And I Won't Tell You Where It Is, So Why Do I Tell You Anything? Because You Still Listen, Because in Times Like These to Have You Listen at All, It's Necessary to Talk About Trees

Motherfucking Democrats embrace of Jesus Cracker (and its consequences)
Commence Blog Days of Summer!
A deeply fucked up thing in America
Lynn's friend's first question:
Union-busting crime wave
So, when are you retiring?
Five things the US knew about the Nakba as it unfolded
She claims she knows me
Pentagon-funded think tank simulates war with China on NBC
Gaithersburg High School
Avedon Carol's occasional links
She knows more about my life
The Great American Covid Capitulation
than I know of hers
Maggie's links				FRESH HELL
Newest theory: I
Trailhead		Ten dead in Buffalo				Crimson
too can break kayfabe, fat chance
Reading in the margins: Joy Williams
it gets broke by me
Miss MacIntosh, My Darling				{ feuilleton }'s links
Joy Williams on Miss MacIntosh, My Darling:				Miss MacIntosh, My Darling. When I was going off to college, I got two copies of this thing, this impossibly neurotic, very strange book by this woman who’d been working on it her whole life, Marguerite Young. What were they thinking?
Laugh, we talked about the cicadas on yesterday's hike
Today is Fripp's birthday, Saturday was Eno's birthday, today is Adrienne Rich's birthday, I found myself writing in tablet over the weekend when I could have tapped a keyboard, we've decided we will not be moving to Michigan, a dog almost adopted us yesterday, woke up with the above Peter Jefferies song in my head, Commence Blog Days of Summer, start overfucking the fuck it here
Why Burial's *Untrue* still effing brilliant

WHAT KIND OF DAYS ARE THESE

Adrienne Rich

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled

this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.