- Napoleon Alert System Activated. It's been since early Monday morning since any of us has seen him.
- UPDATE! Works every time. Deactivating Napoleon Alert System
- Wilfully Obscure reminded me yesterday of The Nobodys.
- The music if fine, but since I hadn't thought of them in at least two decades it reminded me that I was young once, though you may not believe it.
- Remember when mocking Michelle Malkin was Left Blegsylvania's most satisfying gag? Someone named Melissa Harris Perry scolded Edward Snowden for being - get this - an attention slut. Regardless of what confidential information Snowden reveals, the real value of the Snowden Affair - sorry, I keep repeating myself - is in the reaction not only of Power but in Power's liberal propagandists' behavior. Melissa Harris Perry - whoever the fuck she is, I'm told she's a load - is pissed Snowden's attention sluttery is eclipsing her attention sluttery, and Melissa Harris Perry is right.
- I say this with full admittance - my constant admittance - of my attention sluttery.
- Q&A w/Greenwald. I must confess, the visceral hatred of Greenwald by the professional Left propagandists fascinates me on sooooooooo many levels.
- Lesson learned: don't weaponize your sidewalk. But yes, I've not mentioned the Zimmerman trial much because what can be said about a country where a murdered black kid is put on trial for his own murder?
- Twenty-four hour moratorium on further comment self-imposed.
- This will be an exceptionally slow day here in smaller Stringtowns as most everyone goes to Stringtown's bleggal overlords to keep up with the story.
- How to get away with murder.
- You are the enemy.
- Weapons of mass distraction.
- The conspiracy matrix.
- Neither a rightist or leftist be.
- Angst of pianists.
- Today in motherfucking blooger, anyone here I trust know the back-end of blooger as in dealing w/google or know anyone they trust. Dear blooger:
- Picard was 73 yesterday, btw. And who the fuck uses sillyass Star Trek allusions?
- Midsummer.
- A feeling of emptiness.
- A history of the secret.
- Using, rather than being used, by our devices.
- { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
- Maggie's weekly links.
- Cleveland 1911, for you two.
- Crunching literary numbers.
- Golf is punk rock.
- A history of the Cult of Mayonnaise.
- Spicer interview.
- Heavy summer rain.
- That novel, Naked Singularity? that failed me, me not it. The PEN Awards say it was me.
- Just because I decided I wasn't going to post a Kate Bush song each day of July for her birthday at month's end doesn't mean there won't be any Kate Bush until her birthday. Went to sleep listening to this one, woke up, the song was still in my head:
[LETTER TO GARY BUTTONE]
Jack Spicer
Dear Gary,
Somehow your letter was no surprise (and I think you knew that it was no surprise or you would have tried to break the news more gently); somehow I think we understand what the other is going to say long before we say it—a proof of love and, I think, a protection against misunderstanding. So I've been expecting this letter for five weeks now—and I still don't know how to answer it.
Bohemia is a dreadful, wonderful place. It is full of hideous people and beautiful poetry. It is a hell full of windows into heaven. It would be wrong of me to drag a person I love into such a place against his will. Unless you walk into it freely, and with open despairing eyes, you can't even see the windows. And yet I can't leave Bohemia myself to come to you—Bohemia is inside of me, in a sense is me, was the price I paid, the oath I signed to write poetry.
I think that someday you'll enter Bohemia—not for me (I'm not worth the price, no human being is), but for poetry—to see the windows and maybe blast a few yourself through the rocks of hell. I'll be there waiting for you, my arms open to receive you.
But let's have these letters go on, whether it be days, years, or never before I see you. We can still love each other although we cannot see each other. We will be no farther apart when I'm in Berkeley than we were when I was in Minneapolis. And we can continue to love each other, by letter, from alien worlds.
Love,
Jack
