Sunday, October 29, 2017

forming for a blaze of sight and soon

  • Friday's blaze, Maryland Heights, the three mile side-circuit to remains of Civil War Union fort.
  • No one has inquired about my Let's Fly to Africa and Kill Professional Poachers and Their Shitsmear Johns idea, so I'm postponing the gofundme launch another three lifetimes.
  • I had to work again a Saturday for Broken-Ankle Guy yesterday, and today nothing but rain (and hanging Earthgirl's show).
  • Ghost Entry.
  • The idea of a nation-state is a mess.
  • Two cheers for polarization?
  • Maggie's weekly links
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
  • A conversation with Gerald Murname. I've read the last three novels, though I felt I failed them. They require a quiet and concentration I remember once having but can't remember last when and don't know if I will ever get back. 
  • Yesterday's blaze
  • Exactly one of you will get the ancient allusion in post title.
  • Literature and Pop Music?
  • Hey, if you listen to WFMU go donate now, they're (always) in trouble, do it for you.
  • If you don't listen to WFMU go donate now, do it for me.
  • #753
  • One year ago tomorrow I made this gorgeous VoB song this shitty blog's Theme Song #8! 
  • I'd forgot I'd crowned it, was looking for something else, LOVE LOVE LOVE the song, it can stay #8!
  • This maintaining ranking shit's got as old as owning eight cats.
  • If I remember correctly, the Bettie Serveert is #4.


Muriel Rukeyser

Murmurs from the earth of this land, from the caves and craters,
       from the bowl of darkness. Down watercourses of our
       dragon childhood, where we ran barefoot.
We stand as growing women and men. Murmurs come down
        where water has not run for sixty years.
Murmurs from the tulip tree and the catalpa, from the ax of
        the stars, from the house on fire, ringing of glass; from
        the abandoned iron-black mill.
Stars with voices crying like mountain lions over forgotten
Blue directions and a horizon, milky around the cities where the
        murmurs are deep enough to penetrate deep rock.
Trapping the lightning-bird, trapping the red central roots.
You know the murmurs. They come from your own throat.
You are the bridges to the city and the blazing food-plant green;
The sun of plants speaks in your voice, and the infinite shells of
A beach of dream before the smoking mirror.
You are close to that surf, and the leaves heated by noon, and
        the star-ax, the miner’s glitter walls. The crests of the sea
Are the same strength you wake with, the darkness is the eyes
        of children forming for a blaze of sight and soon, soon,
Everywhere your own silence, who drink from the crater, the
        nebula, one another, the changes of the soul.


  1. I have so much swag from WFMU now it's ridiculous

    1. Two woof-moo bumperstickers is all I ask each time.

  2. No one here on the left coast (in Kiddietown, at least) seem to get behind fave radio stations; we don't have swag, for the most part. SomaFM based here in The City is good, but I'm listening to a lot of lounge and ambient these days: The Days Of Trump have a soundtrack by

    Hoping the amount of pain the West and both Asias went through when the last big idea of nation-states ended (i.e., 1918; sehr interresant; nicht so?) isn't repeated as we appear to regress, back into states defined by group identities rather than grand political ideas. Triumph of Bakunin, for the moment.

    I got dibs on founding the Grand Duchy of Fenwick, though. Just sayin'.