A Hell of Distances Bathed in the Feeble Glow of Emptiness

I have no hot takes on the assassination attempt itself beyond observing that not a single voter changed his/her/their mind and noting that Democrats will exploit the attempted assassination to enfeeble themselves more as much as they can while Republican deification of Trump proceeds apace. My right eye



I can't help but connect the Secret Service fuckup in Butler with the long power-grid outage in Houston and the total shitshow that was Copa America and the two decrepid fartbags we're told to choose from for president with the complete and deliberate dereliction of shitlord obligations towards its peasants in the service of maximum rent extraction, there are no accidents, your enshitification and immiseration IS the plan, he types as he's slowly going blind. My left eye



Plus the assassination attempt, two days old, already old news. There are 113 days or 2712 hours or 162,720 minutes or 9,763,200 seconds until election day, Tuesday November 5th. We ain't seen shit yet. As always, grid part of the monologue. Roky Erickson born seventy-four years ago today:

"Never forget that this disgusting criminal liar spread fabricated tales about beheaded babies and mass rapes to justify his killing fields in Gaza. He incites and he kills!"
Testimonies From the Mawasi Massacre: Ninety People Buried in the Sand
"The wealth class cares about one thing and one thing alone: eliminating the ability for the masses through representative government to impede their consolidation of power and wealth"
Inside the tax records of the .001%
"All the high-profile Democrats who’ve been wishing Trump a speedy recovery from his assassination attempt after years of calling him an existential threat are the same people who now treat George W Bush like a cuddly wuddly snugglepoo after years of calling him an evil dictator. The enmity between factions is a performance, like cage fighters who hug warmly after weeks of trash talk once" their match is over and admit all the drama was really just about promoting the fight and selling Pay-Per-Views"
Reminder: shitlords want Trump
"Democrats will be impotent messengers on democracy as long as they remain beholden to the feudal culture this crisis has exposed"
Settler Colonialism and the Engineering of Historical Amnesia
"What nobody really talks about is the stiffly vicious competition, in America, to be the biggest, most glorious victim in history"
The undeath of Democracy						Imperium uncloaked
The Corporate News Media at Work
Washingtonology				"In 2024 Donald Trump has been shot, found guilty of committing 34 felonies, increased his net worth by billions, been fined hundreds of millions, found to be almost completely immune from prosecution by the Supreme Court, and nominated for president and its only July
US lifts suspension on 500-pound bombs to Israel
Resisting Israeli Scholasticide and Academic Apartheid
"gotta say its pretty infuriating that seemingly every leading democrat is doing this. telling us all publicly that we have the best possible candidate to fend off fascism then the moment the camera turns away they start being honest with their friends. wall to wall pussies"
Back when nothing was bad
"This makes it clear who Trump wants to run against"
Humans are shitty				Maggie's weekly
Capitalism’s New Age of Plagues. Part 7: Wildlife farms and wet markets
Private Companies in California Reap More than $100m to Sweep Homeless Camps
Isn't this what 2nd Amendment guys want?
*Yinzers,* yinzers				*Yinzers,* yinzers
Dogs before and after being told that they're a good boy/girl
The NYT Book Review Is Everything Book Criticism Shouldn't Be
Read “The Priest,” a very early short story by William Faulkner
{ feuilleton }			A friend turned me onto this yesterday and it's the perfect sherbet on the internet between the mouthfuls of aargh
Rest in Peace, Joe Lee, I spent hundreds of hours and way too much money at Joe's Record Paradise when it was first in Layhill then on Gude in Rockville, best record store ever
FEAST YOUR EARS! The WHFS story
Ian Curtis (I first heard Joy Division on WHFS in 1979 when I was nineteen) was born sixty-eight years ago today

CONVERSATION 4: ON PLACE

Rosmarie Waldrop

I sit in my own shadow, she says, the way my mother gave birth to it. In artificial light, blinds drawn against the darkness of power.  I think of you as if you were that shadow, a natural enclosure, a world, not a slight, so I can wander through your darkness. Has our contract inverted time, made our universe contract, a cramped bed for two? And when I say your name, do I draw water, a portrait, curtain, bridge, or conclusion?

Place there is none, he quotes. Not even to hang up our archetypes. Let alone Star-Spangled Banners. We go forward and backward, and there is no place. Therefore it is a name for God. My eye, steadfast on traffic lights, abolishes the larger part of the round world. I should look at my feet. Space sweeps through us, a hell of distances bathed in the feeble glow of emptiness. Outward mobility, unimpeded. Suddenly we’re nobody home, without any need of inattention, imposture, or talent for deceit.

The wind whips my skin as if it were water, she says. My skin is water. For wind read wind, news, sky falling. Is it a mental disturbance or the higher math of love if I hear you talking under my breath and from the torn fragments assume the sun is far away and small, and a look can cause a burn? Superstition, too, is a kind of understanding, and to forgo it may have consequences.

Clusters of possibilities whiz through our head, he says. Electric charges, clogged highway, screeching brakes, a house too full of guests. With grounds for disagreement and miscarriage. The light rushes in dry, screaming. But the opaque parts of the nerve oppose the noise and void the options. Then the project must be prolonged in terms of lack.