I'm fine, thank you loved ones and friends analog and digital who emailed or texted wondering. I sat at my computer with a cup of coffee yesterday morning just like I always do and... it wasn't a fuck it, it wasn't a fuck this. It wasn't aargh or meh or dare. It wasn't feinting a bleggal hiatus. It wasn't frustration at Dead Blegsylvania. If there was an itsy-bitsy epiphany it wasn't sought. I decided to shut off the laptop and pick up the novel I'm reading* where I left off Thursday night. I do take days off every once in a while. I always give notice so people don't worry. I know my bleggal OCD makes me regular as a digital clock posting-wise. Thank you for worrying. I intended to post yesterday then just decided I wasn't. It seemed too blogslutty even for me to post a post that there will be no post today.
Later yesterday morning, at the dentist for a check-up, the waiting room flat screen was tuned to CNN and CNN was going Full Metal Bundy. The receptionist and hygienist tried to explain in whispers to the other what was going on in Nevada. I kept my mouth shut and my ears averted from flat screen, receptionist, and hygienist. It had occurred to me Thursday night when I was link-fishing for this post that once I would have written something about Full Metal Bundy - the actors, the producers, the audience. I didn't think about it again until I was in the dentist's waiting room and it was on CNN and the receptionist and hygienist were whispering about it, and I didn't think about it again until I wrote this paragraph Friday night after hearing WTOP tease a segment on Full Metal Bundy when I was tuning in for traffic and weather. I once would have written about my barometric pressure re: Full Metal Bundy, and apparently I still am.
I have, of course, thought about little else than my bleggal OCD since getting texts and emails - thank you - asking me if I was dead.
- Which of course means I again post a post that means more to me than most of my posts on the slowest day of the week in Blegsylvania. I do it too much to be the accident I tell myself it is.
- I'm playing Patapsco Saturday morning with Dr Z, going to United v Dallas tonight with SeatSix, if there is blogging tomorrow (and there might not be tomorrow) it will be Disc Golf Blogging and Soccer Blogging (with photos!), so tune in!
- The Fashionable Crackpot.
- Technocapitalism: War Machines and the Immortalist Imperative.
- What is money?
- Hillary Clinton says exactly what you think she would say when asked about Edward Snowden.Has anyone asked Elizabeth Warner what she thinks about Edward Snowden? I'm curious. I bet a pint she says what Hillary Clinton said. Someone should ask her.
- Why nations can't resist austerity.
- Unbuilding II: What is the sense of ruination that we have now?
- The busiest intersection in MOCO? My daily hell!
- Purple Line! and eminent domain.
- davidly reviews Jacob.
- Now you can by Dave's book digitally (at a ridiculously low price).
- *Melville's Confidence Man.
- The End.
- Defacing the Monument: on Muriel Rukeyser. Click the tag for poems.
FABLE
Tom Sleigh
But where, oh where is the holy idiot,
truth teller and soothsayer, familiar
of spirits, rat eater, unhouseled wanderer
whose garble and babble fill rich and poor,
homeless and housed, with awe and fear?
Is he hiding in the pit of the walkie-talkie,
its grid of holes insatiably hungry,
almost like a baby, sucking in the police sergeant's
quiet voice as he calls in reinforcements?
Oh holy idiot, is that you sniffing the wind
for the warm turd smell on the mounted policemen
backing their horses' quivering, skittish
haunches into the demonstrators' faces?
Oh little village among the villages,
the wild man, the holy Bedlamite is gone,
and nobody, now, knows where to find him...
Lying in mud? lying caked in mud, hair elfed into knots?
Some poor mad Tom roving the heath
for a warm soft place to lie his body down,
his speech obsessed with oaths, demons,
his tongue calling forth the Foul Fiend, Flibbertigibbet
as the horses back slowly, slowly into the crowd
and he eats filth, he crams his ravenous mouth with filth—
and then he sits on his stool in the trampled hay
and deep-rutted mud, he anoints himself
with ashes and clay, he puts on his crown
of fumiter weed and holds his scepter
of a smouldering poker and calls the court to order.
