- The Field Mice were put in my head Saturday night and have stayed there.
- Yes, I realize there was no field recordings this past weekend. There were some drafted and saved but Bryce's incredible Parmegiani tribute trumped. Don't worry, the field recordings are drafted and saved.
- Today is actually the slowest day in Blegsylvania that's not one of the five slowest days in Blegsylvania that ended yesterday. So, have some links, some songs, a Lisa Robertson song, not much more.
- I was in Politics and Prose on Saturday before Obama showed up, though all the Ford Escalades on Connecticut and suited fuckers with ear pieces in the store sorta tipped it off he was going to be there soon. Once I overheard two store employees talking, I bought my books and got the fuck out of there as fast as I could.
- Hobsbawm, for those of you who do.
- Alarming clown epidemic.
- Maggie's weekly links.
- New Inquiry's Sunday links.
- { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
- ICC. I still haven't driven it, be damned if I'm going to buy an EZ Pass just to see it once.
- Purple Line! Watch the outpouring of love for the Hay's Spring amphiphod from local homeowners along the proposed route.
- Verily, fuck Bethesda.
- SeatSix (who sent me link to alarming clown epidemic) and I have our deposits down on next year's DC United season tickets even though neither of us went to a game after July. Part of my reasoning is my long-time Fuck Me Jig bet that there will never be a new soccer stadium in DC, that I would do a Fuck Me Jig in front of my new seat (in an endzone, but that's another post) in a new stadium should one ever be built. Repeat after me: there will never be a new soccer stadium in DC.
- A family bestiary.
- Kafka, for those of you who do.
- Diminishing perspective.
- Here is a sentence I never imagined typing: The Pixies are playing Strathmore. I'll not be there. For many reasons, not least of which: jeebus, their music didn't age well for me.
- Monica's farewell show.
HOTEL COUPLETS
Lisa Robertson
It was a clandestine winter of television;
We were so tired of the fashion blogs.
The moist world was doing what it could
To think at pinkish dusk.
I say this from the position of having already been emptied
That summer I heard the chora in the beergarden.
Vitality, monstrosity, sociability, anarchy--these are
standing in for a kind of sensing that hasn't happened yet.
There's a slicing rain horizontally striping the train
window.
If ornamentation can be austere
It's a form of brutality.
I started asking questions about the sculptural values
that sound has
And how authority is installed.
Describe the silence there. It's a recording of silence
A marbling or breathing through
Of sentences coarse, heavy, and blistered
About things that weakened.
By 1650, with her outdated ruffs and loyalties, her
pipes, her horses and her Roman histories
I was an overheard language. I lay down in it with my
own nerves and blood.
Each has the pleasure of a new proportion.
It can't be solved, only articulated.
Your wind, your clean sky, places, food, sleep
It all agrees brilliantly with the shape of the earth.
In this attic room with the deep blue carpet and skylight
Imagining these small actions from my chair fills me
with an even calmer happiness.
I was the flexible medium of the future and the
impossibility of beginning.
I was longing for the visible.
