I never write about work but I want to write about something tangentially related to work but since I no longer write anything about anything just tangentially related to work (though TNP will continue!), I can't talk about...
... and even I'm tired of bleggalgazing though bleggalgazing is all I do because everything is bleggalgazing and everything needs said, re: the tremendous generosity of the Kind, the pettiness of the unKind, the serial categorizers and semantic quibblers, the smart and funny versus Isms' pedantic janissaries, those bullies we hated in seventh grade now grown up and still hellbent on being King of Anarchists, and....
....whatever the fuck I like though I never fully do, and yes, I did also say I was never ever going to post any more gifs without accreditation again.
- Four modes of ambiguity.
- On bullying.
- Achieving liberaldom.
- Watch Happily Drowning.
- PR is Corporate's most important division.
- The search for disequalibrium.
- The Planet Krypton.
- Yes, multiple things have me pissed off in multiple (though not primary) worlds (and no, not that, that's old), so self-indulgent bleggal catharsis necessary. Apologies.
- Every single one.
- A pig hunting pigs.
- Knights on shining white horseshit.
- Two YFWP Villagers don't like Rick Perry.
- On Mr Know-Alls.
- This is the ice age.
- Tangible examples.
- Election march of the trolls.
- Dickdick.
- Swimming.
- To prove I can break format, I will not end this post with a youtube of music. This may not be significant to you, though....
- Women around the world at work.
- ....it's a step in convincing myself I don't have to post everyday, as a...
- Moco tackles crime wave!
- Do bookmark or feed Piri' Miri Muli'.
- This week's new releases.
- ...reminder I can do what the fuck I want here.
- Holyfuck, found it last night looking for something else. Sweet flashbacks.
THE SIMULACRA
D. Nurkse
They were driving into the mountains, suddenly married,
sometimes touching each other’s cheek with a fingernail
gingerly: the radio played ecstatic static: certain roads
marked with blue enamel numbers led to cloud banks,
or basalt screes, or dim hotels with padlocked verandas.
Sometimes they quarreled, sometimes they grew old,
the wind was constant in their eyes, it was their own wind,
they made it. Small towns flew past, Rodez, Albi,
limestone quarries, pear orchards, children racing
after hoops, wobbling when their shadows wavered,
infants crying for fine rain, old women on stoops
darning gray veils—and who were we, watching?
Doubles, ghosts, the ones who would tell of the field
where they pulled over, bluish tinge of the elms, steepness
of the other’s eyes, glowworm hidden in its own glint,
how the rain was twilight and now is darkness.
