Terry Riley (here's the MP3 library at Ubuweb) was born 78 years ago today. Here's an all Riley show from Bryce in 2012. The recently released Don Cherry - Terry Riley 1975 live concert from Koln is another best release of 2013, it's today's cascade. It's only on vinyl that I can find, fucking iTunes is useless as usual, HEY! someone with a turn-table, if I buy this and send it to you will you please burn me a CD? Archive that direct appeal for a partner in copyright theft, Copper!
- The elite are not primarily concerned about terrorism.
- Unearthing chthonic conspiracies.
- The Ten Commandments of Neoliberalism.
- The Thirteen Commandments of Neoliberalism.
- How to protect - to a point - yourself.
- I actually did phone canvassing for hours in the weeks leading up to the 2004 election and physically canvassed voters in Harrisburg on election day in 2004 for this motherfucker, gave his campaign hundreds of dollars, the current SoS. He lost the election in significant part due to a campaign labeling him a traitor for speaking out against the atrocities in Vietnam. Irony's a bitch.
- Michael Hastings and the war on journalism.
- Obama is making a speech on campus tomorrow, in the extraordinary security precautions going into effect the building in which I was to attend a meeting I dread will be closed so the meeting needs rescheduling, so thanks, Obama.
- Bleggalgazing, of a sort, and more.
- I have read at least six variations of the joke on the irony that Snowden might go to Cuba to avoid US courts where did he get that idea.
- I am also reminded that during breaking news people report to their digital overlords for info and instruction.
- The Napoleon and Momcat Emergency Alert tagline remains until....
- Map of MOCO tweets.
- Ten Mile Creek!
- New Inquiry's Sunday links.
- World Cup of Short Form of Cricket.
- Anthony's links of the week.
- To a mouse.
- Ashbery and the pragmatist sublime.
- Twee started earlier than you think it did. Remember arguing, Belle and Sebastian, twee or fey?
THE DEFINITION OF GARDENING
James Tate
Jim just loves to garden, yes he does.
He likes nothing better than to put on
his little overalls and his straw hat.
He says, "Let's go get those tools, Jim."
But then doubt begins to set in.
He says, "What is a garden, anyway?"
And thoughts about a "modernistic" garden
begin to trouble him, eat away at his resolve.
He stands in the driveway a long time.
"Horticulture is a groping in the dark
into the obscure and unfamiliar,
kneeling before a disinterested secret,
slapping it, punching it like a Chinese puzzle,
birdbrained, babbling gibberish, dig and
destroy, pull out and apply salt,
hoe and spray, before it spreads, burn roots,
where not desired, with gloved hands, poisonous,
the self-sacrifice of it, the self-love,
into the interior, thunderclap, excruciating,
through the nose, the earsplitting necrology
of it, the withering, shriveling,
the handy hose holder and Persian insect powder
and smut fungi, the enemies of the iris,
wireworms are worse than their parents,
there is no way out, flowers as big as heads,
pock-marked, disfigured, blinking insolently
at me, the me who so loves to garden
because it prevents the heaving of the ground
and the untimely death of porch furniture,
and dark, murky days in a large city
and the dream home under a permanent storm
is also a factor to keep in mind."
