- Fucking pigs. Wonder if they waded into the State College rioters with such glee. Wonder if crackers would cheer the pigs wading into the State College rioters with the same glee they cheer the pigs wading into Occupiers. Actually, I don't wonder at all.
- Remorseless.
- Knowing our enemy, part two.
- The end of Loser Liberalism?
- How do you plead?
- Keynes v Hayek.
- Rhetorical question.
- In case you had any doubt.....
- From no occupation to Occupy.
- A framing memo for Occupy.
- What does a General Assembly do?
- The view from Japan once, twice.
- Riot police.
- Panopticon.
- True.
- O! good. Excellent take down on The World's Second Shittiest Human.
- On New Zealand crackers. I'm sorry, crackers are funny.
- Life is busy, plus this is how my head is working now, hence the even more than usual abbreviated nature of recent posts. I can say that Dark Green is kicking Noxzema-Bottle Blues ass in the polling - please go vote if you haven't and give a shit (and not giving a shit is a voting option too!), so Dark Green for another day and until the novelty wears off enough I'm forced to confront the moral dilemma of my faithlessness to my favorite color. Give thanks I haven't school-bus yellowed you, yo.
- Shit, I can't find an online version of Hecht's Green: An Epistle. I'll scan it and post the pdfs later today. Or not.
- Mining the audio motherlode.
- You're gonna miss me.
- Woke up with this in my head:
SESTINA d'INVERNO
Anthony Hecht
Here in this bleak city of Rochester,
Where there are twenty-seven words for “snow,”
Not all of them polite, the wayward mind
Basks in some Yucatan of its own making,
Some coppery, sleek lagoon, or cinnamon island
Alive with lemon tints and burnished natives,
And O that we were there. But here the natives
Of this grey, sunless city of Rochester
Have sown whole mines of salt about their land
(Bare ruined Carthage that it is) while snow
Comes down as if The Flood were in the making.
Yet on that ocean Marvell called the mind
An ark sets forth which is itself the mind,
Bound for some pungent green, some shore whose natives
Blend coriander, cayenne, mint in making
Roasts that would gladden the Earl of Rochester
With sinfulness, and melt a polar snow.
It might be well to remember that an island
Was blessed heaven once, more than an island,
The grand, utopian dream of a noble mind.
In that kind climate the mere thought of snow
Was but a wedding cake; the youthful natives,
Unable to conceive of Rochester,
Made love, and were acrobatic in the making.
Dream as we may, there is far more to making
Do than some wistful reverie of an island,
Especially now when hope lies with the Rochester
Gas and Electric Co., which doesn’t mind
Such profitable weather, while the natives
Sink, like Pompeians, under a world of snow.
The one thing indisputable here is snow,
The single verity of heaven’s making,
Deeply indifferent to the dreams of the natives,
And the torn hoarding-posters of some island.
Under our igloo skies the frozen mind
Holds to one truth: it is grey, and called Rochester.
No island fantasy survives Rochester,
Where to the natives destiny is snow
That is neither to our mind nor of our making.
