Tuesday, April 28, 2020

A Tulip Boomed Seminal Messages at the Hearse

  • I am nicer to people than Earthgirl for the first time ever, it took a plague, I get off the path first to the occasional hiker, the new glut of waddlers 
  • (as soon as it gets and stays warm we'll need deet a cancer onto our calves
  • horror tick and lyme season predicted 
  • *before* 
  • lyme mates with plague in 2021)
  • Earthgirl plays Narrow Winding Path on a Ledge Chicken with wheezing and mapless and clueless and clearly miserable what the fuck am I doing in the woodsers seething I AM NEVER HIKING IN THE FUCKING WOODS AGAIN PLAGUE OR MORE PLAGUE
  • but loses chicken every time 60 feet away, they are wheezing
  • I envision the plague from their wheezes that sound like jake brakes as circling in the air like gnats on a humid day and the plague under a microscope looks like the wheezer in a speedo, poisoning the beech trees, my beloved beech trees
  • she joins me in the roughage and/or mud
  • Who knew? nicer than Earthgirl, me, once

  • Just say fucking thank you, Earthgirl seethes, it slays me
  • Photos from Sunday past's hike beech trees first green is a WHAT A GREEN! in light rain after all night torrential on a stone gray day, holy the fuck
  • Reminder: brilliant sunny days clorox color, I
  • know the good fine metaphors abounding I just
  • All I want to do is hike with Earthgirl, true but then the hike ends

  • Haven't done that in years, and this slays me too
  • Speaking of seething, me, motherfucking professional Democrats just cancelled the New York primaries because they are motherfucking professional Democrats
  • (a) giving Republicans a precedent to cite when they say no mail voting
  • (b) giving Republicans a precedent to cite when they cancel an election
  • (c) there are no accidents around here
  • I replied to Sanders' tweeted outrage at the decision:
  • 1. Fuck motherfucking professional Democrats
  • 2. Tell Bernie to call me when he calls out motherfucking professional Democrats by OnBaAmMeA
  • oNbAaMmEa, wish I'd that
  • Mongo put this song in my head two nights ago

  • Shitlords profit in plague
  • Plague guns
  • NEW! Shitlords profit in plague
  • Essential and disposable
  • Weyoun as Brunt sucking up to Quark while explaining the horrors of a Sanders administration on Ferenginar is my single favorite DS9 scene, just seen
  • One realm of free expression
  • Catastrophe is my biggest influence: Joyelle McSweeney interview 
  • Ferenginar going Baltic socialists while Sisko rationalizes Section 31's genocidal Odo weapon an example why DS9 the best Star Trek
  • the ten percent is excellent, did they do they 90% filler on purpose, I honestly wish yes
  • Time and plague
  • One of you already got and one of you will get Wednesday or so a copy of Joyelle McSweeney's *Toxicon and Arachne,* if you ask nice and I like you I'll send you one too
  • That Specials song put this one in my head, one of my five favorite songs ever and a primary reason there's a DG in my stupidass me not me name


Joyelle McSweeney

Under the dilate chest-nut-tree, some hunch
infarcted like a rose. Some puke entendrilled my chestwall
while rose sluice sulked in my wrist. Above me, Time flit like a leaflet
bomb, alive with pleasure. From the nicotine
stained shirt of the mountainside, a tulip
boomed seminal messages at the hearse. A DDoS
crashed the DoD. O Spring, open your mouth
for me, full me once and full me
permanentlee. Nothing takes to licker
like a bum ticker. Lower your winch, settle your as
-troturf on me. For if the wing
hath lost its engine, what then? Call TERMINEX,
ladye. Arrive with pleasure.


  1. 0)those are nice photos of the woods with green in them

    1)mcsweeney's poem begins with a reference to my distant cousin henry wadsworth longfellow's poem

    Under a spreading chestnut-tree
    The village smithy stands;
    The smith, a mighty man is he,
    With large and sinewy hands;
    And the muscles of his brawny arms
    Are strong as iron bands.

    His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
    His face is like the tan;
    His brow is wet with honest sweat,
    He earns whate'er he can,
    And looks the whole world in the face,
    For he owes not any man.

    Week in, week out, from morn till night,
    You can hear his bellows blow;
    You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
    With measured beat and slow,
    Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
    When the evening sun is low.

    And children coming home from school
    Look in at the open door;
    They love to see the flaming forge,
    And hear the bellows roar,
    And catch the burning sparks that fly
    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

    He goes on Sunday to the church,
    And sits among his boys;
    He hears the parson pray and preach,
    He hears his daughter's voice,
    Singing in the village choir,
    And it makes his heart rejoice.

    It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
    Singing in Paradise!
    He needs must think of her once more,
    How in the grave she lies;
    And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
    A tear out of his eyes.

    Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
    Each evening sees it close
    Something attempted, something done,
    Has earned a night's repose.

    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
    For the lesson thou hast taught!
    Thus at the flaming forge of life
    Our fortunes must be wrought;
    Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
    Each burning deed and thought.

    "The Village Blacksmith" was first published in 1840.

    This blacksmith is a role model since he balances his honest job with the role he plays with his family and wider community.

    1a)the overview of the poem's message is presumably by tim gracyk, who has (re)posted a reading of the poem by tom o'bedlam on youtube


    1b)more about the pseudonymous narrator at


    2)speaking of names and stupidass me not me names, i used to go by kermit frogster and hermit lobster and c. underwood farley, m.a. - this last one intended to remind one of a rude riposte

    3)returning to mcsweeney's text

    For if the wing hath lost its engine, what then?

    i am reminded of something from The Subtleties of the Inimitable Mulla Nasrudin, by Idries Shah, 1973

    The four-engined aircraft was in trouble, and the captain's voice came through the loudspeakers:

    'One of our engines is faulty, but there is no danger. It will mean we will be five minutes late, flying on only three engines."

    Some of the passengers were a little alarmed, but the Mulla, who was among them, spoke comfortingly: 'Five minutes does not make much difference, friends.' So everyone calmed down.

    Soon afterwards, however, they heard the captain's voice again: 'Another engine is malfunctioning. We can manage on two engines, but it means we will be a half hour late in arriving.'

    Some of the passengers seemed uneasy, but the Mulla again addressed them : ''What is half an hour, after all? It is better than going on donkey-back!' The passengers accepted this philosophy, and settled down into their seats again.

    Hardly another half hour had passed before they heard the captain's voice again: 'I am sorry to have to inform you that a third engine is out of order. We shall be an hour late in arriving at our destination.'

    Mulla Nasrudin said: 'Let's just hope the last engine does not break down, or we'll be up here all day!'

    1. i see now that it is our friends at wikipedia who summarized the message of longfellow's poem - today the sentence stands as The blacksmith serves as a role model who balances his job with the role he plays with his family and community.

      i also found out there that "In 1926, a comical song called 'The Village Blacksmith Owns the Village Now'... detailed how the blacksmith grew rich with the rise of the automobile by converting his shop into a service station."

      the wikipedia article notes "Longfellow uses the poem to glorify and celebrate a humble, plain person, much as John Greenleaf Whittier does in his poem 'The Barefoot Boy'."

      i read 'the barefoot boy' to my father during his final hospitalization at 'walter reed national military medical center' - as they call bethesda naval hospital these days - it reminded him of growing up as a nova scotian farm boy nine decades earlier - he became moist-eyed, as did i


      a few days ago my last aunt or uncle on either side passed away - now i am the oldest first cousin on my maternal side, a couple of years shy of that on the paternal side

      this is the future - we got to live it, or live with it, and at some point get out of the way

      may the creative forces of the universe have mercy on our souls, if any - and if you follow any link mentioned in my meanderings on this particular posting here at blckdgrd, take a look at


      which begins

      “To love without knowing how to love wounds the person we love,” the great Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh admonished in his terrific treatise on how to love — a sentiment profoundly discomfiting in the context of our cultural mythology, which continually casts love as something that happens to us passively and by chance, something we fall into, something that strikes us arrow-like, rather than a skill attained through the same deliberate practice as any other pursuit of human excellence. Our failure to recognize this skillfulness aspect is perhaps the primary reason why love is so intertwined with frustration.

      That’s what the great German social psychologist, psychoanalyst, and philosopher Erich Fromm (March 23, 1900–March 18, 1980) examines in his 1956 masterwork The Art of Loving — a case for love as a skill to be honed the way artists apprentice themselves to the work on the way to mastery, demanding of its practitioner both knowledge and effort.

  2. Ticks on shoes, ticks on dog. Already. As early as a month ago. 3 warm winters, 50% more adult ticks.

    Not even into the deep woods, yet. Ticks just everywhere.

  3. speaking of being nice to people - not specifically walking in the woods, but just in general

    1)on the front of the latest mindful magazine - loving kindness - why being kind matters most of all


    2)in the media - an account of an alleged incident in the mid-1990s when uncle joe was reportedly not so nice



  4. I've said it before, I'll say it again. This is a mean country. Had to go to the store again and noticed maybe one in ten wore masks. I wore mine, I don't care how ridiculous it looks. You should see me anyway. On second thought maybe not. Humans are fucking stupid and Americans are even dumber than humans. I keep reading how everything is now being exposed, the rot. What bullshit. People believe what they want to. When has anyone ever been bothered with facts. An article proclaims Americans are just beginning to lose faith in Trump's ability to deal with the COVID-19 shitstorm. Wonders never cease.

    I've thought for some time that the people in politics had a maturity level that had ossified at the high school level. I think that goes for most Americans as well, after all, these politicians didn't just pop into being, our society produced them. I view Trump as the quintessential American. He's all American, one hundred percent USA all the way. Six pack, twelve pack, USA A-Okay!

    As a famous Frenchman once said, the graveyard is full of indispensable people. I suppose the same could be said for nations.

  5. In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule. - philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche