Laugh, was curious to see what the name of the other blog, whose name I now prefer to BLCKDGRD (which in two/third's part refers to a professional soccer team I divorced eleven years ago) (which will return by next post) would look like here, the few of you who know what pOj's name means (and occasionally visit the shitty blog), sssh. Yesterday was my annual ticker-check, pOj's avatar photo of me being tested for viability in a cardiologist's office was taken ten or more years ago. I thought me good before yesterday's check-up, good to have it confirmed
I can't delete the avatar there and rotate avatars like I want because I don't have the avatar file, if I removed it it'd be gone for good, the laptop (one or two or three ago) it was on long dead (ditto with the background of the grid of this blog too), perhaps I could save the avatar from fucking wordpress' settings but that would be research into how fucking wordpress actually works and fuck the fuckity-fuck that. Resist
Consider this a bleggalgaze for both places. No plans for cessation of either shitty blog though for the first time I can envision of one or the other but not both willfully moribund. Five days ago I was in Maine, feels like a decade ago, feels like I never went. Yesterday's visit to the cardiologist feels like it happened before the Maine trip that feels like a decade ago that I never went to. There are links in the grid suggesting Dump's hold on crackerstanis waning but neglect to mention Dump (with shitlord approval) has a plan for that (see too the first link in the grid). Out of nowhere yesterday this Modest Mouse song started in my head, I appropriately chastised myself online for always forgetting how much I love Modest Mouse, I've all the CDs and no CD player to play them on but the albums are at Bandcamp so the revival has been scheduled. Fine metaphors abound
THE PLACE WHERE IN THE END/WE FIND OUR HAPPINESS
Anne Boyer
The history of revolutions is the history of vague ideas,
Shrugging shoulders, not shrugging shoulders,
Standing around, acting without thinking,
Acting with thinking, being penned or penning,
Being a woman or a girl standing around,
A woman or a girl with some flour in her pocket
for tossing up a cloud of flour
to obscure the martial men's sight.
That white cloud of whatever
Among the moving and unmoving bodies
Is that history-like unhistory
of the ahistorical average,
That lovely inexact and provisional something—
weaponized or never.
How totally under-theorized is breathing,
Walking and not walking,
Wanting to have a good time or just having it,
Like everybody is gunning toward Eden
and nobody is in school with their bodies anymore.
The history of revolutions is a history of the orthodox
weeping over their faltering
orthodoxies:
Any precise thing—dumb these days:
The very idea imprinting nothing
on the air between the general buildings.
No human space—a printer's paper.
Nothing exact—impressed.
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