Some relatively minor shitlordturd got caught on hot mic saying the quiet part out loud, shitlords would make you eat catfood if they could and they're trying, he promises they're trying, and people go, omfg! who'd a thunk it? This guy for one
Where my eyes and memory and concentration have delivered me: I'm alternating a new translation of Fyodor's *Brothers Karamazov* and George's *Mill on the Floss,* today a *Mill on the Floss* day, I love George except when she writes dialogue in 19th century bumpkin English, the fuck am I reading a christo-fascist Russian writing about the soul in Czarist Russia and a progressive too ensconsed in the English class system she criticizes to realize she shouldn't write dialogue in English peasant? My eyes, memory, and concentration: I can finish a novel now without having read it so I might as well finish novels I read once with good eyes, good memory, and decent concentration, fine metaphors abound
I need access to an good overhead scanner, I lose a dimension on the flatbed I use
As easily predictable, clusterfuck spigots've been opened, not full spew yet - wait for next year, yowza - but August's armistice over - if I added to the grid below all weekend it'd be two digital feet long, here, have what I've gathered since last grid, I'm off to disc today, tomorrow, and hike on Sunday, o! listen to this, loud, especially the last three minutes and thirty second, holyfuck
There's a black bear
in the apple tree
and he won't come down.
I can hear him panting,
like an athlete.
I can smell the stink
of his body.
Come down, black bear.
Can you hear me?
The mind is the most interesting thing to me;
like the sudden death of the sun,
it seems implausible that darkness will swallow it
or that anything is lost forever there,
like a black bear in a fruit tree,
gulping up sour apples
with dry sucking sounds,
or like us at the pier, somber and tired,
making food from sunlight,
you saying a word, me saying a word, trying hard,
though things were disintegrating.
Still, I wanted you,
your lips on my neck,
your postmodern sexuality.
Forlorn and anonymous:
I didn't want to be that. I could hear
the great barking monsters of the lower waters
calling me forward.
You see, my mind takes me far,
but my heart dreams of return.
with pale-pink tongue
at the center of his face,
is turning his head,
like the face of Christ from life.
Shaking the apple boughs,
he is stronger than I am
and seems so free of passion—
no fear, no pain, no tenderness. I want to be that.
Come down, black bear,
I want to learn the faith of the indifferent.