Acadia rangers/volunteers do a wonderful job of using cairns on the bedrock at the top of mountains to mark trails, but in woods the blazing is haphazard and spotty. I don't know if the policy is to blaze as little as possible and trust the hiker to follow the obvious (which is not always obvious) path or whether there is not a volunteer organization (such as Potomac Appalachian Trail Club) that maintains the blazes. We've not got lost, though we've had to backtrack more than a couple of times. My only complaint. We'd thought of going inland to hike Maine, we've five days of hiking left, we haven't covered half of Acadia yet, I'm not spending hours in a car I could be hiking here. We've booked the house for next summer.
Yesterday was Sargent Mountain, Gilmore Peak, and Parkman Mountain, hardest, most beautiful, best hike yet. Today is more ambitious - Dorr and Cadillac Mountains, two ascents, two descents.
We stop after the last ascent of each hike so Earthgirl can paint (I read and write) for a couple of hours.
- We used up this year's worth of Earth's resources by today.
- The total obscenity of the American dream.
- I'm told Hillarium asswipes are smearing Jill Stein as a Putin stooge. I'm told Hillarium asswipes are smearing Jill Stein as a anti-vaxxer kook. I have no idea what Jill Stein thinks or has said she stands for, but here's today's stupidass Star Trek allusion: (Worf voice) I know nothing about Gauron other than he's an outsider who has challenged the Council. But Duras? I know Duras.
- The hit squad flexes its muscles.
- The living death of perpetual emergency.
- Floyd tweeted out ▲ last night, the evening after I had posted Elkin's Dick Gibson's manic monologue on the, to steal from Floyd, living death of perpetual emergency. Elkin wrote Dick Gibson in 1971. I tweeted the link to me back to Floyd, hastening to say that while some of us are wired to dig the perpetual emergencies, there are more people percentage-wise now so wired for the reasons Floyd cites (24 hour news networks, internet, etc). So yes, I dared directly address a bleggaldigitaloverlord, and got the no acknowledgement/no response I deserve.
- On art and apocalypse.
- I am a quarter through Colson Whitehead's Underground Railroad. So far it's been a conventional novel on the horrors of slave life, but now that the two main characters have runaway from the plantation and actually gotten on an underground railroad - as in a train underground in Georgia in 1822 - it's getting good and weird.
- Offer ends at midnight tonight! One of you has an Elkin on the way, if you want one email, comment, or DM/twoot me by tonight.
- Up to H in song titles in the drive-around soundtrack:
I like when the form is kind of stuck-up
even though I’ve got a Southern accent and my place
looks like a graduate student’s. 1. I enjoy
high art but realism swamps me.
2. The material world swamps me.
3. I came to understand
the forms of realism,
the aesthetic phenomenon.
4. You take a random person
from daily life.
5. You take their dependence
on their historical circumstances.
6. You make them
7. You see, they operate
Things happen ... minutes, hours, days.
The order of life
coming from life itself.
Back to life /
Back to reality (like Soul II Soul).
It is sublime
8. They make rich forms.
like a bell
inside the Golden Seahorse Gift Shop.
Don’t take me
on that ride.
I don’t want
to go down.
9. To what degree
are the subjects
They naturally swim
beneath the icy sheets
and find breathing holes.
They may remember
their arctic homes.
They are one of the park’s
most sociable creatures. I said
enter the water with them.
Graceful imitation of strange
palms and seaflowers. A seaflower
of a thousand colors, aquarium
pigmented. It is my violent
passion for seaflowers, Molly.
I want the entire
built of roaring seaflowers!
Beluga! Beluga! Wither and mow.
The child’s song.
and the femme fatale
who sleeps in it, Victorian,
long, frothy hair
and the death drive,
flesh like the statement, “I lost a friend
in the sea garden.”
The notes, staccato, vortex,
paradisiacal, gold bell in a coffin
just in case I wake up. And the way
inside a car on its way
to its pinpoint destination.
No one tells you
the moon’s going
to end up like this.
No one. So you just move towards it.
That’s all the moon
ever was. Ding. Ding.