Things are busy. We leave for England a week from tomorrow, so I'm not only busy I'm weary of working the cud of aargh I've been working. Fuck the clusterfuck, I've a 90% chance of one of the best vacations ever and a 10% chance it's the worst, so I'm thinking about that. Plus, jeebus, the Blog Days of Summer. Wait for August, especially if there's not an apocalypse between now and then.
I'm buying a new camera, thinking this one maybe, though any suggestions in the same price range I solicit. Do remember, I'm a techtard, so if there's a better camera for my grade of tech idiot than this one, please let me know. Consider this forewarning on what this blog will be doing from next Friday to the second following Monday. Consider this post a forewarning of what this blog may be doing until then (though there will be a game recap Sunday - home game Saturday. I can't wait).
- Link farming? I call it blogwhoring! (Thanks for bump a week or two ago.)
- Craven.
- Of course the fucker is a motherfucking war criminal.
- On the above.
- On the above to the above.
- The destruction of the middle class will not be televised.
- Who owns congress? (h/t)
- Worse than you think.
- Who can resist?
- Do read Is there a new geek anti-intellectualism?
- When you're right, you're right.
- Our news vs their news.
- The will to powerlessness.
- FMFML!
- Fuckface!
- FMFML!
- Pagan. I remember the double like it was yesterday.
- Silliman's always generous lit-links.
- If I wanted to try a China Miéville, what's the one to start with?
- On women writers and Asshole Naipaul.
- Josipovici, for those of you who do.
- A love song.
- This is not a love song.
- Make your own Tullis and Clark mix.
- Go here. Scroll down to where is says music behind DC Curd Duca and pull up the pop-up player. Question - if I wanted that song to play anytime someone accesses this shitty blog, is there a way to do that in blooger?
- Here's Curd Duca's Sin World.
- Mining the audio motherlode.
- Murder followed by suicide.
- Three more hours of Martin Rushent.
WOMAN ON TWENTY-SECOND EATING BERRIES
Stanley Plumly
She's not angry exactly but all business,
eating them right off the tree, with confidence,
the kind that lets her spit out the bad ones
clear of the sidewalk into the street. It's
sunny, though who can tell what she's tasting,
rowan or one of the serviceberries—
the animal at work, so everybody,
save the traffic, keeps a distance. She's picking
clean what the birds have left, and even,
in her hurry, a few dark leaves. In the air
the dusting of exhaust that still turns pennies
green, the way the cloudy surfaces
of things obscure their differences,
like the mock orange or the apple rose that
cracks the paving stone, rooted in the plaza.
No one will say your name, and when you come to
the door no one will know you, a parable
of the afterlife on earth. Poor grapes, poor crabs,
wild black cherry trees, on which some forty-six
or so species of birds have fed, some boy's dead
weight or the tragic summer lightning killing
the seed, how boyish now that hunger
to bring those branches down to scale,
to eat of that which otherwise was waste,
how natural this woman eating berries, how alone.