Thursday, October 21, 2021

You Stare and Furious Stare, Confident There Are No Gods Out There

The house in Munith Michigan's wifi blows, my daughter tells me everyone's wifi blows in rural Michigan unless the homeowner purchases super-expensive satellite wifi, below a bog in Waterloo Recreation Area, a section that bans hunting, we hiked it yesterday before my daughter delivered us our bright orange vests last night at dinner, this, still gorgeous, is a copy of the photo uploaded to my phone on twitter, the wifi will not download the photo sent from my phone to email, no photo captures real time image, this doesn't capture the real time photo image

Besides the Waterloo Recreation Area another plus of Michigan: weed is way cheaper and way better in Michigan, some of you are in for very good giftmas presents, at more than half the cost of what lesser weed would cost in DC, Wonka Bar 13 for all of you! Song from yesterday's drive to store and then to Portage Lake Disc Golf Course and then back to the house

My complicity and privilege not used to shitty wifi, and I love you but I'm not sitting in the Jackson Panera with the unmasked for the free wifi, these may be your last links until next week, plan to not read here accordingly if linkage is your purpose here
On rationalizing the drowning world we inhabit
The revenge of the essential worker?
Reminder: one of key shitlord projects is to constantly remind you you are not only not essential you are existentially dispensable
Trump flags and signs everywhere, half 2020, half 2024, and on Interstate 94 recurring billboards saying Making Taliban Stronger Since 2021 with photoshop of Biden in Islamic turban
The Great New Normal Purge
Above offered as reminder that covid can be both the public health danger it's considered *and* that shitlords are exploiting it for totalitarian reasons and that the latter is scarier than the former
Stores here about 30/70 masked, or at least the weed store, I was fully masked (and in my Guided by Voices baseball hat), I risked my life for your giftmas present
The destruction of the United Kingdom
Productivity in late-shitlordism
We have our orange vests now, we heard no gun shots yesterday which I mentioned to the two locals I played a round with at the Portage Lake Disc Golf Course and they told me of course not, it's bow-hunting season, I won't hear what kills me until a zzzt a second before the arrow hits me, what little political talk we had agreed upon the cynical uselessness of motherfucking Democrats, neither seemed a Trump flag-flyer, both resigned to shit never getting better
Another song on drive, I meh-plussed the album at first but I'm dropping the meh, it may never be love but it's growing on me


Mary Karr

Stare hard enough at the fabric of night,   
and if you're predisposed to dark—let’s say   
the window you’ve picked is a black
postage stamp you spend hours at,
sleepless, drinking gin after the I Love   
Lucy reruns have gone off—stare

like your eyes have force, and behind
any night’s taut scrim will come the forms   
you expect pressing from the other side.   
For you: a field of skulls, angled jaws
and eye-sockets, a zillion scooped-out crania.   
They’re plain once you think to look.

You know such fields exist, for criminals
roam your very block, and even history lists   
monsters like Adolf and Uncle Joe
who stalk the earth’s orb, plus minor baby-eaters   
unidentified, probably in your very midst. Perhaps   
that disgruntled mail clerk from your job

has already scratched your name on a bullet—that’s him   
rustling in the azaleas. You caress the thought,
for it proves there’s no better spot for you
than here, your square-yard of chintz sofa, hearing   
the bad news piped steady from your head. The night   
is black. You stare and furious stare,

confident there are no gods out there. In this way,   
you’re blind to your own eye’s intricate machine   
and to the light it sees by, to the luck of birth and all   
your remembered loves. If the skulls are there—
let’s say they do press toward you
against night’s scrim—could they not stare
with slack jawed envy at the fine flesh
that covers your scalp, the numbered hairs,   
at the force your hands hold?

1 comment:

  1. 1/that's a good looking bog photo

    1.5/i forget where i read recently that replacing the term 'swamp' with 'wetlands' - with its more positive connotations - promotes more ecological attitudes among the hoi polloi

    2/my ancestral province sells cannabis at its government liquor stores - maybe someday i'll try one of their edibles - these days i primarily get high on what the firesign theatre called 'the real thing' - a clean windshield, a shoeshine, and a full tank of gasoline

    2.5/from the text accompanying a 2017 youtube video:

    In 1606, the first cannabis crop was planted in Nova Scotia by Louis Hébert, a successful botanist and apothecary with an extensive knowledge of herbs and medicines. Cannabis was a commodity across the world at the time, because it was used for food, medicine, ropes, and sails. The industry especially thrived and “came of age” in Nova Scotia in the 1800s, when the Nova Scotia Medical Association recommended cannabis for good health and better sex. At the time, Dr. F.W. Goodwin was the President of the Association, so he advocated for legalization and even lectured the Medical Society of Nova Scotia.

    2.8/the NSLC lists 19 edible products on their web page

    3/i read the poem all the way through - i was surprised and pleased by the way it ended

    4/i do enjoy the links but they are not my only reason for dropping by

    4.5/moar kitteh pics, plz