Pseu played this song last night, hadn't heard it in at least thirty years, was my favorite song when I was eleven. From the new place: I have not put pen to tablet since google broke my ability to modify BLCKDGRD’s template. I’ve not put pen to tablet since I was thanked for typing out tablet. The first happened one day, the second the next day, though autohagiographically I will remember them as single event. True that. So yeah, that's where the bleggalgazing has been, is, probably will be. The tug of Hiatt. This week in war. bin Laden's last victory. On the consistency of Liberal interventionists. All good Democrats applaud Republicans caving in phony war. Fiscal farce, failure, fantasy & fornication. No different whined at than withstood. Formula. Aaron Swartz and depression. What if Aaron Swartz wasn't white? Full disclosure, I'm a white liberal in academia, but the two angles of the Swartz story that have driven my interest are, first, as always, the battle for control of the narrative (and the battle to be king of whichever narrative one promotes) when stories like this break and, second, government power in service of monetizing anything and everything, in this case the distribution of information. Drought. The sensual history of destruction. Programmed for primetime. Bourdieu, for those of you who do. epistemological performance.
UPDATE! RIP UPDATE! Landru remembers Weaver. My bachelor party: Rangers 8, Orioles 5 on 33rd Street w/Landru and Hamster.
Najar gone? Salihiless. World's largest library of animal sounds. Here's the weird thing - if I'm trying to change the color of the links on my PC at work I can in Firefox but can't in Chrome, if I tying the change the color of the links on my laptop I can't in Firefox but can in Chrome. I'd really like to believe that blooger is fucking with me, but can't. A yew tree and Hilary Mantel. Rosen on Chopin. Siouxsie in concert.
UNMEDIATED EXPERIENCE
Bob Hicok
She does this thing. Our seventeen-
year-old dog. Our mostly deaf dog.
Our mostly dead dog, statistically
speaking. When I crouch.
When I put my mouth to her ear
and shout her name. She walks away.
Walks toward the nothing of speech.
She even trots down the drive, ears up,
as if my voice is coming home.
It’s like watching a child
believe in Christmas, right
before you burn the tree down.
Every time I do it, I think, this time
she’ll turn to me. This time
she’ll put voice to face. This time,
I’ll be absolved of decay.
Which is like being a child
who believes in Christmas
as the tree burns, as the drapes catch,
as Santa lights a smoke
with his blowtorch and asks, want one?
