Colin Moulding is 57 today. I may have mentioned it already. I generally dig Partridge's songs much more, but still, Egoslavian Holy Day. Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team? It's true! (and they made a trade yesterday), and I looked at the schedule yesterday and I've a moral quandary. There was no Thursday Night Pints last night because there's a Sunday Night Barbeque at L's house for her birthday and SHAZAM! motherfucking MLS scheduled a soccer game for motherfucking five o'clock on a motherfucking Sunday, the motherfuckers. L wins unless a possible clusterfuck in her life materializes, won't know until Sunday morning. >>Deleted bleggalgazing<< Hey, be Kind, check out some new bips on the blegrells.
- Cynical days.
- Motherfucking Pastor Sanctimonious.
- Jesusfuck, it's pisses me off that that pisses me off. Acknowledging motherfucking Obama does not mitigate - why I thought it would, why I still think it can, is proof of my permanent rubity - my recreational disdain I've burnished for decades. Dammit.
- Criminalizing dissent.
- Canons to the Left of me.
- Britain's second empire.
- Sideshow's links.
- War Dance.
- Venus and Mars.
- The >>deleted bleggalgazing<< was actually re: the other place, but I'll let it go at thank you Russian pornbot for all the hits! Tis amazing.
- Who the hell uses stupidass Star Trek allusions?
- How the American university was killed in five easy steps.
- Peace, joy, etc.
- runaway return.
- Runaway.
- Creeley, reading.
- Evan S Connell is 88 today. I remember when the Bridges, Mr and Mrs, were regular reading for lit-folks.
- On Lisa Robertson's prose.
- Roundabout.
- In Loving Memory of a Name.
- What in the World?
- Gass.
- Grass.
- Gass.
- Vanishing Girl.
- Frivolous Tonight.
- In Another Life.
[UNTITLED]
Lisa Robertson
It was Jessica Grim the American poet
who first advised me to read Violette Leduc.
Lurid conditions are facts. This is no different
from daily protests and cashbars.
I now unknowingly speed towards
which of all acts, words, conditions—
I am troubled that I do not know.
When I feel depressed in broad daylight
depressed by the disappearance of names, the pollen
smearing the windowsill, I picture
the bending pages of La Bâtarde
and I think of wind. The outspread world is
comparable to a large theatre
or to rending paper, and the noise it makes when it flaps
is riotous. Clothes swish through the air, rubbing
my ears. Promptly I am quenched. I’m talking
about a cheap paperback which fans and
slips to the floor with a shush. Skirt stretched
taut between new knees, head turned back, I
hold down a branch,
