Wednesday, January 6, 2021

as if ideally expression should be limited to formulas like x ≠ y

We got a bill for "Winter" property taxes on land we do not yet own in Michigan for $13,555. Assuming there will be "Spring," "Summer," and "Autumn" property taxes due, that's $54,220 annually, so no, and it must have been a mistake and it was, but reminded again I am OK with *why* we have to eventually move to Michigan and reminded again I don't want to live in Michigan

As for the election results which make Joe Manchin the most powerful man in Washington and Joe Biden's wingman, fart. Meanwhile, as expected, Stained Glass Pub will win Moco Pizza contest, I have lived in Moco for 56 years and lived within five miles of Glenmont for 29 years, but Stained Glass Pub on east side of Georgia Avenue and East Moco might as well be Mongolia, I have never ate Stained Glass Pub pizza. The correct winner, Vace, lost in the first round. RIGGED ELECTION! I've yet to have a pizza in Michigan, but it can't be worse than most of Moco pizza, which is to say my manic uptick still ticks up even if it's sick of the clusterfuck


2021 January 5We are at war<<<< "
They know that mass displacement is coming, probably very soon, and they intentionally want to immiserate most people beforehand so that we won’t have the resources or will to mount any consequential protest as the cities start to flood and burn and trains start herding us into camps. >>>>
Anything change yet?Political Violence: not just for poor countries now
The future of free speech under surveillance capitalismIn the service of a higher truthinessMaggie's weekly linksAvedon Carol's occasional linksThe lab leak hypothesis
What the modern world has forgot about children and learning52 things he learned in 2020Now more than everEd is rereading The Whale Novel, read along with himThere's new Big Blood



Cool gales shall fan the glades

Harry Mathews

But how choose the appropriate sticking point to start at?
Who wants to write a poem without the letter e,
Especially for Thee, where the flourished vowel lends such panache to your carnet de bal
(OK, peons: pizzazz to your dance card)? The alphabet’s such a horn
Of plenty, why cork up its treasure? It hurts to think of “you” reduced to u
In stingy text messages, as if ideally expression should be limited to formulas like x ≠ y,

Where the respectable truth of tautology leaves ambiguous beauty standing by
Waiting to take off her clothes, if, that is, her percentage of body fat
Permits it (a statement implicitly unfair, as if beauty, to remain sublime, had to keep up
Lineaments already shaped by uninhibited divinity); implying, as well, fixated onlookers, i.e.,
Men and women kidding themselves that full-front-and-back nudity is the north
Star of delight rather than imagined nakedness, shudderingly draped like a fully rigged, fully laden ship without a drop to bail,

Its hidden cargoes guessed at — perhaps Samian wine (mad-
making!) — or fresh basil
Gently crushed by its own slight weight, reviving memories of delights once stumbled on as a boy,
Delights often wreathed with necessary pain, like the stout unforgiving thorns
That tear shirt and skin as we stretch for ripe blackberries, to be gulped down fast,
Sweeter than butter and marmalade, quenching our thirst better than sucked ice,
Making us almost drunk as we shriek with false contempt at each benighted ump

Who decides against our teams. What happened to those blissful fruits, honeydew, purple plum,
White raspberry, for stealing which from Mrs. Grossman’s stand I invented ingenious alibis
That she never believed (insulting, or what?)? Where are childhood’s innocent sweetnesses, like homemade rice
Pudding and mince pie? Or the delicious resistances of various foods — bony
Lobsters, chops with their succulent tiny interstices, corn sticking to the cob, or the grilled feast
Of brook trout I caught without too much fuss after kicking a 
resentful hornets’

Nest? And when carnality replaced appetite, I was communally pronounced the horniest
Ten-year-old around; and I hadn’t even seen you. But when I did, you became the plume
In the horse’s hat of my lust. I was thirteen when we first danced together. There weren’t many afters
But I cherish my plume. There weren’t any afters, nothing, just a gentle abseil I
Could not climb back up. I still wave my plume, or my horse does, as he canters nobly
Into next year, my eighty-fifth. I hasten to add that “this coyness, lady, were no crime”

If I didn’t, in spite of all, feel so grateful to you. All manner of mercis
Fill my throat, along with immortal memories, of which I must acknowledge the thorniest
To be your disappearance, whether you tanked in river water or were scorched by Zeus’s proximity (or some such baloney);
But your firm breasts, taut nipples, and bent thighs? No thorns. All you wanted was a loosened peplum,
So I still bear your plume, and your name will not die: not to be written here or read, but my voice shall sibilate
It so shrilly that unseeded babies hear me, and every hidden woodworm wake from its dream to fall forever from the rafters.


  1. i read the poem by harry mathews, written near the end of his long life - according to the nytimes obituary, his first serious work, written when he was 11, was

    It was a sad autumnal morn
    The earth was but a mass of clay
    Of foliage the trees were shorn
    Leaving their branches dull and gray

    samian wine, mentioned by mathews, comes from samos - our wikipedia friends have produced an informative and interesting article about it, which incorporates text from a publication now in the public domain:

    Bunbury, Edward Herbert; Caspari, Maximilian Otto Bismarck; Gardner, Ernest Arthur (1911). "Samos". In Chisholm, Hugh (ed.). Encyclopædia Britannica. 24 (11th ed.). Cambridge University Press. pp. 116–117

  2. this afternoon's events
    down in dc
    remind me of a jefferson airplane song -
    'we can be together'

    the music doesn't start until two minutes in
    the lyrics i'm thinking of are at five minutes in