My compulsive response to the deadest Blog Days of Summer ever, exponentially deader than the deadest ever before (I'd like to take credit for here's decline but it's deader and getting deader everywhere), is of course to post an exceptionally self-indulgent autoblogographical bleggalgaze on a Friday, the deadest day of the week every week, and as many angry apocalyptic doomlinks I could collect since the last grid before pushing PUBLISH
I used to burn off my extra-manic impulses by pruning the blogrolls of the dying and dead and planting them in one of the two mortuary blogrolls but I've reached peak Fuck That though I assure you it has everynothing to do with the endlessly terminal ghost-towning of this particular Stringtown - it's not just here shit be dying, everynothing be dying everynowhere- and now I'd just rather bleat and bray, bleat and bray the name of my next band, here's the first album cover
Reminder: each post is a poem and each painting a headshot. In good news for me if not for you, L gave me a bag of acrylic paint tubes, this the first headshot using it (the red background), I can now go completely opaque (one can only get so opaque with gouache no matter how thick it's applied). You are warned. Hey, there's a new Water Damage album coming in October, they just released one song off it
Moderate Democrats are not afraid a leftist candidate will lose to a magachoad candidate in 2028 but that a leftist candidate will trounce a magachoad candidate in 2028
I've received two emails and one comment (which I accidentally deleted - my sincere apologies, I meant to approve it) in the last two weeks or so alerting me that this shitty blog is now fuck-all shitty to read on cellphones, and contrary to one opinion I actually DO give a flying fuck about this if for no other reason than why would I not want people to read this shitty blog? I was going to post this Sparklehorse song but can't because motherfucking youtube doesn't motherfucking permit posting a motherfucking song with fucked-up in the title, my motherfucking reaction:
It will never stop, the enshittification of everything. I can't confirm the fuck-all shittiness of reading this on cellphones since (a) I hated the internet on my cellphone when my cellphone could actually access the internet and (b) my cellphone currently can't access the internet because I don't know the fuck why and I don't care the fuck why and I'll be damned if I go buy a new phone to read the internet on the phone, which I hate. I have not changed any settings on this blog in literally at least ten years or more, so while I accept the blame for any and all fuck-ups here this particular fuck-up happened without my attempting to change something and fucking it up and in any case if I DID fuck something up I have no fucking idea how I did or how to fix (guggle's AI code recently installed along with no doubt far more sophisticated spyware, not just me, you too) it. This seems to be happening across every motherfucking spectrum of my life, every motherfucking spectrum but two. Have I told you 345,823,929 times we are being reprogrammed? Strangest fucking days of my life. Where's my kind ghost? Hear, more Sparklehouse, this is one of dozens of my favorite five songs ever:
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
You do understand this has to do with you and potentially your torture in the future if you disobey Father, yes?
"Think about every pro-Israel person who denied this was the plan for the past 22 months; who gaslit you; denied this to you; pretended this wasn't the plan"
"If I went to Israel and I was killed, someone shot me, do you think there would be any accountability? Seriously. If any of you went there, and you were killed, do you think there would be any accountability? There wouldn't be. That is how outrageous it is."
Palestine, the AHA, and the fight against scholasticide
Israel Blames Hamas for Malnourishment of Israeli Captives as It Deliberately Starves Gaza
"Simply incredible that after 2 years of genocide, lie after lie repeatedly told by the IDF, and the systematic destruction of every hospital in Palestine, *this* is still the depth of discourse on US news: a debate about nonexistent Hamas bases under (now) nonexistent hospitals"
"The reason the Dems are a failed party is because they have collectively decided that the best policy for any issue is a halfway compromise between a good idea and fascist bigotry, rather than fighting for any sort of coherent ethical framework"
"Her name is Annie Ernaux and she won a Nobel Prize in 2022, but by all means continue doing the stereotypical misogyny about life writing that we’ve all seen a million times before"
Why Thomas Pynchon’s Vineland—a Disappointment When It Was Published—is the Novel We Need Right Now
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.
This dumb review of Krasznahorkai's *Herscht 07769* has all the litfolk on xhitter who take photos of seven 1000 page novels stacked atop one another and xhit it out with the caption "Last week's reading" in a tizzy meaning some of it must yoink true, laugh
I am on page 223 of *Herscht 07769* but on hiatus since last Thursday
I loved the *Melancholy of Resistance* - *Satantango* - especially *War and War* and *Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming* tetrology and still VOUCH for them
At this moment in time I type this sentence the work and time and effort spent on reading *Herscht 07759* wasted work and time and effort
Granted my eyes are old and diseased, my memory degrading (it's frightening), I can nap for the first time in my life without waking up yellow so I can't read in bed like I did my whole life, I'm not reading any novel, any poetry, and expect to be consumed and rewarded for it now like once upon
Other old people tell me this is normal and not a personal failing, they aren't right but they're not wrong
I haven't dropped the *I am telling you three time we are being reprogrammed* gag in awhile, a choice, not my senility
Re: "I am telling you three times" - allusion to Vollmann's *Dying Grass* (how did Vollmann not make that guy's list of brodernists), my favorite novel, I've read it three times, I feel safe in betting pints there won't be a fourth
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People - smart people - underestimate the number of and strength of the mind-bending side-effects of the constant whipsawing psyops shitlords feed us
I can't read if I'm compulsively building these grids because I start to read a novel and two pages in I've surrendered to the latest horrifying omens of clusterfuck contemplation which I don't notice with the novel until six pages later I don't remember reading
I never acquired the academic scaffolding I could have to be a professional OR amateur brodernist when I decided decades ago I didn't *want* academic scaffolding, I had the free ride to try but chose instead to spend time with my wife and child, but I hereby resign whatever pretentions and aspirations I had to become a brodernist (or pretend to be one on the internet), my head is too busy, too noisy, too fading trying to keep up with the clusterfuck for the busy noisy cinderblock novels I loved for fifty years, I need something as universally kaboom as a gloriously brodernist encyclopedic omfg novel and just as clusterfuckful but without the omfg, I have enough in real life
I'm back on the murnane, and I've ishiguro in the medicine cabinet too. I'll be OK
Tomorrow a BLCKDGRD Holy Day, hint
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NO SPEECH FROM THE SCAFFOLD
Thom Gunn
There will be no speech from the scaffold, the scene must be its own commentary.
The glossy chipped surface of the block is like something for kitchen use.
And the masked man with his chopper: we know him: he works in a warehouse nearby.
Last, the prisoner, he is pale, he walks through the dewy grass, nodding
a goodbye to acquaintances. There will be no speech. And we have forgotten his offense.
What he did is, now, immaterial. It is the execution that matters, or,
rather, it is his conduct as he rests there, while he is still a human.
I have bad eyes, I may have mentioned that here, especially my left. I once used three different drops to slow the inevitable blindness and all three were covered by insurance, the newest one works wonders, but then big pharma blended two of them, including the newest one, into one, and now insurance won't cover the new one or either of the old ones much less both. The full price for one month out of pocket for the new combo = $400, that's almost $5K a year. My eyedoc's office manager found me a coupon for $30 a month for half the year (supposedly rolling over year after year). When I went to pick up my prescription Sunday the cashier rang up $400? That's wrong, I said, I'm good through August, can you confirm that, I asked the white-robed High Priest of CVS #2537, and he said, Yes, but the insurance company hacked two weeks ago they can't verify, I said, and there are witnesses though I did not get names, How the fuck is this my problem, *you* pay the difference and get the money yourself, and the High Priest of CVS #2537 said, You pay now and mail the receipt and they will reimburse you and I said, They will never send me the money and you know it (against his better judgment but before he could stop himself he shook his head in agreement) and in any case, how the fuck is this *my* problem, *you* pay the difference and get the money yourself, and the nine people in line behind me clapped. It was fun! I am more blind today than had I paid the $400. Fine metaphors abound
That's actually a headshot self-portrait and not one of my eyes, I can't stop painting headshots. Do you know, I still encounter people - neighbors, acquaintances, colleagues, friends, loved ones - who think our accelerating enshittification and immiseration - bridges failing, two-mile long freight trains ferrying carcinogens on deteriorating rail beds that derail and explode poisons over entire counties, airplanes that lose side panels and doors and landing gear tires while in midflight, the pothole on northbound Rockville Pike in motherfucking Borth Nethesda - a result of shitlord incompetence multiplied by mismanagement not deliberate shitlord-ordered dereliction (via, in part certainly, incompetence times mismanagement) in service of wealth extraction and accumulation?
Immediately afterward I was embarrassed at my outburst (and my enjoyment of it especially) at the High Priest of CVS #2537 and shocked at how intense and spontaneous and out of my mouth before knew it my anger was and frightened in aftermath I'm turning into Sarek and am now counting to three if I must say something and counting to ten in hope I don't say anything. The High Priest of CVS #2537 was just following orders but because Mr CVS wasn't there to bark at (I did ask to speak to Mr CVS but the High Priest of CVS #2537 didn't get the joke, which made me angrier, laugh), did I need to bark at the High Prienst of CVS #2537 who I knew couldn't do anything different than he did when I was barking at him? Have I written here about my whiteyelloworangepinkaddiction? That's for my eyes. New: my whiteyelloworangepinkredaddiction. That's for my anger. Please scream back at me if I unfairly scream at you.
Posted today to purge, two days from now one of my personal two High Holy Days, venting anger to replace, at least for Thursday, with love, but first, Swans, seeing them in twenty-four days, you could to, Baltimore, Moco, DC, and Nova friends!
Even Joe Bucking Fiden, who was the 2020 nominee solely because of it, doesn't understand that nothing is more precious to top-of-the-ladder Royal Democrats than maintaining the integrity of the ladder, though Obama drives the bus now they, Obama in command, will never permit another Obama, laugh
The above fails to mention Ten Mile Creek Rd, destination for keggers, nights parked by the ford over Ten Mile Creek with friends or girlfriend, and where Willy Dayne ran down the cat in his green Dodge Dart, is now underwater, a very old story
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I rarely look in the mirror: Spent Light by Lara Pawson
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Was gifted this by someone who knows my belief in the sentience of my favorite objects, I vouch for the book
An alternative list to The Atlantic’s “The Great American Novels” list (Part I, 1924-1974)
An alternative list to The Atlantic’s “The Great American Novels” list (Part II, 1975-1999)
I've been listening to Niblock daily since his death
Once again, someone falls in their first falling–fall of two bodies, of
two eyes, of four green eyes or eight green eyes if we count those born
in the mirror (at midnight, in the purest fear, in the loss), you
haven’t been able to recognize the voice of your dull silence, to see
the earthly messages scrawled in the middle of one mad state, when the
body is a glass and from ourselves and from the other we drink some kind
of impossible water.
Desire needlessly spills on me a cursed liqueur. For my thirsty
thirst, what can the promise of eyes do? I speak of something not in
this world. I speak of someone whose purpose is elsewhere.
And I was naked in memory of the white night. Drunk and I made love all night, just like a sick dog.
Sometimes we suffer too much reality in the space of a single
night. We get undressed, we’re horrified. We’re aware the mirror sounds
like a watch, the mirror from which your cry will pour out, your
laceration.
Night opens itself only once. It’s enough. You see. You’ve
seen. Fear of being two in the mirror, and suddenly we’re four. We cry,
we moan, my fear, my joy more horrible than my fear, my visceral words,
my words are keys that lock me into a mirror, with you, but ever alone.
And I am well aware what night is made of. We’ve fallen so completely
into jaws that didn’t expect this sacrifice, this condemnation of my
eyes which have seen. I speak of a discovery: felt the I in sex, sex in
the I. I speak of burying everyday fear to secure the fear of an
instant. The purest loss. But who’ll say: you don’t cry anymore at
night? Because madness is also a lie. Like night. Like death.
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