Chiming Ahead of Your Headlights

• Iannis Xenakis born 94 years ago today.
• Holiest Bleggalgazing Day of the Year is Tuesday, but as of right now all I plan is to thank you for reading and posting the Egoslavian Bleggalgazing Anthem as a tombstone, though I need mention Xenakis' music is on the soundtrack to Dark #4, which includes the bleggalgazing districts and territories, so there's that.
• Containment.
• Against cultural senility.
• I have toggled from thinking Trump a Clinton agent to thinking Clinton a Trump agent, I said to my avid Hillaryite Colleague this past Friday (it occurred to me to memtion this today when reading yet another example of breathtakingly stupid Clinton/DNC campaigning). Hillaryite Colleague thinks if Sanders dropped out now, lavishly praising Clinton and throwing his full support behind her, Trumpmentum would derail. My Hillaryite Colleague is breathtakingly stupid.
• Does my Hillaryite Colleague really need to worry about Hillary's email? 
• Silencing America as it prepares for war.
• A view of the US election from normal countries.
• Maggie's weekly links.
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
• Because I love you, the new Ashbery poem I linked to yesterday you probably didn't read between the two below Xenakis.

A DISSERVICE

John Ashbery

Life with its sorrow, life with its tear.
And you know what that means:
the sky in a drawer,
  
the underwear underworld
on the floor of the moon.
Under the emergency lamps a small panic was growing,
keeping to itself, chiming
ahead of your headlights, wobbly.
You had just gotten so young
it was all I could do to contain you
in the linen dishtowel we kept for that purpose.
The doctor prescribed bed rest.
  
The cash cow is a going concern,
the intake not dangerous enough
that you folks enjoy.
 
It’s not immortality,
these mechanical trees, alders.
Good to know you’re not killing them all yourself
across the street baby.

This Glove Hand, for Instance, that Glides so Securely into Mine, as Though It Intends to Stay

• Iannis Xenakis was born ninety-three years ago today. Play LOUD! please for best effect.
• The Egoslavian birthdayiest month of the year continues. Will continue. There's one last May birthday, an apt Egoslavian High Holy Day day after tomorrow for finishing.
• FIFA Wednesday, Hastert yesterday, I'm so nuts my first thought is Triskelion Co. is purging looming right-tainted turd-droppings pre-2016. My second thought was, depends who's indicted Friday.
• Oh, for the record, on third and fourth thought, my Clinton Theory of why an Oligarch's Decision to Try FIFA for the Crimes of The Oligarchs: Bill Clinton (and his overlords and client subordinates) built a ponzi on US getting 2022 and when it was bribed out from beneath him he called down his vengeance.
• The right sort of politics - 19th C American anarchism. I'm always willing to listen if always unable to be convinced, not to the argument but to its impossibility.
• Purple Line. Here's how small I am: beyond the economic benefits and transportation benefits of the Purple Line, I want it built just to fuck with motherfucking Chevy Chase.
• An article on Pere Ubu circa 1977. (h/t Prunella).
• Planet wants this guy to do our tattoos.
• The Summer Schedule for WFMU has been released. Looks like Station Manager Ken has moved to a three schedules a year from two. I confess, I'm ridiculously fascinated by what I imagine to be the backroom treachery amongst DJs to save or grab a spot.  
• The Complete Electronic Music of Iannis Xenakis.

LIFE IS A DREAM

John Ashbery

A talent for self-realization
will get you only as far as the vacant lot
next to the lumber yard, where they have rollcall.
My name begins with an A,
so is one of the first to be read off.
I am wondering where to stand - could that group of three
or four others be the beginning of the line?

Before I have a chance to find out, a rodent-like
man pushes at my shoulders. "It's that way," he hisses.
"Didn't they teach you anything at school? That a photograph
of anything can be real, or maybe not? The corner of the stove,
a cloud of midges at dusk-time."

I know I'll have a chance to learn more
later on. Waiting is what's called for, meanwhile.
It's true that life can be anything, but certain things
definitely aren't it. This glove hand,
for instance, that glides
so securely into mine, as though it intends to stay.

A Talent for Self-Realization Will Get You Only as Far as the Vacant Lot Next to the Lumber Yard

Iannis Xenakis was born ninety-two years ago today. Play loud.

The Egoslavian birthdayiest month of the year continues. Will continue. There's one last May birthday, an apt Egoslavian High Holy Day day after tomorrow for finishing.

Persepolis one, two, three, four, five, six.

Bohor one, two.

Xenakis here before one, two, three. Can't find the rest.

The Complete Electronic Music of Iannis Xenakis.








LIFE IS A DREAM

John Ashbery

A talent for self-realization
will get you only as far as the vacant lot
next to the lumber yard, where they have rollcall.
My name begins with an A,
so is one of the first to be read off.
I am wondering where to stand - could that group of three
or four others be the beginning of the line?

Before I have a chance to find out, a rodent-like
man pushes at my shoulders. "It's that way," he hisses.
"Didn't they teach you anything at school? That a photograph
of anything can be real, or maybe not? The corner of the stove,
a cloud of midges at dusk-time."

I know I'll have a chance to learn more
later on. Waiting is what's called for, meanwhile.
It's true that life can be anything, but certain thinkgs
definitely aren't it. This glove hand,
for instance, that glides
so securely into mine, as though it intends to stay.

As Soon as I Speak, I Speaks

Apparently Major League Soccer's subscription livestream service auto-renews because I was able to watch United lose another game in precisely the manner they've lost countless games since the dumb-luck run to the Eastern Conference final in 2012 without having to submit a credit card number. United losing: True, it's only two games and true, Toronto seems a much improved team, though when I say Toronto went out and signed Jermaine Defoe from the starting line-up of Spurs and Michael Bradley off the bench of Roma and United signed three defenders in wheelchairs cut by their teams and a striker everyone expects to be a major malcontent by July this is not to criticize United's front office and ownership. Or wait, yes it is.

>>Deleted additional bitching about United's front office and ownership<< I'll leave it as this: short-sighted cheap-ass motherfuckers across all levels from product on the field to treatment of season ticket holders. Instead of details have a weekend's worth of links.

• A prediction of intentionally-spawned scandal for Rand Paul.
• New David Harvey: But what is so striking about crises is not so much the wholesale reconfiguration of physical landscapes, but dramatic changes in ways of thought and understanding, of institutions and dominant ideologies, of political allegiances and processes, of political subjectivities, of technologies and organisational forms, of social relations, of the cultural customs and tastes that inform daily life. Crises shake our mental conceptions of the world and of our place in it to the very core. And we, as restless participants and inhabitants of this new emerging world, have to adapt, through coercion of consent, to the new state of things, even as we, by virtue of what we do and how we think and behave, add our two cents’ worth to the messy qualities of this world.
• Some motherfuckers, etc: Now, I do like this - all this death and destruction is your fault because your government, wholly independently of your opinion on the matter, refuses to drop high explosives on Damascus. There's something bracingly bullshitty about entirely accepting that "there is no appetite for putting military pressure on Assad" in the UK or the US, and then laying the blame for this on "kneejerk peaceniks" who have, as has been repeatedly and graphically demonstrated, no influence whatsoever on foreign policy. Whether the Brit stole this from Ghoul Kristol or Ghoul Kristol just gave the American version, who cares.

• Rat's Alley: The "Global War on Terror" may have been semantically erased by the propagandists of the Obama Administration, but on the ground, it is still going on -- and still spawning a multititude of malevolent consequences, as Patrick Cockburn details in a powerful series of articles. Cockburn's look at the historical record doesn't begin with 9/11, of course; the fatal alliance between Washington and the most retrograde and repressive forms of Islam -- which gave rise to the Terror War and its present reality -- go back several decades. [The first three parts of the series are here, here and here.]
• In defense of Fred Phelps.
• Maggie's weekly links.
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
• New Inquiry's Sunday links.
• The Dream's Navel.
• Yes, at least a dozen dozen times.
• My guarantee to you: blog a post named after a Guided by Voices song and post that song and I will link to it.
• The Creeley poem below put this Laurie Anderson song in my head. This is true: I really didn't know she was married to Lou Reed. I confess it still creeps me out.
• Guess what I was listening to last night (after enduring DS9 Season 1, Episode 11, featuring an aged Ferenghi's cackling orgasms - yo, this show sucks; friends keep telling me it's going to get better - Mr Alarum just reminded me that seasons 1 & 2 of Next Gen sucked too - but....).

THE PATTERN

Robert Creeley

As soon as   

I speak, I   

speaks. It

wants to   

be free but   

impassive lies

in the direction   

of its

words. Let

x equal x, x   

also

equals x. I

speak to   

hear myself   

speak? I

had not thought   

that some-

thing had such

undone. It   

was an idea   

of mine.

But for Real Accomplishment, It Would Be Well If You Would Go to Live Solitary in a Forest Silence

• Activating the Napoleon Alert System. Haven't seen him since last Sunday, and this absence feels different than others. Earthgirl said so first while I was just thinking it. The neighborhood listserv is alive with two possible pertinent issues. First, there are roving gangs of raccoons the size of pitbulls that roam through the neighbor at dusk terrorizing humans and animals alike. Second, some kids, who have not been put to death despite my urging, were caught torturing cats in Rock Creek Park. I've urged their parents to move them to a witness-protection like disappearance.
• Bleggalgazing.
• 45 of the 136 blogs in Because the First haven't updated in more than a month.
• 61 of the 140 blogs in Because the Second haven't updated in more than a month.
• The History of Fear, part one and part two.
• Syria PSYOPs.
• Ivory towers and reflective powers.
• Fishing for informants.
• Maggie's weekly links.
• New Inquiry's Sunday reads.
• Again with the Xenakis:

• Happy Birthday Ilse!
• Strangeness and poetry.
• Calibrations.
• He will never understand.
• Pynchon's Mrs Dalloway.
• I'm 2/3rd done with Bleeding Edge. I won't say it sucks. I will say if it wasn't Pynchon I would have set it aside a hundred pages ago. I long ago gave up the moral standard that once I start a novel I am obliged to finish it. Pynchon has earned the right to be finished, but it is hard to believe this is the same author that wrote Against the Day.
• I was flipping channels Friday waiting to go out to dinner, saw an hour of Breaking Bad, an episode from season three, first time I ever saw one. Admittedly, I didn't know the background, the characters, the build-up, but holyfuck, suck. So glad people will be shutting the fuck up about it after tonight.
• Horrifying headline.

CALLIGRAPHY ACCOMPANIED BY THE MOOD OF A CALM BUT DEFINITIVE MOOD

Dick Allen

Make your strokes thus: the horizontal:

as a cloud that slowly drifts across the horizon;

the vertical: as an ancient but strong vine stem;

the dot: a falling rock;

and learn to master the sheep leg, the tiger’s claw,

an apricot kernel, a dewdrop, the new moon,

the wave rising and falling. Do these

while holding your arm out above the paper

like the outstretched leg of a crane.

The strength of your hand

will give the stroke its bone.

But for real accomplishment, it would be well

if you would go to live solitary in a forest silence,

or beside a river flowing serenely.

It might also be useful

to look down a lonesome road,

and for the future

to stare into the gray static of a television screen,

or when lost in a video game

to accept you may never reach the final level,

where the dragon awaits, guarding the pot of gold,

and that you’ve left no footprints, not a single one,

despite all your adventures,

anyone following you could ever follow.

Fearful in the Disguise of Self-Assurance

The first guy I gave a POTUS vote to. On the previous. The drone that killed his grandchild. Today in motherfucking Obama. The decline in honesty. Vandalism, assault, blocking traffic, equally bad in the eyes of the law. OK, I've been trolled: idiots who think a Rolling Stone magazine cover will create more homegrown terrorists than the actions of the empire, idiots who defend capitalism bemoaning Rolling Stone for trolling for more readers. UPDATE! on the previous. Forensic topology via Greyhoos. I've never seen Game of Thrones, have neither inclination nor objection to perhaps seeing it one day, link posted solely because I was told yesterday that Emma Peel is in the show. You'll see more of the young Emma here on Saturday, a high holy day. Bicycles a proxy in culture wars? Seven ways utensils change the taste of food. Towne Crest! Check out digg.com, excellent so far. Original plagiarism. Eleven Stephen Dixon eBooks. I confess he's never worked for me, about to make my umpteenth every other year attempt. Knausgaard, for those of you who do. Niedecker, for those of you who do. Dogs and vision. The rise of the fragmented novel? Return of the silly season. The Milosz I sent a friend came back as undeliverable, I've her new address, will send soon, but first, for a few days, more Milosz typed out here. Prunella says stuff then provides a Sunny Day Real Estate cascade. You'll never beat dogs. Holyfuck, film production of Xenakis' Mycenes. Yes, I know I'm always posting Xenakis.






INITIATION

Czeslaw Milosz

Vanity and gluttony were always her sins
And I fell in love with her in the phase of life
When our scornful reason is the judge of others.

Then I went through a sudden initiation.
Not only did our skins like each other, tenderly,
And our genitals fit once and for all,
But her sleep at arm's length exerted its power
And her childhood in a city she visited dreaming.

Whatever was naive and shy in her
Or fearful in the disguise of self-assurance
Moved me, so that - we were so alike -
In an instant, not judging anymore,
I saw two sins of mine: vanity, gluttony.

Born Ninety-One Years Ago Today

Iannis Xenakis. Play loud.

Persepolis one, two, three, four, five, six.

Bohor one, two.

Xenakis here before one, two, three. Can't find the rest.

Holyfuck, looking for past Xenakis I discovered I missed Satie's birthday two weeks ago. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The Complete Electronic Music of Iannis Xenakis.

Keep in Mind How Callow I Was and How Sarcastic Walking Down That Dirt Road With No Room in Any of My Outside Pockets for Your Left-Over Straw or the Gold Leaf You Gave Me for High Achievement in the Art of Ridicule

A guide to Xenakis. Like I need an excuse to play Xenakis. This is news how? Our drone delusion. Words of peace, acts of war. On crying wolf. Everything you've been told about radicalization is wrong. How class works. How banks get away with it. Boston Bombing: Made in the USA. Imperial gigantism. What's new in square boats? Hey, bud Dave of Zencomix needs, and has earned, your vote. Tyranny of the bubble. The downside of impartial journalism. Silience. The Deity. From the annals of abused participles. Coetzee, for those of you who do. Gaddis, for those of you who do. Philosophical theories as simple graphics. Three Gerald Stern poems below out of most recent copy of American Poetry Review, a magazine I've read for thirty years, haven't entered - as in paid an entrance fee - any of the scam poetry contests lining the pages whose advertising costs put a copy of American Poetry Review in my hands every other month. Ashbery, Cocteau, Motherwell. Hey, those of you who did, thanks for the Kind. Failure: A Post-Conceptual Poem. This is exactly how I hear The Beatles and why I never need listen to them ever again. I'm proselytizing WFMU.org to Dr Z, I'm hectoring, once you've a favorite show listen live if at all possible, listening to archives beats not listening but loses the good-panging loss of freedom of trusting the DJ in the moment, of not having the power to click past a song you don't like. Cat of Eternity. Root for Hull, not fucking Liverpool. Serendipitous to Hamster's song requests, fucking shoot me. ⊥µʁөө µo∩ʁƨ oʈ ɓoʁɓөo∩ƨꞁʎ ƨɐq w∩ƨ!ⅽ ʈoʁ Dɐʎ oʈ Eɓoƨꞁɐ٨!ɐu ᖶ∩ⅽʞ-⊥µ!ƨ E٨ө. Hey, SeatSix and Landru have already bagged on tomorrow's United home game v Houston so I've three tickets to give. Anyone? No?