So - a small run of High Egoslavian Holy Days is here, I pretend I am morally obliged to honor them since all past years I felt morally obliged to observe them here. Plus my mood has brightened, something about seeing Planet, plus I found Borzutzsky's latest book of poems in the Kenyon bookstore, I can let him do the dark. Plus I can't make myself shut the fuck up no matter how much I (don't) try. For some reason - probably I had just read Krasznahorkai - I wrote last year's Eno birthday post - he's sixty-seven today - and used some translation bot to convert it into Hungarian. The dog and cabbage again seemed apt.
Brian Eno volt ma született 66 évvel ezelőtt. Azt hiszem ez tetszett Eno ambient zenét nagy négy dolgot. A BLCKDGRD, bizonyos vagyok benne, hogy mothefucking POTUS 16 vagy több köze van bleggal szorongást, bármi. Nem tudom, mit kell tennie, hogy elkerülje a zaj nem okoz nagyobb zaj.
Nem, nem beszélni magyar. Bárcsak én is. Anyukája megtiltotta a lányok beszélni magyar. Igen, ez is csak egy másik BLCKDGRD sillyass.
UPDATE! Nem kapcsolódik Eno születésnapja, de válaszul az általános kétségbeesés kombinálva bleggal hiábavalóságát plusz három órát, hogy a munka a tervezett napot:
DREAM SONG #16
Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes ... Yo no sé!
— César Vallejo
— César Vallejo
They sniffed us out of the holes with the animals
they had programmed and there are blows in life so
powerful we just don’t know and there were trenches
and there was water and it poured in through our mouths
and out of our ears and there were things we saw in the
sand at that moment of sinking: mountains and daisies
and tulips and rivers and the bodies of the people we
had been and the bodies of the people we had loved
and we felt hooks coming through the trenches and we
felt hooks coming through the sand and I saw hooks coming
through my child’s clothes and I wanted him to know that they
would never be able to scoop us out of the sand but of course
it wasn’t true they had scooped us out of the sand and our
mouths were so full of dirt it is what they do when you’re
dead and they made us spit and they beat us until our mouths
were empty and they paid us for constructing the mountain and
it was me and L and we looked for S and we looked for J and J
and we looked for O and we looked for R and we looked for J
and S in the holes in which the bodies of those we loved were
hiding or dying or sinking or stealing some shelter some little
worm’s worth of cover to keep their bodies from dissolving
into the maniac murmurs of this impossible carcass economy