Wednesday, December 30, 2015

When He Opens His Mouth There Is No Sound but a Window

  • Momcat in our dogwood tree a night or two ago. Momcat comes to the side door and looks in, not for food anymore but for me or Earthgirl to pay her attention. One of the greatest achievements of my life, earning Momcat's trust.
  • Yes, I know it's Mike Nesmith's birthday, songs tomorrow, probably. Here's one.
  • Iranian blogger gets out of prison, finds Blegsylvania dead, bleggalgazes.
  • A year-end - NOT MINE - bleggalgaze.
  • Thanks to all who read. I don't say it enough, and I need say it when I'm upswinging rather than downswinging, but better when downswinging than not at all.
  • Dead Blegsylvania: one of my rituals is when I go daily to ::: wood s lot ::: (like you should go daily) I click someone on his blogroll, chances are better than even the site will be hibernating, moribund, dead, or vanished.
  • As for Dead Blegsylvania: everywhere is a ghost town.

  • If you're like me you've burned your primary hand in the same spot taking food out of oven dozens of times in your life. Scar on scar on scar. End of bleggalgaze.
  • Not quite: the only social media I use is twitter, and quite a few old friends there are hibernating, moribund, dead, disappeared.
  • The lesson for power: the best way to neuter noise to increase power is not to shut it up but encourage screaming.
  • And yet I won't shut the fuck up.
  • The man in question.
  • When I was a thing with feathers.
  • Again, I fail to make a shitty list
  • Badiou, for those of you who do.
  • Federici & Harvey for those of you who do one, the other, or both.
  • 2015's best the culture industry had to offer.
  • A brief history of Glen Echo Park. Earthgirl grew up a quarter mile away.
  • Also too: predictably, breaking out of a reading slump - however briefly, however falsely - immediately gives me writing slump. Fuck me.
  • The ups don't so much up, the downs very much down.
  • Yes, you could predict where today's music would go:


Christopher Gilbert

Everyone is gone. Everyone.
At a gutted store building
in his old neighborhood
Willie idles, kicking the rubbish.
By chance the odd pieces gather
into a stick figure - a boy.
Willie adds bits of cloth
and an old mop head for hair,
but he finds no object to be
a word to coax his boy to talk.
The face is a crack white plate.
Willie throws it to the road
hoping a tire explodes.
The image exists when it confirms
our sense of being. Willie feels blue
like the sky, so close so far away.
When he opens his mouth
there is no sound but a window.
He opens it wide to show more air.