I should reiterate, while I'm more angry than normal at the constant psyops disorienting me every fucking day and wrecking me sideways on most days, that these are headshots, I can explain Life in the Clusterfuckocene better to me with these than I can with words, this is me on a day last week when I noticed the seething merely simmered rather than boiled, they're rare
It's not ending November 6 regardless your vote, forgive me for reiterating this the thousandth time, our shitlords are preparing us for war to save their world hegemony and kill you trying. To offset, since I have neither the way or the will to retreat to disconnected isolation, ochres, siennas, browns, payne's grey, and greys mixed by combining complementary colors in search of a less manic interaction with the noise I can't avoid and hopefully explain myself in the clusterfuck to myself as differently and coherently and kindly as a one trick pony can
"JD Vance decided the only way to beat the “weird and creepy” headlines was to become so violently racist people would have to talk about him as dangerous rather than pathetic. If you need a concise explanation for the Republican Party"
"This is what the “culture war” in the West is all about. People are not quite ready to surrender their religious values, their cultural values, their national sovereignty, and other such concepts, and embrace a borderless, monomulticultural, supranationally- governed post-social society that is basically just an endless combination mega-mall and GloboCap theme park. The thing is, the majority of the resistance in the West is staunchly “pro-capitalist,” or at least staunchly “anti-communist,” and thus is unable to face the fact that it is global capitalism and its values-decoding machine that they are actually resisting.
Yes, plants are sentient, I think about this question everytime I eat, is it that they don't exhibit pain (that I can see or sense, doesn't mean they don't) when killed that keeps me from starving myself to death, am I that small and cowardly?
I long ago lost interest in Richard Powers novels (he's a one trick pony, (as is the artist of the above headshot) you need to like the trick - this is not the slam it seems, says this Guided by Voices zealot) but some of yinz might be interested to know there's a new novel
Wire is in the mix (or was in the rotation when I used to obsess about this) for one of the three rotating spots in My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game, and Colin Newman is seventy today, and this is certainly one of the ten most posted songs on this shitty blog
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY DEATH
W.S. Merwin
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
Above from the Bidart poem below, is True, not only for masters but masters' favored subjects and down each tier of the pyramid, there is no cruelty inflicted on another human the inflicting human doesn't think the inflicted would inflict on him
Another headshot, crayon, clear elmer's glue infused with acrylic ink, if you have empty elmer's glue squirt bottles please mail to me, apply infused glue directly by squirting. Yesterday Israel murdered seven World Central Kitchen workers who dared to feed the people Israel starving to death AND bombed the Irani consulate in Damascus, yawn, and another professor-friendly acquaintance at Hilltop told me it will be my fault when Trump beats Biden, I call this Monday.
As for blogfutility: went to prune the blogrolls to move the dead or unconscious to the moribund purgatories but discovered some of the dead or unconscious neither but their feed be dead so I made an executive decision to give zero fucks and do fucking nothing. Fine metaphors abound. So zeroed are my fucks it occurs to me as I type this sentence that I have not checked blogstats since last Friday or Saturday, I should just delete the counter but still can't, fine metaphors abound
Trump yesterday said, I'm paraphrasing, Israel! If you gonna fucking slaughter all the fucking Gazans just fucking get it over with, you're wasting time and money, it's bad for business, a distinction from Biden who no doubt tells Bibi, if you gonna fucking slaughter all the fucking Gazans can you at least do it more discreetly and finish up before the Democratic National Convention if at all possible, here, have more bombs (both have since been called antisemitic by Zionists). In protest I've switched from ink to pencil in daily journal. Fine metaphors abound
"Your occasional reminder that libs are absolutely preparing to turn on “ungrateful” trans people as their leftist scapegoat when Biden loses because the alternative would be taking responsibility for that whole “let’s just ignore mass murder” thing"
Venting Doesn't Reduce Anger, But Something Else Does, Study Finds
Nowhere in this article on the county I've lived in for sixty years mentions county executive Marc Elrich who pushed for this and pissed off the Moco shitlords who all give money to whoever is running against Elrich
I was reminded of Teardrop Explodes and the greatest clean fresh orange sunshine tripping song ever, fight me
Frank Bidart
THE MORAL ARC OF THE UNIVERSE BENDS TOWARDS JUSTICE
is an illusion. It’s true, it’s human nature to try to unbend what for centuries human nature—with great wisdom, great pain—bent. What had to be built we knew instinctively must be built without asking permission of the ignorant doing the building. But natural pity soon ends when what pity unleashes is CHAOS, is horror. The cauldron that has always been the source of force we have learnt slowly, in time, how to control. Have learnt to enslave (you would harshly say) more subtly. More, you would say, cunningly. Think the American Civil War,— . . . followed by a century of Jim Crow. If you do not become a master you are a slave.
• The voice of What had to be built leaves certain words bodiless. The Lost Cause, strange fruit, was lost, for us, in a song about lacerated flesh. When a master stares at himself in the future
what he fears is that the world will do to him what he did to the world when he was the world.
The people you vote for over the people you hate more work for the people you hate more's bosses
No shitlord told Pelosi to get her hair cut
Against *the* existential threat to truth, justice, and the American way of life motherfucking Democrats demand I vote for a shitlord stool who before his disqualifying (in a time of existential threat) cognitive decline (if you are serious about the existential threat) was the brilliant Senator from MasterCard, as personally responsible for the student debt scheme as any elected official, and personally responsible for piggifying the criminal code
but HE'S NOTTRUMP! (sic) (TM)
and cute as a creepy grandpa and won't make people daily reckon the consequences of living in a shithole country built on slavery and genocide
Psst, our shitlords' rent extraction racket's actuaries - psst, Joe Biden's people've signaled, fuck yeah, take BLCKDGRD's social security money he's paid into the last 40 years until Joe Biden's people signaled no he didn't after two days of polling - our shitlords' racket's actuaries psst, Hurry
Joe when he was lucid greased the skid rows, his spokespeople promising he will continue to to the best of his dementia, and HE'S NOTTRUMP!
The people you vote for over the people you hate more work for the people you hate more's bosses, the people you vote for over the people you hate more's job is to guarantee the people you hate more win
Above a paraphrase of multiple conversations I've had with anyone-but-Trumpers past week
First all belief is paradise. So pliable a medium. A time not very long.
A transparency caused. A conveyance of rupture. A subtle transport.
Scant and rare. Deep in the opulent morning, blissful regions, hard and
slender. Scarce and scant. Quotidian and temperate. Begin afresh in the
realms of the atmosphere, that encompasses the solid earth, the
terraqueous globe that soars and sings, elevated and flimsy. Bright and
hot. Flesh and hue. Our skies are inventions, durations, discoveries,
quotas, forgeries, fine and grand. Fine and grand. Fresh and bright.
Heavenly and bright. The day pours out space, a light red roominess,
bright and fresh. Bright and oft. Bright and fresh. Sparkling and wet.
Clamour and tint. We range the spacious fields, a battlement trick and
fast. Bright and silver. Ribbons and failings. To and fro. Fine and
grand. The sky is complicated and flawed and we’re up there in it,
floating near the apricot frill, the bias swoop, near the sullen bloated
part that dissolves to silver the next instant bronze but nothing that
meaningful, a breach of greeny-blue, a syllable, we’re all across the
swathe of fleece laid out, the fraying rope, the copper beech behind the
aluminum catalpa that has saved the entire spring for this flight, the
tops of these a part of the sky, the light wind flipping up the white
undersides of leaves, heaven afresh, the brushed part behind, the
tumbling. So to the heavenly rustling. Just stiff with ambition we range
the spacious trees in earnest desire sure and dear. Brisk and west.
Streaky and massed. Changing and appearing. First and last. This was
made from Europe, formed from Europe, rant and roar. Fine and grand.
Fresh and bright. Crested and turbid. Silver and bright. This was spoken
as it came to us, to celebrate and tint, distinct and designed. Sure
and dear. Fully designed. Dear afresh. So free to the showing. What we
praise we believe, we fully believe. Very fine. Belief thin and pure and
clear to the title. Very beautiful. Belief lovely and elegant and fair
for the footing. Very brisk. Belief lively and quick and strong by the
bursting. Very bright. Belief clear and witty and famous in impulse.
Very stormy. Belief violent and open and raging from privation. Very
fine. Belief intransigent after pursuit. Very hot. Belief lustful and
eager and curious before beauty.Very bright. Belief intending afresh. So
calmly and clearly. Just stiff with leaf sure and dear and appearing
and last. With lust clear and scarce and appearing and last and afresh.
First, Nap sighted, the alert is still active, on stand-by
Hiked Great Wass, the single most unique hike we’ve done anywhere ever
Loop runs through scrub pines and bogs and deep woods and over granite balds three miles to the ocean then two miles along ocean then a mile of deeper woods back to car
drip told me about Great Wass before our trip two years ago, we met at a bar on University across from Hopkins a week before that vacation, hiked Great Wass first time that vacation
Shared pints a few times, met through this blog, maybe some of you remember him here
I’ve no contact with drip since we met at a bar on University across from Hopkins before we took our Maine trip two years ago
I just emailed him
>> Deleted bleggalgaze <<
UPDATED! drip lives!
Rain and fog this morning, Cadillac hike postponed, wet rocks = ouch
Driving back from Great Wass traffic was jammed getting through Milbridge, and people along the route were in their yards watching, free food giveaway, hunger relief, hundreds of cars in line
Seen relatively few Trump signs and flags, more east and north of Ellsworth, the town associated with Mount Desert Island's entry and the east end of touristy Downeast Maine on Route 1, and not a single Biden sign but about the same number of BLM and/or Hate Has No Place Here signs as Trump signs
Meanwhile, Joe Biden, a racist, calls Donald Trump, a racist, a racist, insists Donald Trump the first racist president ever
Meanwhile, as far as I know, no one has asked Joe Biden what he thinks about stormtroopers attacking peacefully demonstrating mothers and he's not going to voluntarily comment much less condemn until and at least until someone dies
our fucking shitlords' actuaries and algorithmists and psyop cyclops and pucking figs and psychopath upper management shitlord wannabes and slathering megaphone grifters been hankering for a mass peasant culling, not necessarily right now and just this one, but the bug's a feature not a bug
Old Wire, quite possibly the song posted most here since I started yodeling about Micronesian islands without extradition treaties and Montana missile silos fifteen years or so ago
LEAVE THE HAND IN
John Ashbery
Furthermore, Mr. Tuttle used to have to run in the streets.
Now, each time friendship happens, they’re fully booked.
Sporting with amaryllis in the shade is all fine and good,
but when your sparring partner gets there first
you wonder if it was all worth it. “Yes, why do it?”
I’m on hold. It will take quite a lot for this music
to grow on me. I meant no harm. I’ve helped him
from getting stuck before. Dumb thing. All my appetites are friendly.
Children too are free to go and come as they please.
I ask you only to choose between us, then shut down this election.
But don’t reveal too much of your hand at any given time.
Then up and pipes the major, leave the hand in,
or change the vows. The bold, enduring menace of courtship is upon us
like the plague, and none of us can say what trouble
will be precipitated once it has had its way with us.
Our home is marshland. After dinner was wraparound.
For political, but, much more, monetary reasons, the media makes their mark, and thereforeJeremy Corbyn hates Jews, Julian Assange is an unwashed rapist and Donald Trump is Putin’s handpuppet.
And if you object, you’re a suspect human being. In order to make
money, and retain or gain power, the media and intelligence services,
along with the political powers friendly to them, inject opinions into
the populace. How Orwellian do you want it?
Thanksgiving Thursday best day of year to drive the speed limit on interstates watch the relatives try to impress each other by their cars almost kill me twice
Impeachment, I said to my disenchanted motherfucking Democrat friend past Tuesday Night Pints, proof positive motherfucking Democrats will do anything to keep Trump president
Almost finished with Rusty Brown, I like, am not going to obsess over graphic novels (but not for the reason I thought I wouldn't)
My father's brother at my father's sister's Thanksgiving meal yesterday, I see him at wedding and funerals usually, my father moved us to rising middle class Montgomery County in 1964, my father's brother moved his family to working class Cleveland, there's a reason every post but two a year tagged My Complicity, it is also a self-portrait w turban
SONNET 8
Tim Atkins
Brickline Like .. or only .. hup .. chimes .. float = obliquities still = come herbs = Arc clocks = hooks
So much I can't tell you! but I've discovered ways to avoid barking at the clusterfuck, not *all* of them bad!
TabOne, TabToo, Tab3 filling, schoolbus yellow pen cobalt ink, pink pen brown ink, black pen red ink, sky blue pen black ink (all make appearances above) constantly needing refueling far more than when clusterfuck scribbling, fine metaphors abound
The dogs of Manhattan seem miserable, caged even leashed outside, piss-smells on nothing but hydrant and concrete, flinch too many humans flinch honking cars flinch fucking sirens.
Walked from Penn Station to Whitney Museum then weaved through Greenwich Village (got to Houston, didn't go to Soho) then 5th up from 10th to Broadway and Broadway through Times Square up to Museum of Art and Design where Broadway meets 8th and 60th but ran out of time, walked south on 8th to 31st and Penn Station and Earthgirl and bus home.
Had two slices, one for breakfast, one before bus ride home, I cannot
get pizza like this in Moco or DC, the fuck is wrong with people around
here.
I am not the dog-whisperer the cat-whisperer I am, but I can talk to dogs and not a single dog of the dozens of dozens I saw but the three pit-bulls who each adopted a homeless guy I gave food too smiled at me.
I would love a four day weekend in NYC once a year, that's enough.
Astonishing David Wojnarowicz exhibit at Whitney (photo above taken from a Whitney outdoor terrace looking east, below, Wojnarowicz).
