- I am in an art show, Earthgirl's (that's me above discing at Seneca, the photo taken and painting painted without my knowledge until yesterday), hanging in the Main Lobby of the NBC studios on Nebraska Avenue in DC. All guests on Meet the Press must enter that studio from the lobby: think of all the powerful and wannabe-powerful assholes who will pass through that lobby and pay no attention to Earthgirl's paintings, though - thought experiment - think: Ted Cruz walks through, falls in love with them, wants to buy them all, then what? All reporters and anchors of the local NBC affiliate news programming must pass through the lobby too. Perhaps one will stop and linger for seconds..... We hung the show yesterday afternoon, only saw one other human. The guard who let us in mentioned that Colin Powell had been on Meet the Press earlier that morning (no doubt discussing this week's ranking of who should be killed first and the pragmatic killing of those deemed most desired dead) - I did not have the opportunity to chicken out of telling the motherfucker to fuck off.
- Sovereign imagination: the art of Leonard Peltier.
- Some dude in New York Times cites kayfabe. He didn't steal it from me though I yodel kayfabe all the time. Here's Trump's allure: he's breaking kayfabe. Here's what the Villager press doesn't get about Trump's (and professional wrestling's) fans: they know shit is fake. This is the reason Inevitability sucks - she's walking Kayfabe, only she doesn't know it. Only fucking Villagers believe shit is real.
- UPDATE! The above bullet was a slam at Inevitability fans too. My apologies, I thought that the free bingo square.
- Jacob - he who was IOZ - on Kim Davis. As when he was IOZ, he writes what I was working on pretty much with the same take so I now needn't bother. I will add this: if you disagree vehemently with Davis (and her imaginary friend Jesus), fine, stop with the sexist shit about her appearance.
- Where is he going to find the time to not read all these books?
- Having a email conversation with Tom. He asks hard questions whose answers I think I know how I don't but still, as ever, am futilely formulating into English how I don't know them, but he stopped the down cycle of Dark - in which I daydream of giving up - so if a manic up is the necessary result, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!
- Here, I will not quote Tom but I will quote me: There is a reason every post - but for those on my daughter's and wife's birthdays - is tagged My Complicity. I don't know how to reconcile an afternoon on the Appalachian Trail and the joy that gives me with thinking about the dead child by the ocean while I'm hiking. It's the central tension of what I write, here and in tablet. Whether to shout or shut up - hence two other tags on every post - but for those on my daughter's and wife's birthday - Brazen Blogwhoring and My Inability to Shut the Fuck Up.
- Earthgirl says she'll see Destroyer with me in October at 930, have more new songs:
HOW TO DANCE WHEN YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO DANCE
You and I fit together
like two millstones, and oh the music
we make of grist, going round
and round the same
arguments (taxes, laundry,
faucet, the unremarkable
disasters of marriage).
My feet are two ugly badgers
that hide their faces
in the dirt when they see
above the lake.
The homely trees in winter
crack and fall
into one another: that is how I must
look to you as I gather
dirty plates to the sink.
You say, Talk to me about
the weather. I say that once
a tornado carried
a birdcage with a live canary inside
a quarter mile, the cage
flying, the bird flying
inside of it. I don’t know how
to make the faucet
hold back its drip. I try
to open a bottle of wine
and half the cork breaks off
inside the neck. But you, Love,
the flecks of cork floating
in your glass, the way
I teeter and reach out a hand
for something that isn’t there.
Love, I will mate the limp socks. I will fold
the shirts so their sleeves
wrap around their flat,
empty chests. I will drip words
into your ear as you fall asleep.
I will carry boxes up and down
the basement steps all day.
I will pour another glass of wine,
and we will dance the slick sidewalk two-step,
the lassoed-calf flop,
the chain gang shuffle, the all-thumbs
the fish-out-of-water jive.
jim connolly wrote (and I quote the last paragraph but the whole essay is worth reading)ReplyDelete
If you find that the Sanders campaign only fills you with outrage and despair and you are unable to give any assistance whatever, you are a Left Perfectionist and lost in the Belly of the Beast. If you are in partial sympathy with the Sanders campaign but find yourself called to criticize it from the standpoint of an ally and a fellow sufferer, you are a Leftist and a Progressive, and you may have started to work your way out of the political and psychological paradoxes imposed on those of us who live in the Belly of the Beast.
by the way, i have ordered and paid for my sanders 2016 car magnet - to paraphrase lenny bruce, i am a Leftist and a Progressive, and i have the credit card receipts to prove it
may the creative forces of the universe stand beside us, and guide us, through the night with the light from above
What Dock Charlie said: and, Art Good.ReplyDelete