I'd like think Corporate instructed Trump ignite biggest firestorm since last till next, stomp out that America populist lefty brush fire before it bursts, but no.
Centrist stompers, not to worry, motherfucking Democrats are on it, This. Is. Cash. Money.
I do think the dumbasses at Corporate genuinely understand the Camaro's brakes are shot (if not his breaks), if it doesn't BOOM then take the keys when it coasts to a stop.
Nah, I kid, I mean they will, eventually, when the rents run dry, but it's only Tuesday.
Psst. Already over, the fuss over latest episode of Today's AIEE!
(except for professional Democrats, still giddy, thankful for Trump's gift to wield against leftists).
I've no doubt the dumbasses at Corporate don't fret sessions of King Pence, who will hailed as Heroic Reestablisher of Kayfabe once he's called from the bullpen.
Elizabeth Bishop. She's currently poetry's "darling"? I don't mind, just not my sense.
Was going to wait for Monday to post, but fuck it, it's the deadest of the Blog Days of Summer in Dead Blegsylvania, and it gets my head off the top of the page.
SUICIDE OF A MODERATE DICTATOR
Elizabeth Bishop
This is a day when truths will out, perhaps;
leak from the dangling telephone earphones
sapping the festooned switchboards’ strength;
fall from the windows, blow from off the sills,
—the vague, slight unremarkable contents
of emptying ash-trays; rub off on our fingers
like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers,
crocking the way the unfocused photographs
of crooked faces do that soil our coats,
our tropical-weight coats, like slapped-at moths.
Today’s a day when those who work
are idling. Those who played must work
and hurry, too, to get it done,
with little dignity or none.
The newspapers are sold; the kiosk shutters
crash down. But anyway, in the night
the headlines wrote themselves, see, on the streets
UPDATE! This guy says what I always say: (1) Of course Democrats should not allow a vote until after the next
election, since that’s what the Republicans did with Scalia’s
replacement, which should have been Obama’s to make. (2) This is not about the principle of people getting to vote (they did.)
Republicans did not stop Obama replacing Scalia out of principle “the
American people should have their say”, they did it because they had the
power to do it and were willing to use that power. (3) Democrats have the power, but will not use it, even though they should
because they don’t really mind a conservative justice on the court: they
agree with such a person on more important issues than they disagree
with them on, and they value civility more than ethics. (4) And yes, this is the Roe v. Wade loss point. That’s what Senate Dems will not sincerely fight for.
UPDATE! I am telling you for the three millionth time, HRC and the DNC were willing to lose the election rather than make SCOTUS and DOJ a major issue for a reason.
On Donald Hall. His poetry didn't sing to me but it did to some, and - I won't do my full Donald Hall story, but - Hall and my father-in-law (who died before I met Earthgirl) were bestfriends and Hall is my brother-in-law's godfather - Hall was always - always - Kind to me.
If this is Wednesday, write Lazartigues, return library books, pick up passport form, cancel the paper.
If this is Wednesday, mail B her flyers and K her shirts. Last thing I
asked as I walked K to her car, “You sure you have everything?” “Oh
yes,” she smiled, as she squalled off. Whole wardrobe in front closet.
Go to Morrison’s for paint samples, that’s where housepainter has
account (near Pier One), swing by Gano St. for another bunch of
hydroponic lettuce. Stop at cleaners if there’s parking.
Pap smear at 4. After last month with B’s ear infections, can’t bear
sitting in damn doctor’s office. Never a magazine or picture on the wall
worth looking at. Pack a book.
Ever since B born, nothing comes clear. My mind like a mirror that’s been in a fire. Does this happen to the others.
If this is Wednesday, meet Moss at the house at noon. Pick B up first,
call sitter about Friday evening. If she prefers, can bring B to her
(hope she keeps the apartment warmer this year).
Need coat hooks and picture hangers for office. Should take car in for
air filter, oil change. F said one of back tires low. Don’t forget car
payment, late last two months in a row.
If this is Wednesday, there’s a demo on the green at 11. Took B to his
first down at Quonset Point in August. Blue skies. Boston collective
provided good grub for all. Long column of denims and flannel shirts.
Smell of patchouli made me so wistful, wanted to buy a woodstove, prop
my feet up, share a J and a pot of Constant Comment with a friend. Maybe
some zucchini bread.
Meet with honors students from 1 to 4. At the community college I tried
to incite them to poetry. Convince them this line of work, beat the
bejesus out of a gig as gizzard splitter at the processing plant or
cleaning up after a leak at the germ warfare center. Be all you can be,
wrap rubber band around your trigger finger until it drops off.
Swim at 10:00 before picking up B, before demo on the green, and before
meeting moss, if it isn’t too crowded. Only three old women talking
about their daughters-in-law last Wednesday at 10:00.
Phone hardware to see if radon test arrived.
Keep an eye out for a new yellow blanket. Left B’s on the plane, though
he seems over it already. Left most recent issue of Z in the seat. That
will make a few businessmen boil. I liked the man who sat next to me, he
was sweet to B. Hated flying, said he never let all of his weight down.
Need to get books in the mail today. Make time pass in line at the P.O.
imagining man in front of me butt naked. Fellow in the
good-preacher-blue-suit, probably has a cold, hard bottom.
Call N for green tomato recipe. Have to get used to the Yankee growing
season. If this is Wednesday, N goes in hospital today. Find out how
long after marrow transplant before can visit.
Mother said she read in paper that Pete was granted a divorce. His
third. My highschool boyfriend. Meanest thing I could have done, I did
to him, returning a long-saved-for engagement ring in a Band-Aid box,
while he was stationed in Da Nang.
Meant to tell F this morning about dream of eating grasshoppers, fried
but happy. Our love a difficult instrument we are learning to play.
Practice, practice.
No matter where I call home anymore, feel like a boat under the trees. Living is strange.
This week only; bargain on laid paper at East Side Copy Shop.
Woman picking her nose at the stoplight. Shouldn’t look, only privacy we
have anymore in the car. Isn’t that the woman from the colloquium last
fall, who told me she was a stand-up environmentalist. What a wonderful
trade, I said, because the evidence of planetary wrongdoing is
overwhelming. Because because because of the horrible things we do.
If this is Wednesday, meet F at Health Department at 10:45 for AIDS test.
While Landru was commenting I should go hike with my wife I was hiking with my wife on the AT!
All I want to do is hike with Earthgirl.
After the hike I voted in Maryland primary:
Earthgirl, a public school teacher in MOCO, asks me to vote for particular BoE candidates, and of course.
I also wanted to vote against a motherfucking rich Blair - motherfucking rich Blairs are a legacy MOCO curse - for County Executive.
To be honest, I don't know this motherfucking rich Blair is an heir of motherfucking rich MOCO Blairs, but he is rich and he is a motherfucker and he's trying to buy the job.
That race too close to call, and MVA fucked up ballots, there are 80K provisional ballets yet to be counted, may not know if motherfucking rich Blair lost or not for a month.
Fuck Ben Cardin, D-Fort Meade.
Baal bless Ocasio-Cortez, get ready for the hate from motherfucking Democrats.
(Credit to Crowley for graciousness in defeat.)
One upset is all you need: But what mattered the most is that Ocasio-Cortez embodies the future of
the Democratic Party. An ideologically confident, multi-cultural,
female, poised, powerful, and yes, socialist, future. It’s a politics of
inspiration that matches uplifting words with actual policies to
ameliorate the long dark night of the soul we’ve been going through for
too long. And in the face of that, the old guard, which had bolted the
door, just gave way.
I am telling you three times, the motherfucking professional Democratic establishments sees Ocasio-Cortez' election victory in 2018 as far more dangerous than Donald Trump's victory in 2016.
I guess twooter just warned me to watch the wrath rather than put me in a corner for a day, it told me it was muting me for 24 hours but didn't.
I sloppy-twooted many a motherfucking professional Democrat yesterday to eat shit and fuck off to the sea when each individually lectured me on my dire responsibility to eat shit civilly, one (or more) of them must have whined.
I'm percolating, it's sinfully weak and wonderfully unfilling, yes?
I am telling you three times we are being reprogrammed.
This shit-eating civility thing only works if your team has integrity arguing honorably in your interest.
Hector Trump motherfucking cysts, certainly - hector motherfucking Democrats with extra fuck you.
Bleggalgaze and Middlemarch, or: Bliddlegarch and Meggalmaze. Fred's depression fever and Dorothea dawns to unwilling to contemplate thought that Casaubon's a fraud is where I'm at in my current reread.
I think it interesting that I've yet to encounter Eliot in any Murnane, but lots of Hardy, James, hmmm.
The photos above O&F relaxing in leg valley while I read Middlemarch last night before sleep.
Yes, today IS David Thomas' 65th birthday, a High Egoslavian Holy Day, song below the O'Hara, maybe the traditional post tomorrow, maybe, probably not, I haven't the mwah for a cascasde. What the fuck is wrong with me. Lots of Thomas' music here.
OK, pretend this mountain laurel blooming on Catoctin yesterday is the photo of Merkel et al v Trump, already iconic, yesterday's baking soda & vinegar cocktail.
Goodness! sweet hot take's effervescence!
Here's a mountain laurel yesterday on Catoctin:
This is an accurate effervescent hot take on top photo of mountain laurels.
Yes, again, the Official Egoslavian Flag of Deleted Seething.
Reminder: my seething is weaponized against me, or at the very least leashes me to the narrative that makes me seethe, but certainly kettles me into the role the narrative would have me play.
It is not the Official Egoslavian Flag of >> Deleted Bleggalgaze << (though one is in development0.
Beyond my shallow understanding that Murnane fixates on objects and memories of them like I do, I'm beginning to see his is a better way to seethe than mine.
People are gullible. Humans can be duped by liars and conned by frauds; manipulated by rhetoric and beguiled by self-regard; browbeaten, cajoled, seduced, intimidated, flattered, wheedled, inveigled, and ensnared.
Even your ugly furniture. Eliot, Middlemarch, posted by Ed at his place Monday past Sunday past I bought - Earthgirl, Planet, and Hamster can vouch - the yellow yellow yellow I want it as object absolute unit above at Politics and Prose before we had dinner.
Read that excerpt from Middlemarch out loud, yo.
Sunday I posted I don't miss writing Hillaryite Colleague dialogue so Monday of course, Hello, HC.
Serendipity be holy.
We did not play Where's Melania? or make a Lebowski joke about Trump pardoning himself.
(Those were big stories day before yesterday, you're forgiven for forgetting them.)
Teaching anything this Summer, I asked.
No, Hillaryite Colleague said, then added some work-related cross-talk about standard _____________ and worsening ___________ @ __________.
Yup, I said. Yup.
I didn't forget yesterday it was Richard Butler's 62nd, I just didn't plunge publish.
Yes, there will be a Coil cascade in your near future.
I don't play enough Dead Can Dance here, another cascade in your near future.
I have always loved The Furs, people can vouch. Love Spit Love too.
VALENTINE
John Ashbery
Like a serpent among roses, like an asp
Among withered thornapples I coil to
And at you. The name of the castle is you,
EI Rey. It is an all-night truck stop
Offering the best coffee and hamburgers in Utah.
It is most beautiful and nocturnal by daylight.
Seven layers: moss-agate, coral, aventurine,
Carnelian, Swiss lapis, obsidian—maybe others.
You know now that it has the form of a string
Quartet. The different parts are always meddling with each other,
Pestering each other, getting in each other’s way
So as to withdraw skillfully at the end, leaving—what?
A new kind of emptiness, maybe bathed in freshness,
Maybe not. Maybe just a new kind of emptiness.
You are smart but
the weather of this day startles and japes at you. You come out of it in
pieces. Always pursuing you is the knowledge that I am there unable to
turn around, unable to confront you with your otherness. This is another
one of my houses, the one in Hampstead, the brick one in the middle of
the block that you never saw though you passed along that street many
times, sometimes in spring with a light drizzle blowing that made you
avert your gaze, sometimes at the height of summer where the grandeur of
the ideas of the trees swamped your ideas about everything, so you
never saw my house. It was near where Arthur Rackham lived. I can’t
quite remember the name of the street—some partly legible inscription on
a Victorian urn: E and then MEL (E?), perhaps a Latin exhortation to
apples or heroism and down in the dim part a name like “Rossiter,” but
that is too far down. Listen, I never meant for you not to be in my
house. But you couldn’t because you were it.
In this part I
reflect on the difficulty and surprise of being you. It may never get
written. Some things are simultaneously too boring and too exciting to
write about. This has to be one of them. Some day, when we’re stoned….
Meanwhile, write to me. I enjoy and appreciate your phone calls, but
it’s nice to get cards and letters too—so keep ’em comin’!
Through
bearded twilight I hear things like “Now see here, young man!” or
“Henry Groggins, you old reprobate!” or “For an hour Lester has been
staring at budget figures, making no progress.” I know these things are,
that they are. At night there are a few things, and they slide along to
make room for others. Seen through an oval frieze, one of the walls of a
parlor. The wallpaper is a conventionalized pattern, the sliced okra
and star-anise one, held together with crudely gummed links of different
colored paper, among which purple predominates, stamped on a flocked
background of grisaille shepherdesses and dogs urinating against fire
hydrants. To reflect on the consummate skill with which the artist has
rendered the drops as they bounce off the hydrant and collect in a
gleaming sun-yellow pool below the curb is a sobering experience. Only
the shelf of the mantelpiece shows. At each end, seated on pedestals
turned slightly away from one another, two aristocratic bisque figures, a
boy in delicate cerise and a girl in cornflower blue. Their shadows
join in a grotesque silhouette. In the center, an ancient clock whose
tick acts as the metronome for the sound of their high voices. Presently
the mouths of the figures open and shut, after the mode of ordinary
conversation.
Thought I’d
Row across to you this afternoon,
My Irina! Always writing your beloved articles,
I see. Happened on one only recently in one of the more progressive journals.
Brilliantly written, or so it seemed, but isn’t your thought a bit too
Advanced by present-day standards? Of course, there was much truth
In what you said, but don’t you feel the public sometimes has more truth
Than it can cope with? I don’t mean that you should…well, “fib,”
But perhaps, well, heh heh, temper the wind to the shorn lamb
A bit. Eh? How about it, old boy?
Or are you so in love with your “advanced” thinking that everything else
Seems old hat to you, including my conversation no doubt? In that
Case I ought to be getting on. Goodness, I’ve a four-thirty appointment and it’s
Already five after. What have you done with my hat?
These things I write for you and you only.
Do not judge them too harshly. Temper the wind,
As he was saying. They are infant things
That may grow up to be children, perhaps—who knows?—
Even adults some day, but now they exist only in the blindness
Of your love for me and are the proof of it.
You can’t think about them too long
Without knocking them over. Your castle is a house of cards,
The old-fashioned kind of playing cards, and it is also built on
Shifting sands, its base slurps out of sight too. I am the inhabitable one.
But my back is as a door to you, now open, now shut,
And your kisses are as dreams, or an elixir
Of radium, or flowers of some kind.
Remember about what I told you.
UPDATE! Hamster was given Murnane, the short fictions, for his birthday, let's see what happens next.
The de la Pava, it's brilliant, topical, angry, complex, sloppy and loud, full of dialogues, makes me aware (I miss Thursday Night Pints) (I don't miss Hillaryite Colleagues) I'm suspicious of dialogue, +.06% more than I suspect monologue.
The Murnane is about Murnane's memory of the light off a stained glass window 55 years ago (and other foundational memories), the de la Pava about the clusterfuck that is contemporary America.
The Murnane is exact, precise, each word weighed, the de la Pava is a fucking hot mess.
The de la Pava more pertinent, innit? Now, about that stained glass window.
A screed over an encounter with a Hillaryite Colleague and an unrelated but serendipitous incident involving an octopus, I'm sorry, I, half-assedly, banished it to comments.
Because the world is full of evil motherfuckers, take the rage out on yourself not people you should be kind to even if you can't be Kind too, I don't tell myself enough.
Once upon a time there was a period in my life when I read every new Philip Roth novel as soon as it was published, I don't remember much of anything about any of them.
UPDATE! Someone commented - I meant to publish, hit delete by mistake, Charlie can vouch I do this sometimes - calling me an asshole for ragging on Roth on his Death Day, so while I do not deny the charge - it's one of the points of this post, I need stop being an asshole in response to the Assholocene - the point of my Roth comment was to slam me for my forgetfulness more than Roth for being forgettable. Was also an obscure Murnane allusion meant for me: his novels are full of him forgetting novels he's read (including one by Roth).
Human Rights and Neoliberalism: How is it that the era of neoliberalism, commonly said to have begun in
the mid-to-late 1970s, coincides almost perfectly with the triumphant
rise of a discourse of human rights? In other words, how can it be that
an era whose ethical self-conception was rooted in a transnational
movement to prevent abuses such as torture, disenfranchisement, and
political imprisonment has also been an era in which national and global
economies were remade in ways that have allowed wealthy capital owners
to capture the large majority of economic productivity gains, creating
in-country inequalities not seen since the late 19th century?
