- That's the plateau of Wildcat Mountain, in Fauquier County Virginia, about 45 miles west of DC. An old farmstead damned a creek for the pond. Earthgirl and I hiked it yesterday, hiked dearly beloved Sugarloaf Saturday, did the long circuit that rotates out the spokes of Goldmine Trail at Great Falls Friday. I love hikes with Earthgirl. Have to motherfucking work today.
- 2015 in review.
- Arthur Silber makes an appearance.
- No matter where you are..... there you are.
- Call me when Hillary Clinton and/or Bernie Sanders call them terrorists.
- Call me when Hillary Clinton and/or Bernie Sanders call the Saudis assholes and promise to end arms deals with the motherfuckers.
- Brad's bleggalgaze.
- The issue here in Egoslavia isn't what I write about, it's what I want to write about - and do write about - but can't/don't/won't here, and why that drives me to stupidass frustration.
- Scrivener? Here's me - let me shell out $40 for a program for the same false hope of production that a shrink-sealed new Moleskine gives me. Will probably purchase tonight.
- The poetry of bullshit.
- Fireman Shostakovich.
- On this list of novels coming the next six months, I'm interested only in a new Stephen Dixon and (maybe) a new DeLillo. I'm afraid I have some horrible news: Motherfucking Knausgaard has shined up another of his turds.
- Bernie Sumner is 60 today. It's been quite a few years since there was always a New Order song in my head, but once upon a time there was always a New Order song in my head.
When love was a question, the message arrived
in the beak of a wire and plaster bird. The coloratura
was hardly to be believed. For flight,
it took three stagehands: two
on the pulleys and one on the flute. And you
thought fancy rained like grace.
Our fog machine lost in the Parcel Post, we improvised
with smoke. The heroine dies of tuberculosis after all.
Remorse and the raw night air: any plausible tenor
might cough. The passions, I take my clues
from an obvious source, may be less like climatic events
than we conventionalize, though I’ve heard
of tornadoes that break the second-best glassware
and leave everything else untouched.
There’s a finer conviction than seamlessness
elicits: the Greeks knew a god
by the clanking behind his descent.
The heart, poor pump, protests till you’d think
it’s rusted past redemption, but
there’s tuning in these counterweights,
celebration’s assembled voice.