- Conlon Nancarrow was born 101 years ago yesterday. I confess, after I watched that for the fourth time last night I almost broke my promise to myself not to post anything Sunday unless kaboom or Egoslavian Holy Day.
- RIP Lou Reed, but I'm not the person to eulogize Lou Reed. It's not hate, it's not love. VU has aged badly for me (but not for others), Reed's solo work by and large didn't interest me. That's on me. And there are plenty of links to eulogies, a sign that if Lou Reed didn't sing to me he sang to a lot of people whose music opinions I value.
- Here's one. Here's another. Here's a third.
- I promised myself I wasn't going to post yesterday barring kaboom, and Reed's death is not a kaboom to me, and I'm certain (and you'll have to trust me) that had I not promised myself not to post barring kaboom I wouldn't have posted a stand-alone RIP Lou Reed post. This did get me thinking of borderline kabooms. John Cale, KABOOM, but say... well I won't say, I'm sure, if I keep promising myself days off, I will be tested soon enough.
- Theses on austerity and how to fight it.
- Krugman's errors.
- Another lesson on proper whistleblowing.
- Maggie's weekly links.
- { feuillton }'s weekly links.
- The New Inquiry's Sunday readings.
- Bernhard, for those of you who do. I confess, I don't do well with German novelists, acknowledged irony from a far shittier bleggalgazer, reading bleggalgazing sucks to me.
- But hey! bleggalgazing: I can! I can not post everyday! I'll see what tomorrow's blog-pressure numbers are.
- On Bach, for those of you who do.
- Bach defended against his devotees. (h/t guy in link above)
- Linda Thompson interview!
- Sylvia Plath was born 81 years ago yesterday. See kaboom and Nancarrow bullet above.
YOU'RE
Sylvia Plath
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools’ Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
