Copied in it's entirety:
If the encampment in downtown NYC is a church, then the sprouting of more of these around the country is something of an religious awakening. And the reaction of the other religious faction is pretty telling.
This is a note sent out to people in the Boston Fed building recently upon news of #OccupyBoston.
Good afternoon.
You may notice various demonstrations in the financial district this afternoon. Most notably, beginning this evening and extending indefinitely, the “Occupy Wall Street / Occupy Boston” movement plans a peaceful demonstration and encampment on Dewey Square. You may have seen media reports about this, and as you may know, a few other cities are seeing similar demonstrations in their financial districts.
Our Law Enforcement Unit is attuned to the situation and as always is in close contact with city and law enforcement officials. We will closely monitor the evolving situation throughout the weekend and beyond.For your safety, we suggest you exercise caution, and avoid engaging with any demonstrators. Use of the Summer Street entrance and South Station tunnel may be helpful in limiting any inconvenience to you.
Apparently, the encampment is peaceful, but it’s best to avoid engaging with the demonstrators. Better safe than sorry.
(Meanwhile, the Feds loudly bust some dipshit they lead and funded to be busted for scheming to fly a model-airplane bomb into a Federal building and then three days later they proudly yodel they'd flown an model-airplane bomb into an American citizen. Funny timing, that [You're right, I'm nuts, such symmetry is beyond both Corporate's coordination and sense of humor.].)
Self-plagiarizing myself, the lazy fuck: Self-accusatory only. And the first George Mills let his horse lead him to the salt mine. Cynically, it's a nice surprise to have my complicity challenged. More cynically, new material. You see my sweet bind.
- All music today ripped off from or inspired by yesterday's nine hours of my favorite nine hours of music every week available on WFMU every Friday between 9AM EDT to 6PM. Listen now.
- Thirteen ways of looking at Occupy Wall Street.
- Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird.
- Real resistance.
- Understanding the theory behind Occupy Wall Street.
- For the record, I'm not saying Obama's Killing the Terrorist Show is because of Occupy Anything: it's about POTUS 12, and Occupy Anything is tangentially related because it points out what Obama's Killing the Terrorist Show is supposed to distract motherfucking cracker and pwoggle rubes from complaining about.
- Motherfucking proggles. (h/t)
- Correcting the fucking New York Times.
- If Occupy Anything becomes more than a pimple, say an infected hair follicle on Corporate's Chris Christie thigh, look for the debut of Obama's Squashing the Commies Show. It won't come to that, yes? no?
- Absence of evidence.
- Liberalism is capitalism.
- Fucker.
- This speech will make a difference.
- The assassination.
- Assassin's creed.
- Badiou for those of you who do.
- K, as requested, 4, 12, and 13. Must be me.
- Boatload of links.
- Light from the mesa.
- Pfhat.
- Void and devotion.
SHROUD OF THE GNOME
James Tate
And what amazes me is that none of our modern inventions
surprise or interest him, even a little. I tell him
it is time he got his booster shots, but then
I realize I have no power over him whatsoever.
He becomes increasingly light-footed until I lose sight
of him downtown between the federal building and
the post office. A registered nurse is taking her
coffee break. I myself needed a break, so I sat down
next to her at the counter. "Don't mind me," I said,
"I'm just a hungry little Gnostic in need of a sandwich."
(This old line of mine had met with great success
on any number of previous occasions.) I thought,
a deaf, dumb, and blind nurse, sounds ideal!
But then I remembered that some of the earliest
Paleolithic office workers also feigned blindness
when approached by nonoffice workers, so I paid my bill
and disappeared down an alley where I composed myself.
Amidst the piles of outcast citizenry and burning barrels
of waste and rot, the plump rats darting freely,
the havoc of blown newspapers, lay the little shroud
of my lost friend: small and gray and threadbare,
windworn by the ages of scurrying hither and thither,
battered by the avalanches and private tornadoes
of just being a gnome, but surely there were good times, too.
And now, rejuvenated by the wind, the shroud moves forward,
hesitates, dances sideways, brushes my foot as if for a kiss,
and flies upward, whistling a little-known ballad
about the pitiful, raw etiquette of the underworld.
