Olive, last night, chased out of bedroom before we went to sleep: she likes walking the bookshelves in the dark, chewing on books, knocking shit out of the way to get to the tastiest books. She likes walking the window sill above our heads on our pillows and leaping just over our heads onto our chests. She likes batting the chain on the lamp next to my side, talking to it all night.
Busy w shit I can't and don't want to think about, much less write about even if I could write about it here, and it's time to move MES' tombstone down from top of page, and I can't fucking sleep with or without the cats, haven't slept well in two weeks, so that, and cat filler posing as fine metaphors abounding, are today's bleggalgaze substituting for today's bleggalgaze.
Then there's Stanley, who likes rooting under the bed, Rosie, who sleeps in Earthgirl's hair, Fleabus, who is the Best Cat Ever, and Jess, who won't shut the fuck up. Some nights five cats in the bedroom are five too many. To get them out at three in the morning, kibble bribery.
- Links have been amassing, here:
- Old, you're up.
- Oil and water, with small street fire.
- The great hedgehog of late postmodern neoliberal capitalism.
- A world without end.
- The curse of bipartisanship.
- Bump: rescuing economics from Neoliberalism.
- Surveillance Capitalism.
- Dark money, not Russia.
- Motherfucking Democrats.
- Motherfucking British.
- Same as it always was: Orientalism forty years later.
- The Poet of Light.
- Alex has new songs.
- John Martyn's birthday tomorrow, don't know if there'll be a post yet, so a couple of songs now.
- I do this all the fucking time - It's Robert Wyatt's birthday tomorrow, so songs then. Or not.
- Martyn stays - he's always been a go to for a crash, the softest landing possible.
IMPLICATIONS FOR MODERN LIFE
The ham flowers have veins and are rimmed in rind, each petal a little meat sunset. I deny all connection with the ham flowers, the barge floating by loaded with lard, the white flagstones like platelets in the blood-red road. I’ll put the calves in coats so the ravens can’t gore them, bandage up the cut gate and when the wind rustles its muscles, I’ll gather the seeds and burn them. But then I see a horse lying on the side of the road and think You are sleeping, you are sleeping, I will make you be sleeping. But if I didn’t make the ham flowers, how can I make him get up? I made the ham flowers. Get up, dear animal. Here is your pasture flecked with pink, your oily river, your bleeding barn. Decide what to look at and how. If you lower your lashes, the blood looks like mud. If you stay, I will find you fresh hay.