The Point Comes When I Don't Know What It's Called

Saturday night ^

It's domain name renewal time. Everything at the account, billing information, auto-renewal, I made sure were accurate back in May in anticipation of this annual pain-in-the-blog. I get daily email telling me I'm losing the domain name and that payment can't be accepted. Every. Fucking. Day. Every. Fucking. Year. I have until July 1 to straighten them straighening this out.

If this blog disappears without a bleggalcide note, this is why. The same stupidass vanity that made me want the domain name is the same stupidass vanity that won't permit me to kill the shitty blog without a goodbye note.

Sunday morning:

• Appalachian Trail, Maryland, South Mountain, Gathland north to Lambs Knoll and back, w Earthgirl.
• Genocidal Culture Busker Haircut #19.
• You are living in a death cult.
• Roger's howl.
• The popping of the Blair-Clinton bubble.
• Why the Democratic Party loses.
• Why the Democratic Party sucks (Jon Schwarz interviews Ralph Nader).
• Trump in Monessen. My mother grew-up up the hill from Monessen.
• Top photo - Library, work.
• Reminder bleggalgaze:

• The real threat of AI.
• The end of cultural history?
• Maggie's weekly links.
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
• Crim King's Lead Hat, Inc.
• How do you draw a circle?
• These are the first signs of sonic attack.
• Words.
• I never foresaw the day I would read Franz Wright more than his dad, but it's here.
• Inside blegging: Yes, there was a Les Murray poem below once - I found it Friday, the original name of this post (you can see it in the URL) came from it - but then I posted the Franz Wright poem above and swapped out the Murray for the Wright. Fuck me.
• The slow secret death of the electric guitar?
• Time for an every ten years of so Breece D'J Pancake remembrance.
• I like Pancake's stories. It's the tidal wave of shitty rural-chic imitators that annoys.
• Found my The Knife stash, forget sometimes how much I love The Knife.

BLADE

Franz Wright

If I stare into it long enough, the point comes when I don’t know what it’s called, a condition in which lacerations are liable to occur, like a slip of the tongue; when a drop of blood might billow in a glass of water, blooming in velvet detonation and imparting to it the colorless, tasteless and originless fear in which I wake.