Monday, January 24, 2022

Gold Bell in a Coffin in Case I Wake Up

Fleabus Saturday night wondering what Momcat doing in the house, once upon a time every post on this shitty blog had a Fleabus photo

Here's Stanley wondering the same thing

Saturday we tried Pax River State Park, such as it is, public land used primarily by hunters, half a dozen deer carcasses in the trailhead parking lot on Brown Church Road north of 80 on 27, hunters dress the deer on site, leave what they don't harvest for the winged corpse-eaters. The trail down to the Patuxent completely iced for bob-sledding, obstacled with fallen trees, I took 27 to 108 to 650 (past Griffith Road) to Howard Chapel Road right to Sundown (you better take care) right to Zion left to Rachel Carson Conservancy and one of our favorite hikes

Hiked Little Bennett yesterday, icy, should have thought of sticks, Little Bennett has more of my installations than all other Moco hikes combined (it has many different hikes, we rotate them a lot). Most are destroyed by wind and rain or squirrels or chipmunks and interior tree rot which contract I signed upon installation, I often find the plastic animals in the leaves and new mulch beneath the trees, but a few I build for more permanence, see the superglue print on the stone, all four feet were superglued to the stone, there was a friend's bulldog altared there by request, a chipmunk didn't do this, fine metaphors abound that I need to work past

Dreams and kindness are all we have
Total awareness of nothing
Look don't lookHope optimism
The history of anti-vaxxers
The shitlord side-hustle neoliberalism created
The year of magical thinking
FRESH HELLMaggie's weekly links
Everyone's a criticSteven Heighton?
A poem by Weldon KeesANOTHER
The long difficult history of literary maps
{ feuilleton }'s weekend links


Sandra Simonds

I like when the form is kind of stuck-up
   even though I’ve got a Southern accent and my place
looks like a graduate student’s. 1. I enjoy
   high art but realism swamps me.
            2. The material world swamps me.
                              3. I came to understand
                                                the forms of realism,
                                                             the aesthetic phenomenon.
                                                                      4. You take a random person
                                                                                                from daily life.
                                                                   5. You take their dependence
                                                         on their historical circumstances.
                                                                   6. You make them
                                                         the subject.
                                      7. You see, they operate
                                      the modern.
      Things happen ... minutes, hours, days.
       The order of life
          coming from life itself.
                                     Back to life /
                                     Back to reality (like Soul II Soul).
                                                       It is sublime
                                                   and grotesque.
                                                                8. They make rich forms.
   Something steady.
   Less manic.
         Something real
                                                like a bell
                                                  inside the Golden Seahorse Gift Shop.

                                                                Don’t take me
                                                                            on that ride.
                                                            I don’t want
                                                         to go down.

                                         9. To what degree
                                  are the subjects
         taken seriously?
   They naturally swim
                            beneath the icy sheets
                                               and find breathing holes.
                                         They may remember
                                                         their arctic homes.
                                                                            They are one of the park’s
                                                          most sociable creatures. I said
                                          enter the water with them.
                               Graceful imitation of strange
   palms and seaflowers. A seaflower
     of a thousand colors, aquarium
              pigmented. It is my violent
  passion for seaflowers, Molly.
I want the entire
         underwater palace
          built of roaring seaflowers!
    Beluga! Beluga! Wither and mow.
         The child’s song.

  Emerald kayak
        and the femme fatale
                                 who sleeps in it, Victorian,
                                                          long, frothy hair
                                         and the death drive,
     flesh like the statement, “I lost a friend
          in the sea garden.”
                          The notes, staccato, vortex,
                                           paradisiacal, gold bell in a coffin
     just in case I wake up. And the way
                                                 darkness tunnels
       inside a car on its way
                        to its pinpoint destination.
No one tells you
                    the moon’s going
                                             to end up like this.
                                         No one. So you just move towards it.
    That’s all the moon
                               ever was. Ding. Ding.

1 comment:

  1. in the interfluidity essay you linked to with the phrase dreams and kindness are all we have i liked

    Nothing is broken in the world without something else being born. Any creature’s death at the very least yields a corpse, which yields succor for some other’s hungry mouth, or soil upon which new life may grow. If we do slip the chain of our outworn institutions, perhaps it triggers civil war, famine, holocaust, or autocracy. But it is also possible that we jump to something hopeful, a revision of our constitutional order that is more capable, more democratic, both.