- First, I will only leave my stuff at top of blog one day. Second, people tweeted yesterday about an actress named Gillian Anderson. The google tells me she was the female lead in The X-Files. If the google says so. Never saw the show - that's not true: about six months ago I was on Earthgirl's Netflix account for work reasons - this is true (Mr Alarum can vouch): one of my responsibilities is media delivery to professors; I am charged with exploring all methods of delivering assets - and Netflix suggested I'd like X-Files (how that algorithm works I've no idea since I hadn't actually watched anything). I remembered the cult of X-Files, friends who are devotees. I clicked on the premiere episode. Woods, shaky camera, ominous music, heavy breathing, no: this is not a moral stance, if you like the show, cool, it's not for me. But thank you, Gillian Anderson, and everyone who tweeted their glee The X-Files are (apparently) coming back, you made me think of Gillian Welch, excellent any time, perfect for Dark moods. I wish I'd had it for turbulent crashes, even more for placid crashes. Third, tomorrow is one of the two Highest Egoslavian Holy Days, so links today since there will be none tomorrow.
- On the futility of writing (and writing in spite of it).
- In the other life.
- See how far we've come.
- Boss Hog has Baltimore where he wants it.
- Friend Don has some links to good reads.
- I strongly recommend August Kleinzahler's essay on John Berryman, not only for what he says about Berryman and his poetry but for an excellent overview of American poetry of that era.
- What you can buy me for my birthday.
I lift—lift you five States away your glass,
Wide of this bar you never graced, where none
Ever I know came, where what work is done
Even by these men I know not, where a brass
Police-car sign peers in, wet strange cars pass,
Soiled hangs the rag of day out over this town,
A juke-box brains air where I drink alone,
The spruce barkeep sports a toupee alas—
My glass I lift at six o'clock, my darling,
As you plotted . . Chinese couples shift in bed,
We shared today not even filthy weather,
Beasts in the hills their tigerish love are snarling,
Suddenly they clash, I blow my short ash red,
Grey eyes light! and we have our drink together.
Torrent of light and river of the air,
Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen
Like gold and silver sands in some ravine
Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!
The Spaniard sees in thee the pathway, where
His patron saint descended in the sheen
Of his celestial armor, on serene
And quiet nights, when all the heavens were fair.
Not this I see, nor yet the ancient fable
Of Phaeton's wild course, that scorched the skies
Wherever the hoofs of his hot coursers trod;
But the white drift of worlds o'er chasms of sable,
The star-dust, that is whirled aloft and flies
From the invisible chariot-wheels of God.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow