vowels of the flat country,
The moonstruck waters of the Kansas bays
Where the Dakotas bell and nuzzle at the north coast,
The nay-saying desolation where the mind is lost
In the mean acres and the wind comes down for a thousand miles
Smelling of the stars’ high pastures, and speaking a strange language—
There is the direct action of mountains, a revolution,
A revelation in stone, the solid decrees of past history,
A soviet of language not yet cooled nor understood clearly:
The voices from underground, the granite vocables.
There shall that voice crying for justice be heard,
But the local colorist, broken on cliffs of laughter,
At the late dew point of pity collect only the irony of serene stars.

                  *    *    *

Here all questions are mooted. All battles joined.
                  No one in our house sleeps.
And the Idealist hunting in the high latitudes of unreason,
By mummy rivers, on the open minds of curst lakes
Mirrors his permanent address; yet suffers from visions
Of spring break-up, the open river of history.
On this the Dreamer sweats in his sound-proof tower:
All towns are taken in the hot season.

How shall that Sentimentalist love the Mississippi?
His love is a trick of mirrors, his spit’s abstraction,
Whose blood and guts are filing system for
A single index of the head or heart’s statistics.
Living in one time, he shall have no history.
How shall he love change who lives in a static world?
His love is lost tomorrow between Memphis and
                  the narrows of Vicksburg.

But kissed unconscious between Medicine Bow and Tombstone
He shall love at the precipice brink who would love these mountains.
Whom this land loves shall be a holy wanderer,
The eyes burned slick with distances between
Kennebunkport and Denver, minted of transcience.
For him shall that river run in circles and
The Tetons seismically skipping to their ancient compelling music
Send embassies of young sierras to nibble from his hand.
His leaves familiar with the constant wind,
Give, then, the soils and waters to command.
Latitudinal desires scatter his seed,
And in political climates sprout new freedom.
But curst is the water-wingless foreigner from Boston,
Stumping the country as others no better have done,
Frightened of earthquake, aware of the rising waters,
Calling out “O Love, Love,” but finding none.



Monday, March 31, 2014

The Way the World Is Not Astonished at You












  • Hamster chides me for not mentioning United's 2-2 tie v Chicago this past Saturday. First, I didn't go - I hate afternoon games to start, I really hate afternoon games in pouring rain in 35 degree temperatures. Once I would have gone anyway, but this is the accurate state of my fandom at this moment in time. They have home games the next two Saturday nights. I'll go to those.
  • Blanchot, for those of you who do.
  • Getting it all in: If A Naked Singularity bears comparison to the meganovels of Pynchon, Gaddis, and Wallace, it is hard to say that it advances beyond the achievements of these earlier works, either formally or thematically. To suggest that this novel probably should not be considered innovative is not to undervalue its own achievement. At a time when ambition in American fiction is most often expressed in the "social novel," in hybrid genre forms such as the post-apocalyptic narrative and tepid forms of magical realism, or simply in securing a contract with a mainstream publisher, it is refreshing that a writer is willing to be more formally adventurous, in a mode less assimilable to prevailing expectations of "literary fiction"--so much so that no agent or publisher was willing to take a chance on this book. The most foolish miscalculation on the part of those who concluded this novel was not worth publication is in the assumption that readers would not find it engaging because of its unorthodox structure, but in fact once we have oriented ourselves to its method the novel is quite entertaining (if at times disturbing in its portrayal of the dysfunction of out "system of justice"). In the novel's expository passages, Casi's voice attracts our interest, and de la Pava's control of language in general should be apparent to any serious reader. I was holding this book Saturday. I tried it once but that was in during the worst of the reading slump. Will try again.
  • Prunella's latest playlist.







SONNET

Bill Knott

The way the world is not
Astonished at you
It doesn't blink a leaf
When we step from the house
Leads me to think
That beauty is natural, unremarkable
And not to be spoken of
Except in the course of things
The course of singing and worksharing
the course of squeezes and neighbors
And the course of course of me
Astonished at you
The way the world is not



Sunday, March 30, 2014

Pull My Chin, Stroke My Hair, Scratch My Nose, Hug My Knees, Try Drink, Food, Cigarette, Tension Will Not Ease, I Tap My Fingers, Fold My Arms, Breathe in Deep, Cross My Legs, Shrug My Shoulders, Stretch My Back - but Nothing Seems to Please




  • Those of you who had 24 hours - like me - for as long as I could go without posting would have lost but all of us who bet I couldn't go the weekend win. Song above explains.
  • Uncle Bill was Bajoran?
  • Towards global authoritarianism.
  • For example.
  • davidly gets screwed trying to buy Kate Bush tickets, reacts with letter, great Kate Bush song.
  • As much as I like much of the New York Review of Books I sometimes forget a certain hawkishness - here's someone calling Obama a pussy towards Putin - in foreign policy articles. 
  • Maggie's weekly links.
  • Bryce played three hours of Robert Ashley this past Friday.
  • I've been re-watching - it feels more like watching for the first time - Deep Space Nine on the recommendation of friends. Watching on Netflix allows me not only to miss commercials but to skip the interminable opening. Last light I saw the episode with Uncle Bill. Jody, Buffy, and Cissy were mutes, their tongues cut out by Cardassians. There was no sign of Mr French. I got to wondering who is the actress who plays Major Kira Nerys, which allows me, to my giggling delight, to play an Ashley piece and use this gag:






  • Yes, post today because I need contact, but mostly because I can't sit on that gag for another 24 hours.
  • Another Moby Dick book acquired.
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
  • Tom introduces me, via her poem, to Nin Andrews. In comments it turns out she lives in the traffic jam called Nova.
  • Long playlist from Prunella.
  • My favorite road in MOCO. Fuck the Pattons, you bought there knowing, assholes.
  • A contemplation on Ashbery's poetics: I sort of seized upon this quote with a ridiculous kind of “yes!” because I felt like it was describing in a wonderful prescient and powerful way the poetics of Ashbery.  In Ashbery’s poems, the page is a kind of experimental and experiential laboratory, in and through which new meanings, new metaphors, are attempted.  Through this process, the “meaning of the present” is amplified, and we are taken so far out of (and so near towards?) our customary thinking that we are then able to think more clearly about our present values, preoccupations, habits, beliefs, etc.  It is in this sense that we can think of Ashbery’s work as an exploration of what a moral imagination means, which is another of saying that Ashbery attempts to give us the most robust, diverse, and rich possible answer to this question.  His poetry is therefore an unprecedentedly moving and powerful example of the moral imagination at work, while at the same time it teaches us the importance and relevance of the imagination as the primary means by which we actually think and live.
  • Below Durutti Column, without doubt the most-posted poem here ever.






VAUCANSON

John Ashbery

It was snowing as he wrote.
In the gray room he felt relaxed and singular,
But no one, of course, ever trusts these moods.

There had to be understanding to it.
Why, though? That always happens anyway,
And who gets the credit for it? Not what is understood,
Presumably, and it diminishes us
In our getting to know it.

As trees come to know a storm
Until it passes and light falls anew
Unevenly, on all the muttering kinship:
Things with things, persons with objects,
Ideas with people or ideas.

It hurts, this wanting to give a dimension
To life when life is precisely that dimension.
We are creatures, therefore we walk and talk
And people come up to us, or listen
And then move away.

Music fills the spaces
Where figures are pulled to the edges,
And it can only say something.

Sinews are loosened then,
The mind begins to think good thoughts.
Ah, this sun must be good:
Doing a number, completing its trilogy.
Life must be back there. You hid it
So no one could find it
And now you can't remember where.

But if one were to invent being a child again
It might just come close enough to being a living relic
To save this thing, save it from embarrassment
By ringing down the curtain,

And for a few seconds no one would notice.
The ending would seem perfect.
No feelings to dismay,
No tragic sleep to wake from in a fit
Of passionate guilt, only the warm sunlight
That slides easily down shoulders
To the soft, melting heart.