Wednesday, December 20, 2023

Apoplectic Executioners, Bungled Incisions

I wrote in tablet last night at 5pm: For the second year in a row Joe Biden's motorcade has shut down the Beltway at rush hour so he can attend a fundraising event at Bethesda Shitlord Country Club. and then at 8pm yesterday evening I saw on twaater Chuck Schumer saying Latin American immigrants need treated "within Democratic principles" and twaated back: "Democratic principles means Gazan children having limbs amputated with no anesthesia from bombing fully funded and supported through our genocidal Mideast colony and its zionist zealots," I'm seething, thanks for asking

The Artist Giving the Finger: to be honest, like everything I make, from paintings to parked disc ups for a rare birdie putt to human relationships, I depend entirely on coincidence which occasionally morphs into serendipity: the finger found me, I did not find the finger

Among my most biting apostasies my discovery that I don't find solace in seething I once did which must mean the seething that soothed when I was younger must not have been genuine but performative seething and that the seething I don't find that solace in now will also appear performative to me tomorrow. Waah

I haven't typed this in this space in years, at first by design and then by dotage: I (and my cohort of last round of baby-boomers) am the trajectory of America from rise to peak and then now bitter enfeeblement and fatal decline. Do you know I once thought I'd enjoy seething unto empire's death and that I don't, beyond my guilt of the world my generation is leaving to my daughter, my angriest, most deservedly bitter apostasy

At the blue place (I've a fuckton of invites if you want one) I subheaded the site this site's old subhead, Canary, Weathervane, Cassandra, Fool. I can't stop seething it needs said before I assert I don't want to, though I need seethe better, not more effectively (since I seethe to no effect at all) but seethe with more focus, with less spillage into those pockets of my life that I poison with seething's corrosive side-effects. My posting less of late here an attempt to concentrate my seething into bursts rather than blurts, for all the good it's done me. Yes, this is a bleggalgaze, my apologies. Here's this shitty blog's Angry Song, Fleabus on drums and guitar, Stanley vocals

The Long War on Gaza:
"The current desecration of Gaza is the latest stage in a process that has taken increasingly violent forms over time. In the fifty-six years since it occupied the Strip in 1967, Israel has transformed Gaza from a territory politically and economically integrated with Israel and the West Bank into an isolated enclave, from a functional economy to a dysfunctional one, from a productive society to an impoverished one. It has likewise removed Gaza’s residents from the sphere of politics, transforming them from a people with a nationalist claim to a population whose majority requires some form of humanitarian aid to sustain themselves"
"Violence in Gaza has not only or even primarily been a military matter, as it is now. It has been a matter of everyday, ordinary acts: the struggle to access water and electricity, feed one’s children, find a job, get to school safely, reach a hospital, even bury a loved one. For decades the pressure on Palestinians in Gaza has been immense and unrelenting. The damage it has done—high levels of unemployment and poverty, widespread infrastructural destruction, and environmental degradation, including dangerous contamination of water and soil, among other factors—has become a permanent condition."
Going Mask-Off About The Two-State Solution Lie
Settler colonial states have a terminal shelf life. Israel is no exception.
"When Israeli president Isaac Herzog described the assault on Gaza as a war “to save Western civilization, to save the values of Western civilization,” he wasn’t really lying. He was telling the truth — just maybe not quite in the way that he meant it"
Impolite societyGlobal Inequality Network
Imperialist Propaganda and the Ideology of the Western Left Intelligentsia: From Anticommunism and Identity Politics to Democratic Illusions and Fascism
In 2024, newsrooms will be under intense internal pressure to defend democracy?
Hoo Boy Comes The Wonderful Life
Suspending the Apparatus of Glory
Bleggalgaze: not mineThe death of helmetball?
Maggie's weekly{ feuilleton }'s weekly
IF BERLIN (poems) if berlin (poems)
Julia Kristeva: Dostoyevsky in the Face of Death or Language Haunted by Sex
What I am giving my daughter for giftmas


Weldon Kees

         Prurient tapirs gamboled on our lawns,
         But that was quite some time ago.
         Now one is accosted by asthmatic bulldogs,
         Sluggish in the hedges, ruminant.

         Moving through ivy in the park
         Near drying waterfalls, we open every gate;
         But that grave, shell-white unicorn is gone.
         The path is strewn with papers to the street.

         Numbers that once were various
         Regarded us, were thought significant, significant
         Enough to bring reporters to the scene.
         But now the bell strikes one, strikes one,

         Strikes one—monotonous and tired.

         Or clicks like a sad valise.

    2. Note to Be Left on the Table

    This ghost of yours, padding about the upper halls,
    Given to fright-wigs Burbage might have worn,
    Moaning in doorways, jumping out at maids,
    Has not convinced me even yet. Can this be you?
    Your life was frightening enough, but this
    Poor pallid counterpart who fuddles in its role
    Is inexcusable. Go haunt the houses of the girls
    You once infected, or the men who bore
    Your company far oftener than I; annoy the others
    For a change. Is this, my house, the medieval hell
    You took to at the grave’s edge, years ago,
    After a dozen other hells had burned themselves away,
    Or are we purgatory here? If not,
    You make it one. I give you until noon.


Ruined travelers in sad trousseaux
Roost on my doorstep, indolent and worn.
Not one of them fulfills despised Rousseau’s
Predictions. Perhaps they are waiting to be born.
If so, the spot’s been badly chosen.
This is a site for posthumous investigations,
Pillows stuffed with nettles, charnal notions:
Apoplectic executioners, bungled incisions.
Indeed, our solitary midwife fondles the hemlock.

We welcomed one poor hackneyed Christ,
Sad bastard, croaking of pestilence. The basement
Holds him now. He has not as yet arisen.
The tickets are ready; the line forms on the right.
Justice and virtue, you will find, have been amazingly preserved.


         As water from a dwindling reservoir
         Uncovers mossy stones, new banks of silt,
         So every minute that I spend with you reveals
         New flaws, new features, new intangibles.
         We have been sitting here for hours—
         “I spent that summer in Madrid,
         The winter on the coast of France—
         The Millotsons were there, and Farnsworth.
         My work has perished with the rest
         Of Europe, gone, all gone. We will not see the end.”

         You said goodbye, and your perfume
         Lingered for hours. At first it seemed
         Like summer dying there, then rank and sharp.

         And yet I did not air the room.


      Among Victorian beadwork and the smell of plush,
      The owls, stuffed and marvelously sinister,
      Glare from dark corners, waiting for the night.
      High up, the moose’s passive eyes explore
      Candles, unlit, within cut-glass. A door
      Is opened, and you enter with a look
      You might have saved for Pliny or the Pope.

      The furniture has shrunk now thirty years
      Have passed (with talent thinning out, and words
      Gone dead), and mouths of friends in photographs
      Display their hopeful and outmoded smiles.
      You counted on at least a sputter of nostalgia,
      However fretful. That was a mistake. Even the moose
      Regards you with a tired, uncomprehending stare.


         Signboards commemorate their resting place.
         The graveless of another century
         Came and were conquered; now their bones
         Are dust where idiot highways run.
         Land in their eyes, unquiet ancestors
         (On fences yellow signs clang in the wind)
         Unstirred by suns drying the brown weeds
         Above them now in parched and caking land.

         But when they speak of you, they feel the need
         Of voices polished and revised by history,
         The martial note, words framed in capitals.

         It is good to be deaf in a deafening time
         With the sky gone colorless, while the dead
         Thunder breaks, a cracked dish, out of the mind.


      The eye no longer single: where the bowl,
      Dead in the thickened darkness, swelled with light,
      Transformed the images and moved the artist’s hand,
      Becomes a framework for our mania.

      And haunts the stairway. Friends depart,
      Taking their last look from the roof,
      Saying goodnight and carrying their view
      Of grapes the model ate in Paris years ago.

      Blue in the morning, green some afternoons;
      The night, ambiguous, forgets the signature.

      The dust in attics settled and his stove
      Grew cold. About the model nothing much is known.

      It ends the wall and complements the view
      Of chimneys. And it hides a stain.


         And when your beauty, washed away
         In impure streams with my desire,
         Is only topic for ill-mannered minds,
         Gifted and glassy with exact recall,
         Gossip and rancid footnotes, or remote despair,
         Let ruined weather perish in the streets
         And let the world’s black lying flag come down.

         Only in calendars that mark no Spring
         Can there be weather in the mind
         That moves to you again as you are now:
         Tired after love and silent in this house,
         Your back turned to me, quite alone,
         Standing with one hand raised to smooth your hair,
         At a small window, green with rain.


  1. I think you meant to link to the other place for Planet's present.

    1. Thanks, fixed, laugh, few ever click through so I would never have noticed!

  2. Re: "beyond my guilt of the world my generation is leaving to my daughter, my angriest, most deservedly bitter apostasy"... I say this is one of De Debil's finest tricks, this common belief, among sensitive souls, in this collective responsibility thing. Sure, TFIC manufacture consent, but the consent isn't required (see those worldwide marches against Blitzkrieging Iraq in 2004: diddley squat, not one incineration, was thereby averted): the consent that TFIC hypnotize and browbeat and guilt-trip and peer-pressure us into giving is just so We, Duh Masses, think we have some agency so we don't freak out and burn the whole farm down: we don't (but don't).

    Well, as individuals we have the freedom of Internal Processes (unless they pharmaceutical the fuck out of us) but, in most cases, De Debil has Debil goals and a check-list and De Debil is going check, check, check, check, check with aplomb. So don't blame yourself, don't blame us, we are hostages in a blimp (metaphor-shift) being held at bay by a handful of armed psychopaths, and their minions (Debilcorp), as the blimp enters the sulfurous mouth of the tunnel to Hell. Okay, sure, if enough of us woke up enough to rush the psychopaths and minions we could overpower the fux and turn this blimp around... but...

    Even as a kid hearing Mick's (majestic pop) song about De Debil, whenever the song got to this part, I balked:

    I shouted out
    Who killed the Kennedys?
    When after all
    It was you and me

    Nah, Mick. Bullshit. I had nothing to do with it. I was five years old. Though I fully understand now that that's what TFIC worked so hard, for so much of the second half of the 20th century, to make us all think/ feel... COLLECTIVE RESPONSIBILITY FOR DE DEBIL'S ACHIEVEMENTS... because, of course, TFIC had some very big plans for the coming century.

  3. (oops, I wasn't five when JFK got his open air haircut, I was four... which error, from me, certainly calls my alibi into question... )

  4. 1/speaking of the devil - giftmas presents for a bethesda family of my acquaintance - mama and papa 60something, daughter and son 20something

    a/the gospel of thomas - yves leloup
    b/the adventures and misadventures of maqroll - alvaro mutis [a regifting]
    c/we are the middle of forever - indigenous voices of from turtle island on the changing earth - stan rushworth, dahr jamail
    d/how the world really works - the science behind how we got here and where we're going - vaclav smil

    2/bill mckibben and nate hagens have had a recent conversation now posted on youtube

    3/another youtube talk - by imcw tara brach - discusses her evolving understanding of the buddhist hope for the end of suffering

    a/as a younger person she took it literally - she expected to suffer less

    b/now she understands it in a different way - the suffering hasn't gone away, but it's no longer "the boss of her" - my paraphrase as i understand it, not her exact words

    4/happy solstice to all who may read these words

  5. Thankee. Hope you and all of yours are healthy, engaged, productive in all ways that matter, getting through, manifesting, woke in all the ways that matter, dodging the raindrops, defying the Wrath of the Whoosis from high atop the Thing; and generally Ak-centuate the Positive and Eee-liminate the Negative. Same to Davidly but in the Deutsch. Be Well.