Of course it was a work, strange how it went from a High Crackerchrister Holy Day Mass two days ago to forgotten event yesterday, why would Dump flood the zone with tylenol when his devout are still toweling off, chubby for more, why would Dump dump the icky sanctimonious mourning burying the Epstein lede? Whoever's driving the work wants ALL non-crackerchristers to stop speculating who drove the work (ibib has said, over and over, it wasn't him, nothing suspicious there)
Anyway, that's what I made (besides the grid below) instead of writing about it in tablet, slump there deepening, and what's surprisingly not alarming to me is how unalarmed I am at this (though I keep writing about it here, I'll try to stop). Beyond incriminating myself here and on shitter and skuebly I signed an anti-genocide petition at work, if and when punishment is ordered the littles like me will be far easier disappeared than the full university professors. The song below the grid is new from Juliana Barwick (you can hear one of her songs on every March 21 post here each year) and Willam Tyler, is ethereal. I saw that the guy who wrote the theme song to the Mary Tyler Moore Show died, vital reminder:
BLUE SONATA
John Ashbery
Long ago was the then beginning to seem like now
As now is but the setting out on a new but still
undefined way. That now, the one once
Seen from far away, is our destiny
No matter what else may happen to us. It is
The present past of which our features,
Our opinions are made. We are half it and we
Care nothing about the rest of it. We
Can see far enough ahead for the rest of us to be
Implicit in the surroundings that twilight is.
We know that this part of the day comes every day
And we feel that, as it has its rights, so
We have our right to be ourselves in the measure
That we are in it and not some other day, or in
Some other place. The time suits us
Just as it fancies itself, but just so far
As we not give up that inch, breath
Of becoming before becoming may be seen,
Or come to seem all that it seems to mean now.
The things that were coming to be talked about
Have come and gone and are still remembered
As being recent. There is a grain of curiosity
At the base of some new thing, that unrolls
In a question mark like a new wave on the shore.
In coming to give, to give up what we had,
We have, we understand, gained or been gained
By what was passing through, bright with the sheen
Of things recently forgotten and revived.
Each image fits into place, with the calm
Of not having too many, of having just enough.
We live in the sigh of our present.
If that was all there was to have
We could re-imagine the other half, deducing it
From the shape of what is seen, thus
Being inserted into its idea of how we
Ought to proceed. It would be tragic to fit
Into the space created by our not having arrived yet,
To utter the speech that belongs there,
For progress occurs through re-inventing
These words from a dim recollection of them,
In violating that space in such a way as
To leave it intact. Yet we do after all
Belong here, and have moved a considerable
Distance; our passing is a façade.
But our understanding of it is justified.
1/yes, the "lone gunman" story seems implausible - but sometimes surprising things happen - one writer seems to scoff at the "grandpa wants to see a photo of his rifle" detail, but to me that brings verisimilitude to this tragic tale of youthful rebellion, and sexually charged hate and counterhate
ReplyDeletewhat also seems plausible to me is that the shooter conspired with his lover, and then wrote messages which were intended to give the impression that the lover was completely in the dark
2/Long ago seemed like now in a blur,
Time’s a dance, and it won’t quite defer,
In the present we sway,
Half-ourselves, come what may,
As the past shapes what futures incur.
On the shore rolls a wave, fresh and bright,
Memories gleam in the soft twilight,
They’re forgotten, then near,
In our present’s faint cheer,
Like old dreams that return in the night.
In the sigh of our present we dwell,
Where time’s secrets don’t quite break the spell,
Not yet here, but we roam,
In this now we call home,
Half-complete, with a story to tell.
Each limerick evokes themes of temporal ambiguity, fleeting presence, and introspective curiosity.