- Luciano Berio born 92 years ago today. I dig his music.
- Beyond that, his Sequenzas and my blog history: I blogged about music on Sequenza 21, nod to Berio.
- Sequenza 21's owner ran a group political blog I joined for a three? four? years.
- He invited me to Sequenza 21 after I'd joined and blogged at Best of the Blogs.
- You never heard of it.
- It seems to be dead now, though I confess I didn't go past page two of the google search.
- Shout out to Dasha Siane, who joined Best of the Blogs at my invitation.
- I think she forgave me.
- Ahab to his companion.
- Reminder: fuck professional Democrats.
- Humans will vote for an immoral politician over an amoral politician every time.
- Reminder: When this shitty blog started in was a Laugh-at-the-Crackers fanblog.
- Between DC United's last game at RFK and remembering when I group blogged Tribal I'm fanning my Apostate's Anger.
- Though I try snuffing my Apostate's Anger, I can squelch it at best and most times.
- I am a small motherfucker.
CONVERSATION 9: ON VARIETIES OF OBLIVION
After bitter resistance the river unravels into the night, he says. Washes our daily fare of war out into a dark so deaf, so almost without dimension there is no word to dive from. Body weight displaced by dreams whose own lack promises lucidity so powerful it could shoot a long take to mindlessness. Fish smell travels the regions of sleep, westward like young men and the dawn. Then I return, too early to bring anything back, unsure of what I want, terrified I’ll fail, by a hair, to seize it.
We talk because we can forget, she says. Our bodies open to the dark, and sand runs out. Oblivion takes it all with equal tenderness. As the sea does. As the past. Already it suffuses the present with more inclusive tonalities. Not orchestrating a melodic sequence, but rounding the memory of a rooster on top a hanging silence. Or injured flesh. Impersonal. Only an animal could be so.
An avatar of the holy ghost, he chuckles. Or the angel of the annunciation beating his wings against a door slammed shut. Behind it, love already plays the organ. Without the angel. He is invisible because we have rejected his message.
On the old photos, she says, I see a stranger staking out my skin. As if an apple could fall too far from the tree. Yet I call her “me,” “my” years of furtively expanding flesh, with almost-certainty. It’s a belief that seems exempt from doubt, as if it were the hinge on which my doubts and questions turn. Still, I may seem the same “I” to you while I’ve already rolled it through the next door. From left to right.