I See, Said the Blind Man, As He Puts Down His Hammer and Saw

My left eye

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Populated with you-can-guess which assholes, genocidaires, psycho&sociopaths, shitlords, hunt and peck at your (dis)pleasure. My right eye

I can't speak to RIP David Lynch beyond noting I recognize his significance by how friends analog and digital are mourning his loss and praising his art. I don't watch things, never did much, don't at all now, I listen to music, read, make things, it's not a moral stance, I wish I could, it's a weakness not a strength, not a point of pride but a point of embarrassment. I try, I just can't, so here's Ed to speak to David Lynch
I saw Eraserhead decades ago and haven't felt compelled to ever watch again and I watched the first episode of Twin Peaks, but I'm old and going blind and can't read like when young, I'm willing to try anew, what Lynch first?
O, violence to not-human animals is a non-starter, the only Joy Williams' novel I haven't read, *Breaking and Entering,* I won't read because I saw in a review thirty years ago people saw-off live pelicans' beaks and no, fuck no. No. Never. Fucking humans, the shittiest species. I'd prefer to not see human-on-human violence but can deal with it if necessary, ditto books
REST IN PEACE, BOB UECKER					I haven't watched a baseball game in thirty years, I listen to local play-by-play all season long, every season, L & C can vouch
13 Sentinels			There is not one book in this list of 2025 releases that delights me it's being published
There's a new Legendary Pink Dots album!
REM has essentially disappeared from American culture
A GUIDE TO NURSE WITH WOUND

I SEE, SAID THE BLIND MAN, AS HE PUT DOWN HIS HAMMER AND SAW

John Ashbery

There is some charm in that old music
He’d fall for when the night wind released it:
Pleasant to be away; the stones fall back;
The hill of gloom in place over the roar
Of the kitchens but with remembrance like a bright patch
Of red in a bunch of laundry. But will the car
Ever pull away and spunky at all times he’d
Got the mission between the ladder
And the slices of bread someone had squirted astrology over
Until it took the form of a man, obtuse, out of pocket
Perhaps, probably standing there.

Can’t you see how we need these far-from-restful pauses?
And in the wind neighbors and such agree
It’s a hard thing, a milestone of sorts in some way?
So that the curtains contribute what charm they can
To the spectacle: an overflowing cesspool
Among the memoirs of court life, the candy, cigarettes,
And what else. What kind is it, is there more than one
Kind, are people forever going to be at the edge
Of things, even the nice ones, and when it happens
Will we all be alone together? The armor
Of these thoughts laughs at itself
Yet the distances are always growing
With everything between, in between
The tall hedges that seem to know what life is:
An offering that stands to one side. And we dream.