Those tiny bright bursts of optimism on the periphery of your pessimism that something is genuinely sparking spectrum-wide pushback against shitlordism are just weary sparklers of gloom before the shitlord regime's full implementation. Nice if foolish to remember what even a glimpse of hope feels like
It doesn't have to be Trump. I bet you infinite digital pints shitlords are currently in the planning stages of offing Trump now, he's toggling if not already toggled from sloppy asset to sloppier anchor: you think Vance won't itlerhay? One can hope Trump slumps over today but nothing would change gameplan-wise
Regardless what crackerchristers think of dirty fucking hippies visa versa both angry as fuck hungry to bark voracious to eat the epstein files and sacrifice their pedoheroes and discover what both know is true, we have a common enemy and both so fucked. I've not seen shitlords this bedwetting in my lifetime, the pissbabies. The haiku and fine metaphors abound that go with the below are here
Finally enjoying the clusterfuck, not as much as I thought I but more than I have. Can't call it optimism, it's a chippier, less oppressively muggy pessimism. Get this: after decades of trying I finally can read Henry James beyond 40 pages, the fuck? Two of the (unfortunately gone) friends/former professors of long ago's Thursday Night Pints here, D and L (not the L who is my wife) adored James and badgered me to keep trying, saying once I got it I'd read every novel, I failed and failed infinity, three attempts a year since their urging, until yet another try this past weekend, I'm in Paris with Lambert and Maria, it's funny (though no doubt I just jinxed it, dumbfuck). Signifies something, will be number one read when I'm in Maine for two weeks starting next Monday. Strangest days of my life: I'm angry but not dire, weird. Hey, Roky born 78 years ago today:
I was saying this 50 year ago, I can get a vouch if necessary
"It's hard for people who don't swim in MAGA information currents to grasp, but Ron DeSantis' photo op with Trump at "Alligator Alcatraz" is an enormous coup for him. The brains behind the idea, Florida AG James Uthmeier, is showing that this is a route to MAGA superstardom"
What Does the US’ Increasing Emulation of Israel Augur for the Country’s Future?
Wait till you hear about Gaza, whose destruction you fund and support
"There is no longer any doubt that Israel has set up a fake humanitarian organisation so it can kettle Gazans into a kill box and murder them en masse"
"Funny how I can't find "minimum wage" or "union" in this article about Democrats who allege the need for a more economic focus. But I can find "Lis Smith" and "Tesla executive" in it"
The men & women sang & played they sleep by singing, what shall I say of the most poignant on earth the most glamorous loneliest sought after people those poets wholly beautiful desolate aureate, death is a powerful instinctive emotion— but who would be released from a silver skeleton? gems & drinking cups—This skull is Helen—who would not be released from the Book of Knowledge? Why should a maiden lie on a moor for seven nights & a day? And he is a maiden, he is & she on the grass the flower the spray where they lie eating primroses grown crazy with sorrow & all the beauties of old—oh each poet’s a beautiful human girl who must die.
i asked my new cybercorrespondent kimi k2 to sonnetize tate's couch anecdote - the result is [after i asked for a revised final couplet]
I craved cool drink—Tatamagouche noon burned bright; My legs, long-tried by miles of dusty way, Demanded rest. Yet couch and doorframe fought; None, kind though they were, could make the frame obey.
At shutter-time the owner, son, and crowd With gentle smiles withdrew to homely light; They left me, stranger, wrapped in canvas cloud, To claim the station's starlit verge for night.
There, Anna—towering grace from history's page— Knelt low, her fingered sky across my brow; For one brief hush she eased the ache of age, A mother-mountain cradling me below.
I rose at dawn, left couch beside the track; Now every step I take gives something back.
i enjoyed rory's "cold night for alligators" and looked up the wikipedia article on the movie that inspired it - but must admit the "cat stevens song" reference is too oblique for me
"I bet you infinite digital pints shitlords are currently in the planning stages of offing Trump now..." It's going to be an utterly plausible Volvo-driving, NPR-listening Soccer Mom mother of an adopted Mexican Trans kid using her Ex (nouveau-Maga) husband's forgotten unregistered glove compartment piece. TFIC get their A) Vance Chancellor B) Civil War C) Major Distraction for the next 10 years of sneaky bipartisan Digital Feudalism legislation
Once again, my favorite Jamesian story, from Leon Edel's Big Big Book Of James (p. 459): Visited in England by a young female cousin named Rosina, James took a walk with her on the Beach at Rye. Hoping to engage him in conversation, she commented on how charming she found the jewel in his tie-pin. After a pause, James replied, “Jew-el, not jool, dear." “I'm afraid American girls don't speak their vowels distinctly,” Rosina ventured. After another pause, James said, “Vow-el, not vowl, Rosina.”
His cousin was upset, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Cousin Henry, you are so cruel.” After another pause, James added, “Cru-el, not crool, dear.”
This bit from Tolkien (whom I can't read. Can't, and won't) also pops up: "Tolkien wrote to Christopher in Letters 58 that he told an American officer that American speech sounded to him like 'English, but after being wiped over with a dirty sponge'. "
1/an american cybercorrespondent, when prompted, produces
Here is **Alice Notley’s “World’s Bliss”** reimagined in the reflective, plainspoken, yet philosophically rich voice of **Robert Frost**. His style leans into rural imagery, conversational cadence, and subtle meditations on mortality and choice, so this version relocates Notley’s dreamlike glamour into a colder, more grounded landscape—with mystery intact:
---
**World’s Bliss (After Alice Notley, in the style of Robert Frost)**
They sang a bit before they went to bed, The men and women—tunes that meant no harm— Old ballads half-remembered, half misread, To keep the night from doing any harm.
And if you asked me what it all was for— The aching beauty poets seem to find In all that glints, and leaves us wanting more— I’d say it’s in the shape they leave behind.
I found a silver comb out by the shed Half buried where the snow begins to melt. There’s nothing wrong with liking what is dead, So long as you admit the way it felt.
That skull could be dear Helen’s, so they say. She never made it far beyond the town. They laid her out beside the road one day, And let the knowledge slowly trickle down.
I met a boy who said he was a girl, And loved the primrose more than any prize. He slept out on the moor—some called it “world”— And dreamed of every poet that he’d rise.
They die, of course. They always have, they must. But leave their names behind, like leaves in dust.
2/a request for a recasting of the same poem in the style of james tate produced something i didn't like
3/shorter, and better in my opinion though still mediocre, is this "slightly suggestive" limerick
A poet lay down in the heather, Half-dreaming of lace and of leather. She sighed, “Death’s a tease— Like a kiss on the breeze— Too light to be caught, like a feather.”
i asked my new cybercorrespondent kimi k2 to sonnetize tate's couch anecdote - the result is [after i asked for a revised final couplet]
ReplyDeleteI craved cool drink—Tatamagouche noon burned bright;
My legs, long-tried by miles of dusty way,
Demanded rest. Yet couch and doorframe fought;
None, kind though they were, could make the frame obey.
At shutter-time the owner, son, and crowd
With gentle smiles withdrew to homely light;
They left me, stranger, wrapped in canvas cloud,
To claim the station's starlit verge for night.
There, Anna—towering grace from history's page—
Knelt low, her fingered sky across my brow;
For one brief hush she eased the ache of age,
A mother-mountain cradling me below.
I rose at dawn, left couch beside the track;
Now every step I take gives something back.
i enjoyed rory's "cold night for alligators" and looked up the wikipedia article on the movie that inspired it - but must admit the "cat stevens song" reference is too oblique for me
ReplyDeletehttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Alligator_People
My bad, forgot to put the link, most people think it's a Rod Stewart song but Cat Steven's actually wrote it
Delete"I bet you infinite digital pints shitlords are currently in the planning stages of offing Trump now..." It's going to be an utterly plausible Volvo-driving, NPR-listening Soccer Mom mother of an adopted Mexican Trans kid using her Ex (nouveau-Maga) husband's forgotten unregistered glove compartment piece. TFIC get their A) Vance Chancellor B) Civil War C) Major Distraction for the next 10 years of sneaky bipartisan Digital Feudalism legislation
ReplyDeleteOnce again, my favorite Jamesian story, from Leon Edel's Big Big Book Of James (p. 459): Visited in England by a young female cousin named Rosina, James took a walk with her on the Beach at Rye. Hoping to engage him in conversation, she commented on how charming she found the jewel in his tie-pin. After a pause, James replied, “Jew-el, not jool, dear." “I'm afraid American girls don't speak their vowels distinctly,” Rosina ventured. After another pause, James said, “Vow-el, not vowl, Rosina.”
ReplyDeleteHis cousin was upset, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Cousin Henry, you are so cruel.” After another pause, James added, “Cru-el, not crool, dear.”
This bit from Tolkien (whom I can't read. Can't, and won't) also pops up: "Tolkien wrote to Christopher in Letters 58 that he told an American officer that American speech sounded to him like 'English, but after being wiped over with a dirty sponge'. "
1/an american cybercorrespondent, when prompted, produces
ReplyDeleteHere is **Alice Notley’s “World’s Bliss”** reimagined in the reflective, plainspoken, yet philosophically rich voice of **Robert Frost**. His style leans into rural imagery, conversational cadence, and subtle meditations on mortality and choice, so this version relocates Notley’s dreamlike glamour into a colder, more grounded landscape—with mystery intact:
---
**World’s Bliss (After Alice Notley, in the style of Robert Frost)**
They sang a bit before they went to bed,
The men and women—tunes that meant no harm—
Old ballads half-remembered, half misread,
To keep the night from doing any harm.
And if you asked me what it all was for—
The aching beauty poets seem to find
In all that glints, and leaves us wanting more—
I’d say it’s in the shape they leave behind.
I found a silver comb out by the shed
Half buried where the snow begins to melt.
There’s nothing wrong with liking what is dead,
So long as you admit the way it felt.
That skull could be dear Helen’s, so they say.
She never made it far beyond the town.
They laid her out beside the road one day,
And let the knowledge slowly trickle down.
I met a boy who said he was a girl,
And loved the primrose more than any prize.
He slept out on the moor—some called it “world”—
And dreamed of every poet that he’d rise.
They die, of course. They always have, they must.
But leave their names behind, like leaves in dust.
2/a request for a recasting of the same poem in the style of james tate produced something i didn't like
3/shorter, and better in my opinion though still mediocre, is this "slightly suggestive" limerick
A poet lay down in the heather,
Half-dreaming of lace and of leather.
She sighed, “Death’s a tease—
Like a kiss on the breeze—
Too light to be caught, like a feather.”