Old gag but true flag signaling to not post here again until it doesn't feel like (this post ) filler (is) but
operates on the same principal and with a high but not as high success rate as the Napoleon Emergency Alert System
and usually un-Evergreens my shitjams of utter fucklessness
but not as effective as this antibiotic the oral surgeon prescribed before and after hammering out a dead tooth and planting a dead man's bone in my mouth in which he embedded a peg (it will come back to you) is rzzzing my digestive system, burp, fine metaphors abound, that makes five old gags, I prescribe them for everything
Crash coming one way or other though I did reschedule the surgery for this week knowing two weeks ago the crash inevitable
When national company runs a Pick a Perfect Bracket Win Ten Million Bucks how much does the company pay the insurance company to guarantee that loss? Genuine question.
I wear a tracking device on my left wrist that communicates my fat ass's data to everybody on Earth who'd give a dangerous shit and prompts a communication to me from result of algorithm to assure me my self-incriminating buddy looks after me
I considered wearing the self-incriminating buddy on my right wrist and on my left wrist the best wristwatch I've ever owned, runs on sunlight just like Klara, buy a new nylon strap and wear until and past the next new nylon strap, Nope, says dope to that lame compromise, and the watch will work but will never trust said dope again anyway
My fucking iPhone in my right-handed right pocket more valuable than my wallet, my keys hang by carbiner guarding my iPhone in my right-handed right pocket, it tracks me better than fitbit not yet fully google borged (but soon!), duplicative functions, I'd need adjust to apple tracking to fitbit and could wear that watch that will never trust me again, apple's mile .26 miles shorter than fitbit's and for every 10000 fitbit steps iPhone says 7700 which isn't the problem it's the zertz, alarms and notifications, I want to be gently electrocuted awake and need be zertzed when certain people zertz me.
My watch laughed at me last week when I moved it from desk drawer to windowsill and after an hour it stretched its arms
This week on campus I've talked to four tenured faculty, two of whom I occasionally (before the plague) coffee and/or pint, who've said some version of Thank God for Saint Biden, and dammit, they put that stupidass Ringo Starr song in my head
I've friends and family who tell me when I Hate Motherfucking Democrats in general and say Biden is a war-mongering corporate whore personally responsible for the massive student debt crisis and mass incarceration of African-American males and they're like, So? Better than Trump
I like Henri Cole's poetry and think Donald Trump Jr a shitstain amongst shitsmears, imagine beatifying John Kerry (who I canvassed for in Harrisburg in 2004, the dumbfuck I was), charged with fixing the Climate by Biden, Kerry, John Kerry, whose son is a million dollar a year lobbyist for Fossil Fuel Inc
I have yodeled three times 534,987 times decorum splatter policy fart, today makes 534,988, Sunday is the Holiest Day in BLCKDGRD, I'm gonna try and make it until April before 534,989, over/under noon this coming Monday
<<< "Klara was especially interesting for me because she doesn't bring any baggage with her. ... She's like a tabula rasa at the beginning, and she's quite childlike and very open. ... That appealed to me. I wanted some of that childlike freshness and openness and naivety to survive all the way through the text in her. I wanted her to remain a very optimistic character who has a childlike faith in the presence of something good and protective in the world — even as she learns all these other things, darker things about the human world that she occupies."
Klara never says "you" when talking to someone, Klara says as answer to a question from Rick, "Josie knows Rick means well," never "Josie knows *you* mean well"
Let me get my eyes off the top of the shitty blog.
Klara (not pictured above, that's a treeknot installation from yesterday), an Artificial Friend, has gone into the barn where Klara thinks the Sun sleeps at night and thinks she's made a deal with the Sun that if the Sun heals Josie, the human child whose Mother bought Klara to keep Josie company while Josie suffers from some as yet unrevealed disease (though it is hinted was caused by a medical treatment meant to boost Josie's chances of professional success in a dystopic late-Capitalist world, a treatment that has already killed Josie's sister Sal) then Klara, a Data ("do I treat you like a vacuum cleaner," Josie's friend Rick's mother asks Klara) will personally destroy the massive factory of a major polluter.
That's not a new installation but a restored and improved installation, note the newly rebuilt stone floor.
I'm just past halfway of Ishiguro's new *Klara and the Sun.* I can put it down, I'm obligated to finish it. I suspect Part Three the mechanical room of the mechanical room of the novel (sic). It doesn't suck, it doesn't sing, or, alternatively, it does sing but I can't hear. It - and every fucking thing - feels obsolete, exhausted, obvious, futile. Apparently I'm crashing just as algorithms foreordained. Friends have warned me about Part Three and assure me the payout for my work will be at minimum break even. I don't even daydream about other novels I will fail while failing the novel I'm reading any more. Yesterday, when I built this new installation
a family I didn't hear approaching stopped to watch, one of the kids asked me if I was the guy who built the Blue Monkey and Orange Gorilla and Green Giraffe, and yes, yes I did, then realized my The Fuck done toggled from whee to w(h)o(a)e, The Fuck from exclamation point to question mark. I've three weeks to ride and rid myself of crash before I might have the chance to hug my daughter for the first time in thirteen months. I'm down to three plastic animals, I'll order more, I have no choice but finish the Ishiguro, fine metaphors abound, if you wonder about this song check today's timestamp
2021 MARCH 11
Jeff Popovich
Erase by writing what I'll refuse to reread as if void renewed
I cannot recite a single poem I've written. I pay for a cloud
to mausoleum yesterday's blackout orphan. I never rewrite
abandon, a ban on random bonded tangents. Close the door, Haiku
Andy Partridge's 67th birthday yesterday, this is this shitty blog's Theme Song Number 9 (you can see eight of the other ten at last year's November 12th post, fuck me if I can remember what # 4 is or if I can be bothered to figure it out
2020 NOVEMBER 11
Pjoepf of Vriecyh
Talk about the new responsiblities in light of Dionne’s SHOCKING!
request for fine information, why is the responsbility for finacnial
recrods in abyss services not trasnfurd the fuck already
I have NO idea how to find ANYTHING Dionne asked for.
How is it possible Phyllis doesn’t have this at her fingertips? Phyllis best Phyliis locla turdlords got Change the names at last draft, Hyllispay
Strange yesterday, the coordinated calm-the-fuck-down, we're humoring the clown who > I pause to chuckle uncle wisely what-can-you-do < *will* burn the house down if no one stops him
I also have no interest in revising the Theme Song Ten list though it does need revising, the GbV song below, which is related to the link below, once on the Theme Song Ten list I'm guessing circa 2009
Found the copy of Dhalgren I bought years ago but didn't like then, started reading, it's working, wow, and then a character named George Harrison introduced and.... I'll keep going for now, but why would Delany name a character George Harrison?
What they refer to: on White Flights: Race, Fiction and the American Imagination
which led to me looking for the date of my first post (June 22, 2005)
which of course produced a >>deleted bleggalgaze<< on what a motherfucking lockstep motherfucking Democratic rube blog this was then
of which the blogroll, the fuck, look at some of the fucks I blogrolled hoping for their attention, look at the blogs that died long ago
which reminded me of the various group blogs to which I've participated
which led to a FellowJeff reunion,
his tumblr is over there updating daily on the current blagrull
which let to the un-deletion of the >>deleted bleggalgaze<< and reinstatement of >>deleted bleggalgaze<< (though it lives over in Simplenotes from where I hope it doesn't migrate to here)
Stevens was one of the first poets I read but then I fucked up and read Harold Bloom's book on Stevens and his poetry was no fun for me any more, time to try again
Literature isn't a thing you do for yourself, but you also don't not do it for yourself. Your soul needs saving, too. Writing is not even a thing you do for revolution, though you don't not
do it for revolution, too, and just as you sometimes have to write "I
saw, I felt" you also have to write "we felt, we did," too, and "they
did, they said," also, even when the we is a shaky and nascent and sometimes wavering collectivity and the they is the one that constitutes an enemy that you would rather not discuss.
They the state, They the oil companies, They the institutions by which the present arrangement reproduces itself -- these are not the Theys I prefer, not like They the lavender asters in September, or They the clouds, or They
the bats who adorn the attic. To leave any of it out: the clouds or the
state or the bats or the institutions would, however, be a lie. To
write only of an I without a We just because the We we have is not yet sufficient would be a lie, too, because the I of the moment is even shakier than a We -- if the We is a dance party with the ghost of a memory of a promise in it, the I is a daybed with the same.
And yet this is it, this life — the only party we
got invited to. Marx told us as much about not getting to make our
history under conditions of our choosing. If I'd chosen, it would be
whenever a person could sit in a grove doing dialectics as an acolyte of
the religion of Don Quixote, a religion which has only two
commandments:
be a shepherd
live mad, die sane
That
time would probably be communism. And as this is not yet the case, I
write about literature at all or to you today because I am saving my own
soul by remembering that even in the grim times, what each of us has
is each other. At least there is that You, which is every beloved, which constitutes itself across difference and species and the whole of life. You
is eros and caritas all mixed up in a word. It is also the stranger who
any of us might be, and in that the only law is probably love, and that
the violation of life anywhere is the violation of life everywhere, and
in that no one is free until everyone is, You is what everything in the world is staked on, including yourself.
Brecht,
of course, wrote "In the dark times there will be singing / singing
about the dark times." And I always want to add, to save my own soul,
"just check that you aren't singing a lullaby!" despite how much I
someday hope to be singing one in a grove to the dialectical sheep. The
other reason for this newsletter, is because some mornings you can't
fall back asleep because the force of death keeps on its fatal march,
and you open Amiri Baraka and find this:
Our model is based on the fact that across history, what creates the
risk of political instability is the behavior of elites, who all too
often react to long-term increases in population by committing three
cardinal sins
First, faced with a surge of labor that dampens growth in wages and productivity, elitesseek to take a larger portion of economic gains for themselves, driving up inequality.
Second, facing greater competition for elite wealth and status, they tighten up the path to mobility to favor themselves and their progeny.
For example, in an increasingly meritocratic society, elites could keep
places at top universities limited and raise the entry requirements and
costs in ways that favor the children of those who had already
succeeded.
Third, anxious to hold on to their rising fortunes, they do all they can to resist taxation of their wealth and profits,
even if that means starving the government of needed revenues, leading
to decaying infrastructure, declining public services and fast-rising
government debts.
Lunch yesterday with my ex-Warrenite colleague, she doesn't think motherfucking Democrats understand that lifelong Democrats like her say they view the upcoming SCOTUS fight as the get your shit together and fight or we're done crisis of the marriage, though I assured her they do.
Democrats have to play the reasonable ones now that the fight hasn't officially started, I said, it's their job, but don't worry, I said, when the time comes to fight they won't, that's their job too.
What I didn't say to her: for shitlords, and the senior management of both Republican and Democratic divisions, Ginsberg's death the greatest gift imaginable. The WORSE CASE SCENARIO is a 6-3 SCOTUS guaranteeing unencumbered shitlordism until mass extinction, four years of a self-enfeebled Democratic potus followed by a just as vicious but much less gauche Trump so Villagers will be happy, and an increase in cracker policies that will drive you estranged divorcees back into the arms of motherfucking Democrats
What I didn't say to her: you wouldn't want your team to do right now what you're complaining the bastard team is doing? and if no, what does that tell you about your team? and your fandom?
All these years I copied code from youtube and pasted into the html code of blegger, but the new interface's html doesn't break into separate easily distinguishable lines but snakes into infinity. I had never used the insert video code on the dashboard but just discovered it today as I try to learn how to use the new interface, so now squarer than rectangular tunes here
