Monday, September 14, 2020

Most Weeks I Am No More Than the Color of the Walls

  • There is no depth Trump will not be permitted in the Cause of Best-Case Scenario Biden Worse-Case Scenario Trump
  • One dependable characteristic of motherfucking Democrats, their sociopathic insistence and organizational ability to maintain the exact level of less-shitty to the ever just shitty more, belies their insistence there's nothing they can fucking do
  • Biden best-case with all these new found executive powers motherfucking Democrats will never give back
  • Never. Give. Back. Propriety in public manners returned, watch what powers Democrats consolidate then accrue to the executive for President Cotton in 2024
  • and Trump, who will consolidate then accrue to the executive for President Cotton in 2024
  • The American West Coast is on fire, there are food lines stretching for miles on busy highways, the Senate and House are up for grabs, and the Supreme Court for the next 25 years depends on Ruth Bader Ginzberg's organs to keep functioning until twelve noon Inaugration Day, tell me if I'm wrong, I don't watch anything I'd see advertising, are there any Biden ads about any of these four?
  • Rest in Peace. Simeon Coxe

  • Is your hate pure?
  • Maggie's weekly links
  • On Diana Rigg
  • Blaaager dropping unsubtle hints that any day now they will kill "Legacy Blaaagers" interface for the new interface, so far only difference I've a grievance, I have to type in the beginning letters of tags which also calls for a celebration, I only use ten or so now on a regular basis, I won't have to scroll through dozens of dozens to find the daily tags, but between whatever blaager fuckery ensues and my laptops worsening windows' fustercluckery (it won't shut down clean, I have to hard reboot each time I turn it on, it keeps reloading and insisting I upload the same latest update) if I disappear for a bit it will probably not be voluntary
  • Bramleys, Not Grenadiers
  • 2020 September 13
  • Books, bookshelves, memories
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links

Joanna Klink
Who is ever at home in oneself.
Land without mercy. Interstates
set flickering by night. When I speak to you
I can feel a storm falling blackly to the roads,
the pelting rains the instant they
hit. Devotion is full of arrows.
Most weeks I am no more than the color of the walls
in the room where we sit, or I am blind to clocks,
restless, off-guard, accomplice to the weathers
that burn and flee, foamless, across a sky
that was my past, that is
what I was. I am always too close.
I am not sure I will ever be
wholly alive. Still—we are faithful.
Small birds hook their flights into the fog.
The heat crosses in shoals over these roads
and this evening the cottonwoods may sway
with that slow darkgold wind
beyond all urgency. I am listening to you.


  1. The Planting of the Apple-Tree
    William Cullen Bryant - 1794-1878

    Come, let us plant the apple-tree.
    Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;
    Wide let its hollow bed be made;
    There gently lay the roots, and there
    Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
    And press it o'er them tenderly,
    As, round the sleeping infant's feet,
    We softly fold the cradle sheet;
    So plant we the apple-tree.

    What plant we in this apple-tree?
    Buds, which the breath of summer days
    Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
    Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,
    Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest;
    We plant, upon the sunny lea,
    A shadow for the noontide hour,
    A shelter from the summer shower,
    When we plant the apple-tree.

    What plant we in this apple-tree?
    Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
    To load the May-wind's restless wings,
    When, from the orchard row, he pours
    Its fragrance through our open doors;
    A world of blossoms for the bee,
    Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,
    For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
    We plant with the apple-tree.

    What plant we in this apple-tree!
    Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
    And redden in the August noon,
    And drop, when gentle airs come by,
    That fan the blue September sky,
    While children come, with cries of glee,
    And seek them where the fragrant grass
    Betrays their bed to those who pass,
    At the foot of the apple-tree.

    And when, above this apple-tree,
    The winter stars are quivering bright,
    And winds go howling through the night,
    Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,
    Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,
    And guests in prouder homes shall see,
    Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine
    And golden orange of the line,
    The fruit of the apple-tree.

    The fruitage of this apple-tree
    Winds and our flag of stripe and star
    Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
    Where men shall wonder at the view,
    And ask in what fair groves they grew;
    And sojourners beyond the sea
    Shall think of childhood's careless day
    And long, long hours of summer play,
    In the shade of the apple-tree.

    Each year shall give this apple-tree
    A broader flush of roseate bloom,
    A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
    And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,
    The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower;
    The years shall come and pass, but we
    Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
    The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,
    In the boughs of the apple-tree.

    And time shall waste this apple-tree.
    Oh, when its aged branches throw
    Thin shadows on the ground below,
    Shall fraud and force and iron will
    Oppress the weak and helpless still?

    What shall the tasks of mercy be,
    Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
    Of those who live when length of years
    Is wasting this little apple-tree?

    "Who planted this old apple-tree?"
    The children of that distant day
    Thus to some aged man shall say;
    And, gazing on its mossy stem,
    The gray-haired man shall answer them:
    "A poet of the land was he,
    Born in the rude but good old times;
    'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes
    On planting the apple-tree."

    William Cullen Bryant, author of "Thanatopsis," was born in Cummington, Massachusetts on November 3, 1794. He is considered an American nature poet and journalist, who wrote poems, essays, and articles that championed the rights of workers and immigrants.

  2. a headline from the daily mail-

    Biden accuses Trump of being a 'climate arsonist' whose failures on global warming are the real threat to the suburbs - as he slams President on west coast wildfires, midwestern floods and coastal hurricanes

    1. One out of four, and the one I'd have bet he'd talk about before the others, and of course the fuck is pro-fossil fuel as was motherfracking Obama, but at least he mentioned it.

  3. music biz news - from the daily mail

    Vinyl record sales surpass CD revenue for first time since 1980s by more than $103 MILLION with the most popular including Harry Styles and Queens 'Greatest Hits'

    Music fans spent $232.1 million on vinyl records in the first half of 2020, far surpassing the $129.9 million on CDs. This is the first time records have surpassed compact discs since the 1980s.