Thursday, July 24, 2014

How We Picnicked in Pine Forests, in Coves with the Water Always Seeping Up, and Left Our Trash, Sperm, and Excrement Everywhere, Smeared on the Landscape, to Make of Us What We Could

  • I am the bullets: On Gaza.
  • And then the Alien turned towards Zanna: On Gaza.
  • Am I going to die tonight, Daddy?
  • Dehumanization? Here's today's monologue: of course dehumanization is the project, but the project isn't the dehumanization of the other. That shit's already been done. 
  • And it's working. The hate seething through me now scares the fuck out of me. My lizard brain is far too easily stimulated. 
  • Ladies and Gentleman, the wit and wisdom of Fuckface Hiatt, who I daydream of braining with a shovel over and over and over and...
  • The rule of lizards.
  • The grey light of morningAs real as the political subtext was, it’s a mistake to see the myth of progress purely as a matter of propaganda. During the heyday of industrialism, that myth was devoutly believed by a great many people, at all points along the social spectrum, many of whom saw it as the best chance they had for positive change. Faith in progress was a social fact of vast importance, one that shaped the lives of individuals, communities, and nations. The hope of upward mobility that inspired the poor to tolerate the often grueling conditions of their lives, the dream of better living through technology that kept the middle classes laboring at the treadmill, the visions of human destiny that channeled creative minds into the service of  existing institutions—these were real and powerful forces in their day, and drew on high hopes and noble ideals as well as less exalted motives.
  • America.
  • the wearing-out of language.
  • Motherfucking gunfucks fuck with Sugarloaf.
  • Food links.
  • Vollmann in his studio.
  • Drummage.
  • Bosh reminded me of Leatherface last night.


John Ashbery

One died, and the soul was wrenched out   
Of the other in life, who, walking the streets   
Wrapped in an identity like a coat, sees on and on   
The same corners, volumetrics, shadows   
Under trees. Farther than anyone was ever   
Called, through increasingly suburban airs   
And ways, with autumn falling over everything:   
The plush leaves the chattels in barrels   
Of an obscure family being evicted
Into the way it was, and is. The other beached   
Glimpses of what the other was up to:
Revelations at last. So they grew to hate and forget each other.

So I cradle this average violin that knows   
Only forgotten showtunes, but argues
The possibility of free declamation anchored
To a dull refrain, the year turning over on itself   
In November, with the spaces among the days   
More literal, the meat more visible on the bone.   
Our question of a place of origin hangs
Like smoke: how we picnicked in pine forests,
In coves with the water always seeping up, and left   
Our trash, sperm and excrement everywhere, smeared   
On the landscape, to make of us what we could.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

surpassing things we've known before passing on its effect

       There had been other troubles, with a chief called Big Head wounded while on a friendly visit to Fort Kearny. The Cheyenne felt especial put upon, for by their lights they had always been amiable to white men. Even after all these bad things, they sent a delegation to see the Government Indian agent and apologized. They also returned a woman they had captured. but you see the complication was this: Indians wasn't ever organized. Them that come in to apologize wasn't the same as what killed the whites. And them that the soldiers usually punished was never the ones who had committed the outrages. The white people on who the Indians took revenge had no connection with the soldiers.
     It was pretty early on that I come to realize that most serious situations in life, or my life anyway, were like that time I rubbed out the Crow: he spared me because I was white, and I killed him because I was Cheyenne. There wasn't nothing else either of us could have done, and it would have been ridiculous except it was mortal.

Thomas Berger, Little Big Man

Yesterday two blogfriends discussed Berger on Twooter, I didn't stop to think why, adding to the conversation that when I read Little Big Man when I was nineteen it was KABOOM! Today I discovered why he might have been being discussed: he died this past July 13th.

It has been years since I read Berger. I liked the Reinhart Tetrology, especially when read against Updike's Rabbit Tetrology for comparison and contrast in style, tone, themes, I liked his second historical novel, Arthur Rex, I liked some of his genre-examining novels like Who Is Teddy Villanova and Nowhere, but all failed when measured against Little Big Man. I didn't know it when I read it, but it engaged many of the concerns I encountered in Theory in grad school, especially but not limited to its examination of passing: see the excerpt above. I am about to find out if it's KABOOM! still.

[constant change figures]

Lyn Hejinian

constant change figures
the time we sense
passing on its effect
surpassing things we've known before
since memory
of many things is called
but what of what
we call nature's picture
surpassing things we call
since memory
we call nature's picture
surpassing things we've known before
constant change figures
passing on its effect
but what of what
constant change figures
since memory
of many things is called
the time we sense
called nature's picture
but what of what
in the time we sense
surpassing things we've known before
passing on its effect
is experience

Monday, July 21, 2014

and every finger is a toe

That's my left big toe - it looks worse than it feels unless I kick a wall with it. Was crossing a creek on Saturday's hike, slipped on a wet rock, jammed the toe against a second. I'd rather take off my shoe and kick a wall with that toe than clusterfuck today. Friday my swag package for donating to WFMU last Winter arrived, I asked for nothing but music, thirteen discs in all. Each is prepared by one of the DJs just to be Marathon swag (and many DJ discs - from both current and former DJs - are still available, it's fun to pick). I'll post a song from each, most below the fold, and in no particular order other than how they were shuffled when I took them out of the mailing package. This is from Jeffrey Davidson's CD, Small Wonder:

[as freedom is a breakfastfood]

E.E. Cummings

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
—long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald mens hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
—long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common’s rare and millstones float
—long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
—time is a tree(this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough

  • This from Evan Funk Davies' Starting with the 70s vol.3:

  • Bryce, whose Friday show is my favorite three hours of radio each week (have I mentioned this?) hasn't done a disc since 2009, I picked it up. It is of course sleeveless and of course the tracks can't be identified by the CD reader, so I've gone back to his 2009 playlists and picked something I especially like.

  • More from Bodah, whose Airborne Event Monday evening is what my Tuesday morning sounds like, this from his 2011 The Hissing of Chrome Snakes disc:

  • From Faye's What's the Point of Being Good? disc:

  • From Mary Wing's The Ladies of the Year disc

  • From Thomas Storck's Love Is a Launderette, taken from UK cassettes 1979 - 1985. It's not the Dogma Cats' song he picked, but it's the one I found and what suffices for my religion requires I post it:

  • From Stan's Destination Saturn:

  • From Fabio's Enlightenment Through Failure:

  • From Bethany Ryker's Locomotion:

  • From Dave Mandl's Hippies:

  • Oh, new Wire Tapper came in mail same day, because I love you, even those of you who didn't click below the fold, but especially for the three of you who did, thanks. Wait, I couldn't find anything on youtube, these are all too new. Have an older Hiorthey:

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Ink-Black, but Moving Independently Across the Black and White Parquet of Print, the Ant Cancels the Author Out

High Holy Day in Egoslavia. Diana Rigg, first, still best crush ever, is 76 today. The Avengers, the Honor Blackman/Katherine Gale years in b/w, the Diana Rigg/Emma Peel years, but especially the first Emma year, in b/w, first, best crush ever. Two years ago I was able to post some episodes, last year some motherfuckers claimed rights and blocked them. Last year I was able to post the black & white opening theme song, this year some motherfuckers claimed rights and blocked that, here, have the vastly inferior color opening to the second Emma Peel season (which, fine metaphors abounding, was vastly inferior - though still better than almost everything else then, since, forever - to the first season in black and white):

That doesn't give me the toe-curling waves of nostalgic pleasure like the black & white opening still does. I haven't mentioned this here in a while: I remember seeing the Flintstones in color, the first time I'd see a color TV, I was five? six? I don't remember whose house, a relative's presumably, I know it was in western Pennsylvania, but I am convinced that seminal event, followed by a decade of TV repeats after school, home when sick or faking sick, color then B/W then B/W then color then less and less B/W as the old shows fell out of syndication, and especially the shows in syndication like Avengers and Get Smart and Bewitched whose first years were in B/W then toggled to color, influence, for good and bad, how I apprehend and interpret the world still.

Yes, I post a version of that paragraph every year on July 20. Here's the only black & white scene I can find:

Hey, then there's this email:

Your Google Apps domain name,, was successfully renewed with enom for one year. You can now continue using Google Apps through July 18, 2015 and your account will soon be charged for the purchase.
Please do not reply to this email; replies are not monitored.
The Google Apps Team

I'll believe it if this shitty blog is still here the morning of the 26th.


Mary Barnard

Ink-black, but moving independently   
across the black and white parquet of print,   
the ant cancels the author out. The page,   
translated to itself, bears hair-like legs   
disturbing the fine hairs of its fiber.
These are the feet of summer, pillaging meaning,   
destroying Alexandria. Sunlight is silence   
laying waste all languages, until, thinly,   
the fictional dialogue begins again:   
the page goes on telling another story.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Which Only Quiet Walking Ever Instructs

Six-miler around Catoctin yesterday with Earthgirl. From Chimney Rocks, the rock outcrop and view about two-thirds through, you can see Sugarloaf twenty-five miles to the southeast. Today is Corbin Cabin in Shenandoah with Planet and Air too. Also, Happy Birthday to my father (who reads this blog daily to monitor news of his grand-daughter and daughter-in-law) who got us the hell out of Ghost Town, Pennsylvania in 1964 for which I don't thank him enough. He's BBQing salmon tonight for us.

Saturday intermittent tradition is to post songs heard on Bryce's Friday show. Bryce was off today, fill-in host was Ira the K. Below the poem is Ira the K's band's latest single, first, the Morton Feldman piece Ira the K played yesterday:


John Ashbery

On the secret map the assassins   
Cloistered, the Moon River was marked   
Near the eighteen peaks and the city
Of humiliation and defeat—wan ending   
Of the trail among dry, papery leaves   
Gray-brown quills like thoughts
In the melodious but vast mass of today’s   
Writing through fields and swamps
Marked, on the map, with little bunches of weeds.   
Certainly squirrels lived in the woods   
But devastation and dull sleep still   
Hung over the land, quelled
The rioters turned out of sleep in the peace of prisons   
Singing on marble factory walls   
Deaf consolation of minor tunes that pack   
The air with heavy invisible rods   
Pent in some sand valley from
Which only quiet walking ever instructs.   
The bird flew over and
Sat—there was nothing else to do.
Do not mistake its silence for pride or strength
Or the waterfall for a harbor
Full of light boats that is there
Performing for thousands of people   
In clothes some with places to go   
Or games. Sometimes over the pillar   
Of square stones its impact
Makes a light print.
So going around cities
To get to other places you found   
It all on paper but the land
Was made of paper processed   
To look like ferns, mud or other   
Whose sea unrolled its magic   
Distances and then rolled them up   
Its secret was only a pocket
After all but some corners are darker
Than these moonless nights spent as on a raft
In the seclusion of a melody heard   
As though through trees
And you can never ignite their touch   
Long but there were homes
Flung far out near the asperities   
Of a sharp, rocky pinnacle
And other collective places
Shadows of vineyards whose wine   
Tasted of the forest floor
Fisheries and oyster beds
Tides under the pole
Seminaries of instruction, public   
Places for electric light
And the major tax assessment area   
Wrinkled on the plan
Of election to public office
Sixty-two years old bath and breakfast   
The formal traffic, shadows
To make it not worth joining
After the ox had pulled away the cart.

Your plan was to separate the enemy into two groups   
With the razor-edged mountains between.
It worked well on paper
But their camp had grown
To be the mountains and the map   
Carefully peeled away and not torn   
Was the light, a tender but tough bark
On everything. Fortunately the war was solved   
In another way by isolating the two sections   
Of the enemy’s navy so that the mainland   
Warded away the big floating ships.   
Light bounced off the ends   
Of the small gray waves to tell   
Them in the observatory   
About the great drama that was being won
To turn off the machinery
And quietly move among the rustic landscape   
Scooping snow off the mountains rinsing
The coarser ones that love had   
Slowly risen in the night to overflow   
Wetting pillow and petal   
Determined to place the letter
On the unassassinated president’s desk
So that a stamp could reproduce all this
In detail, down to the last autumn leaf
And the affliction of June ride
Slowly out into the sun-blackened landscape.

Friday, July 18, 2014

the flower-visiting species

We are going to the woods today, we are going to the woods tomorrow (w/Planet and Air!), we are going to the woods on Sunday. Something will be here or nothing will be here Saturday morning, Sunday is a High Egoslavian Holy Day so that ritual will be observed.


remembering; and with the aid of; ventilation; and production; the poem

Christian Hawkey

must balance; this risk; a tablet; peak plasma; the first alphabet;
with the clinical need; finger-sized; it makes sense; the fingers;
were the first; to make sense; this risk; 31 letters; the flower-visiting            species;
as opposed to; dung-feeding; the terminal phase; and the;
distribution phase; never; in my life; the relationship; logarithmic;
propriate or; propion; to make sense; this risk; and the;
as opposed to; had i imagined; that’s business; he was as soft as;
bill nodded; his neck trembling; a tablet; peak plasma; 31 letters;
throwing my body; the flower-visiting species; with the clinical need;
in front of; and with the aid of; that’s business; the distribution phase;
and the; on-coming; volunteers; reflected; in the moment of; the                   fingers
the first alphabet; peak plasma; bill nodded; pooled analyses; in                     my life;
this risk; the fingers; reappropriated; his neck trembling; numb

Thursday, July 17, 2014

It Was a World. What a World! What a World? What a Big World but a World to Be Drowned In. It's Just a Joke Man.

True, but not the world. New album out this September, old song here right now.

Here Is the Man Night-Walking Who Derives Tomorrow's Manifestos from This Midnight Meeting

So today's the day this blog's domain name is supposed to automatically renew. Blooger has been sending me email every week for the past month warning me to renew or else and sending me email every week for the past month telling me all is fine, my automatic renewal is good as long as billing information is up to date. We're talking ten dollars after all for the exclusive domain name ownership of this shitty blog on a free blogging platform, ten dollars on vanity. My billing information DID change since last year's debacle and rescue: Earthgirl lost the credit card, we put a block on it immediately, were issued new cards. I logged into Blooger's weirdass and creepy Blogger admin site and made the change a month ago. I'm told I'm good by one email. Another email tells me I'm not. Maybe I'll get a confirm later today. Maybe this blog will disappear in a week. It's a win-win.

  • Yes, I do post this particular Gubaidulina all the time.
  • Silence for Gaza.
  • America's war crimes in Gaza.
  • Israel's war crimes in Gaza.
  • A slowly unfolding genocide.
  • I haven't wasted breath saying Motherfucking Obama because duh but what the fuck, Motherfucking Obama.
  • The stupidest propaganda since the last until the next.
  • In praise of wearinessSo why would Americans not be weary? The survey results that worry Kagan and Rice – that show Americans growing wary of overcommitment abroad – are actually a sign of vernacular wisdom. They suggest a dawning public recognition that the problems of boarded-up storefronts and evacuated cities present more urgent policy concerns than the remaking of regions abroad that resist remaking. Interventionists will need to evade or overcome this wisdom if they intend to embark on further misadventures overseas. Let us give weariness its due, as a necessary counterweight to the centrifugal force of an activist foreign policy, ever on the prowl for investments to explore and wrongs to set right. Maybe weariness can bring us home before dark.
  • The real world plainly bores us.
  • The weaponized naked girl. The best thing you'll read today.
  • Bossa Nova: on the World Cup and nationalism and stuff.
  • The future of Rocketville? I expect it means our favorite vegetarian Chinese restaurant in a dumpy little strip will disappear as well as our favorite Peruvian restaurant in a dumpy little strip too.
  • A reference of female-fronted punk bands!
  • Shuffling tropes.
  • The serenity and vitality of Proust. I can only read Proust when I'm calm and not angry. I'm rarely calm and not angry, so slow going, but when Proust works it's wonderful.
  • I was not calm and was angry last night, instead of reading Proust I listened to Gubaidulina and read Muriel Rukeyser.


Muriel Rukeyser

Whether it is a speaker, taut on a platform,
who battles a crowd with the hammers of his words,
whether it is the crash of lips on lips
after absence and wanting : we must close
the circuits of ideas, now generate,
that leap in the body's action or the mind's repose.

Over us is a striking on the walls of the sky,
here are the dynamos, steel-black, harboring flame,
here is the man night-walking who derives
tomorrow's manifestos from this midnight's meeting ;
here we require the proof in solidarity,
iron on iron, body on body, and the large single beating.

And behind us in time are the men who second us
as we continue. And near us is our love :
no forced contempt, no refusal in dogma, the close
of the circuit in a fierce dazzle of purity.
And over us is night a field of pansies unfolding,
charging with heat its softness in a symbol
to weld and prepare for action our minds' intensity.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Here Come the Bald Arbiters with Their Eyes on Chains

At three friends' encouragement I have been watching Star Trek: Deep Space Nine from beginning to end. I know the original series by heart; when I was managing Crown Books 826 and hired Hamster for a second key, we'd look through a TV Guide and compete to guess the episode by the episode's title (we also had a John McLaughlin head taped to a black file cabinet by the swinging door into the cash register and manager's office area, but that's another story). I know Star Trek: The Next Generation by heart from Season Three to finale: Seasons One and Two SUCK! SUCK! SUCK! and Maria Muldour as Doctor Polanski can send her camel to bed, so much do the first two seasons suck. I remember watching Star Trek: Voyager but nothing much about it other than Seven, second-in-command Chipotle, and Captain Janeway, now a Russian prisoner in some show, Chartreuse Is the New Vermillion, that Earthgirl and Planet watch.

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine - I never got. I never stopped to think why beyond what episodes I saw didn't make me want to care. My friends insist DS9 is vastly superior to Voyager (I have friends with whom I've discussed this who insist those who think DS9 vastly superior to Voyager are fucking nuts). The friends' book and music recommendations to me have been uniformly solid (even if a particular book or musician don't sing to me - I was the poorer receptacle, I can read or hear the merits even if I don't receive right), so I downloaded Netflix and started the series.

I'm in Season Five now: I don't dislike the series, I don't like the series. It does some story lines well, it develops some characters better than others. I really like Rom. I really dislike Deep Space Nine's homages to Star Trek legacies, its stroking of uberfans, which peaked last night when Sisko and Dax and O'Brien and Bashir and Odo beam over to Kirk's enterprise to stop a Klingon spy from stealing a Bejoran magic orb and going back in time to blow up Kirk with a Tribble. That's not the stupid part. (Here's a stupid part: O'Brien sees The Original Series Klingons who don't have face plates, looks at Worf, Worf says, We don't talk about it with outsiders.) Throughout the episode DS9 producers interwove scenes from The Original SeriesTribbles episode into the DS9 episode, superimposing DS9 actors into the scenes. That's fine, that's schtick I can handle. At the very end, though, Sisko, after an episode of We must not take chances to alter the timeline bullshit, alters the timeline to meet and shake hands with Kirk (to no timeline-changing harm, of course). That's not the really stupid part. No, for this scene producers didn't use The Original Series' Tribble episode for Kirk, they used the end of Mirror Mirror when Kirk recognized, on his Enterprise, the body double of the Captain's Woman he'd been banging in the alternative universe, Sisko interposed as the Captain's Woman, I....

I..... but.... fine metap..... am going to play two more  Kate Bush songs and post another John Ashbery poem in anticipation of their upcoming High Holy Days....


John Ashbery

Anyone, growing up in a space you hadn't used yet
would've done the same: bother the family's bickering
to head straight into the channel. My, those times
crackled near about us, from sickly melodrama
instead of losing, and the odd confusion... confusion.

I thought if it then, and in the mountains.
During the day we perforated the eponymous city limits
and then some. No one knew all about us
but some knew plenty. It was time to leave that town
for an empty drawer
into which they sailed. Some of the eleven thousand
virgins were getting queasy. I say, stop the ship!
No can do. Here come the bald arbiters
with their eyes on chains, just so, like glasses.
Heck, it's only a muskrat
that's seen better years, when things were medieval
and gold....

So you people in the front,
leave. You see them. And you understand it all.
It doesn't end, night's sorcery notwithstanding.
Would you have preferred to be a grownup in earlier times
than the child can contain or imagine?
Or is right now the answer - you know, the radio
we heard news on late at night,
out checkered fortunes so pretty.
Here's your ton of plumes, and your Red Seal Recors.
The whole embrace.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

What a Big Bald Spot You Have!

My sincerest apologies, I hadn't blogfarted like that in months, I'd been diligent about saving drafts by setting publishing dates a year ahead to prevent such blogfarts. I mean I know I'm an attention slut but posting a draft of the next post tonight was an accident. Since I pumped the feed I feel responsible to fill the feed, I hate those The Post You Clicked Doesn't Exist messages, this seems a .06% less-shitty solution, fine metaphors abound. Hope you like the songs (lyrics to above!). They'll be gone, as will this post, when the post I didn't mean to post is posted Wednesday (or Thursday)...

UPDATE! I didn't expect anyone to comment but since Thunder did the post has to stay. This is another example of why I am always writing about rules.