I saw the revolting photo of Obama making some stupidass hand-gesture with a graduating Air Force cadet, read the quotes of his repugnant purple speech reaffirming American empire and I.... oh fucked it. What's the vile motherfucker going to say, we're an empire in terminal decline though I'll kill as many people around the world and circumscribe American citizens' civil liberties and militarize the police against peaceful dissent while gutting social safety nets in order to maintain the profit margins and lifestyles of our Corporate elite? This isn't to condone or excuse but, for the moment, to oh-fuck-it, why burn the aargh over motherfucking propaganda in an election year. So I was going to oh-fuck-it anyway, but luckily I was then distracted in comments to yesterday's post, hence the above photo, which references the discussion of tens and the below youtube which references the discussion of Serbian-Canadians. This guy follows up on the discussions too. For the record, my grandparents were Serb and Slovak on my father's side, Hungarian and German on my mother's.
- Behold the Lord High Executioner!
- Anarchism entails violence?
- Disruptive fiction?
- The oligarchy's rule of law.
- Fucking and killing.
- Of course the drones watching you will be armed.
- There's another KITH skit with the McKinney Canadian-Serbian seen at the end of the above youtube that I can't find yet, but here he is as a Croatian-Canadian cab driver:
- Sordid in Maryland!
- In the chloroformed sanctuary.
- RIP Paul Fussell.
- RIP Paul Fussell.
- Joseph Brodsky was born 72 years ago today. Remember when he was going to be an all-timer? Remember when Harold Brodkey as going to be an all-timer?
- 2009 article on Will Oldham. (h/t Hamster for reminding me of it.)
- Confession: I dig Tegan and Sara.
- Playlist! includes The Gits!
- Interview w/Lloyd Cole.
WHAT THE LIVING DO
Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell
down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have
piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't
turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag
breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist
and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We
want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then
more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
