Long two, Earthgirl took over a 15K photos. I had to reduce time per photo to a second a shot to get it to two slideshows uploadable by youtube. This is what we do for fun: long long day-long drives. Many of the photos are from The Rim of the World, easily one of the coolest roads I've ever driven, this being the third time. Planet had never seen Ohio University, she was curious, for me, driving 78 over the Rim of the World again from Glouster to 284 east of McConnellsville and then 284 north to Chandlersville - my third time - was the fun.
- Then pizza - SeatSix, we finally tried Donatos, it was very good, good enough to get again - in the room while Planet did homework and Earthgirl painted and I link-fished, it was wonderful.
- A STATISTICAL ANALYSIS OF BOB ROSS PAINTINGS!
- David Harvey interview. (I don't think I've posted this one yet, if yes, oh well.)
- Gardening and imperialism.
- Ames v Greenwald et al continued: I’ll start by saying that the fact that Marxists and anarchists now call a billionaire by his first name is reason enough to keep looking at/writing about the social phenomena that brought that about. So getting accused of monomania for doing so is getting very old, especially since people like Henwood are no less obsessed. They’re just obsessed in a different way. The right way. Accusing people who are making a point of not applauding of obsession is just another way of getting people to shut up — another form of ostracism.
- Naming Bethesda for marketing profits.
- Sandy Spring.
- The view out my window at 7:00 this morning in Gambier looks like an Earthgirl painting.
- And very well could be someday.
- Yes, that's snow.
- Lust for life (not Iggy).
- Beckett, for those of you who do.
- Tangerine Dream.
- Chris Forsyth.
- For Alvin Lucier.
- Harry Partch.
- Prunella's latest playlist.
- Planet has told me she wants to be picked up May 14th and 15th. I have a ticket to see Swans at Black Cat on 14th. Planet wins, but damn. Hey! New Swans!
FATHER, IN DRAWER
Lucie Brock-Broido
Mouthful of earth, hair half a century silvering, who buried him.
With what. Make a fist for heart. That is the size of it.
Also directives from our DNA.
The nature of his wound was the clock-cicada winding down.
He wound down.
July, vapid, humid: sails of sailboats swelled, yellow boxes
Of cigars from Cuba plumped. Ring fingers fattened for a spell.
Barges of coal bloomed in heat.
It was when the catfish were the only fish left living
In the Monongahela River.
Though there were (they swore) no angels left, one was stillbound in
The very drawer of salt and ache and rendering, its wings wrapped-in
By the slink from the strap
Of his second-wife’s pearl-satin slip, shimmering and still
As one herring left face-up in its brine and tin.
The nature of his wound was muscadine and terminal; he was easy
To take down as a porgy off the cold Atlantic coast.
In the old city of Brod, most of the few Jews left
Living may have been still at supper while he died.
That same July, his daughters’ scales came off in every brittle
Tinsel color, washing
To the next slow-yellowed river and the next, toward west,
Ohio-bound.
This is the extent of that. I still have plenty heart.
