- I feel like shutting the fuck up today, though have reads, songs, poems since I'd collected them already.
- Start from common humanity.
- Luckily someone saves me from typing more than this sentence on Reiteration of Problems of -.06% Less-Shittyism.
- Seventeen contradictions and the end of capitalism.
- Challenging casino capitalism and authoritarian politics in an age of disposability.
- The war on contingency or, the outsourcing of commerce to the consumer.
- Corporate doesn't give a flying fuck about DOMA, Corporate got the SCOTUS decision it wanted.
- The Accidental Bricoleurs.
- One mile from my house.
- SeatSix finds a restaurant website that speaks my language.
- Shards of summer.
- Bleggalgazing a hiatus if not death.
- Silliman's always generous litlinks.
- Krasznahorkai: Krasznahorkai, in other words, has invented a way of writing disenchanted fables.
- I finished War and War and liked it but feel I'm not reading well enough to have appreciated what all the work it took was worth. Cause his books are work.
- Reading Gass' Middle C now, if it works (if my reading eye is working) I will return to Krasznahorkai's latest next.
- I killed a man who looks like you.
- Yes, I've been remiss giving you PJ Harvey songs.
ADVICE TO A PROPHET
Richard Wilbur
When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city,
Mad-eyed from stating the obvious,
Not proclaiming our fall but begging us
In God’s name to have self-pity,
Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range,
The long numbers that rocket the mind;
Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind,
Unable to fear what is too strange.
Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race.
How should we dream of this place without us?—
The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us,
A stone look on the stone’s face?
Speak of the world’s own change. Though we cannot conceive
Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost
How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost,
How the view alters. We could believe,
If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip
Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy,
The lark avoid the reaches of our eye,
The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip
On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn
As Xanthus once, its gliding trout
Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without
The dolphin’s arc, the dove’s return,
These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken?
Ask us, prophet, how we shall call
Our natures forth when that live tongue is all
Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken
In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean
Horse of our courage, in which beheld
The singing locust of the soul unshelled,
And all we mean or wish to mean.
Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose
Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding
Whether there shall be lofty or long standing
When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.
