While true I wanted to create another movie to reinforce the process so I remember it for when I need it in the months ahead, more true is there is no gag or gimmick I won't hump as long as it makes me giggle (>>deleted bleggalgaze<<), so here, all the Fleabus photos taken by Planet when both she and Fleabus and you and me were younger. Fleabus is still and always the best cat ever, it's wonderful, she's having a resurgence of fleabusnous - I hate to say it, Sarah dying has been a boon to all four indoor cats but Fleabus most: she's happy, playful again. Fine metaphors abound. What, another movie?
- That's the sunset trip to Ohio, three weekends back, left Kensington rush hour Friday, all photos in Maryland, Washington and Allegheny counties, 70 then 68.
- Disposition Matrix!
- On the above.
- On the above.
- Oh dear. Is it time to declare Digby a fucking hippie? And I call bullshit on Joe Scarborough finding god now.
- Waive that flag, Progressives!
- Think of six impossible things before voting.
- Activism and the politics of enclosure.
- (Imaginary) Living after the Death of Falsity.
- Whatever's up, wish him and his well.
- They got nothing.
- An incoherent debate for an unsettled world.
- CEO disease.
- Saturated fat.
- The consolation of skepticism.
- Yes, Illtophay's colors are blue and gray. Home gray sucks.
- Good for Brunswick.
- Denise Levertov was born 89 years ago today.
- The seeds of its unfolding.
- In California During the Gulf War.
- New Guided by Voices song!
- Look what cassette I found last night.
SOJOURNS IN THE PARALLEL WORLD
Denise Levertov
We live our lives of human passions, Denise Levertov
cruelties, dreams, concepts,
crimes and the exercise of virtue
in and beside a world devoid
of our preoccupations, free
from apprehension--though affected,
certainly, by our actions. A world
parallel to our own though overlapping.
We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly
admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.
Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,
our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,
an hour even, of pure (almost pure)
response to that insouciant life:
cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing
pilgrimage of water, vast stillness
of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,
animal voices, mineral hum, wind
conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering
of fire to coal--then something tethered
in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch
of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.
No one discovers
just where we've been, when we're caught up again
into our own sphere (where we must
return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)
--but we have changed, a little.
