These Tumblers Empty Themselves and Yet I Persist

I didn't remember until noon yesterday that June 5th is Richard Butler's birthday, yesterday his 57th. Fuck we are old. The above is my favorite Psychedelic Furs song, or is it this one? at least this very moment:







At least a half a dozen of the one of five best nights of my life revolved around Furs concerts.

Hey, I get mail:

I am writing to you today to inform you that Nuestar, the Registry Operator for the .US domain, will be increasing its annual registration price by $0.50 USD.   As a result of this notification, eNom must raise our pricing for this domain name extension. The purpose of this notice is to inform you of the upcoming price increase and give you advance notice should you want to renew any names ahead of the price change.

On July 1st, 2014 your price for .US will increase by $0.50

I thought about last summer's domain name dramafuck last night, thought I'd better check the email account I use for non-personal correspondence this morning, and shazam. I can spare the fifty cents, can't bare the aggravation of last summer this summer. I was assured last summer that there will be no repeat of the dramafuckery this summer. I have modest hope, massive dread. So: it's that time of year, if this blog goes dark without announcement like it did last summer the domain renewal is why. I know you know if I killed the blog there would be a loud melodramafuck production.

• What we learned from the Snowden Affair.
• Goodbye, normal genes.
• Purple Line.
• My two months of traffic hell began today.
• Mark introduces me to Marie-Claire Bancquart.
• Jim's Hawaiian vacation.
• Ira goes to Canada.
• A dialectical appreciation of twee?
• Eulogy for a cat.
• Joseph Ceravolo: what chemicals have we forgot?

TWENTY-TWENTY VISION

Mark Ford

Unwinding in a cavernous bodega he suddenly
Burst out:--Barman, these tumblers empty themselves
And yet I persist; I am wedged in the giant eye
Of an invisible needle. Walking through doors
Or into them, listening to anecdotes or myself spinning
A yarn, I realize my doom is never to forget
My lost bearings. In medias res we begin
And end: I was born, and then my body unfurled
As if to illustrate a few tiny but effective words--
But--oh my oh my--avaunt. I peered
Forth, stupefied, from the bushes as the sun set
Behind distant hills. A pair of hungry owls
Saluted the arrival of webby darkness; the dew
Descended upon the creeping ferns. At first
My sticky blood refused to flow, gathering instead
In wax-like drops and pools; mixed with water and a dram
Of colourless alcohol it thinned and reluctantly
Ebbed away. I lay emptied as a fallen
Leaf until startled awake by a blinding flash
Of dry lightning, and the onset of this terrible thirst.            

A Man Appeared Out of an Alley and Stopped Me and Said, "Did You See That Man Made Out of Leaves Go By?"

So, um, about three and a half hours from the time I type this sentence and a hundred yards from the cube in which I'm sitting the President is giving a speech. Security is swarming campus, no one can cross campus, I can only imagine the activity on the roof of the building I work in. Good news though: a friend of mine emails to say she may be sitting at that table if any of those assigned need a break, and as such reminds me of a Pere Ubu song, one I've played already this Month of David Thomas Songs but which I now play again.







DEAR MR PRESIDENT

James Tate

Dear Mr. President,

      I saw someone coming in the distance, but couldn't make out who it was. The closer they got the more blurred the face became. Until finally I saw it was just a whirlwind of leaves. It was only me on a football field walking toward the street with my handbag thrown over my shoulder with this big funnel of leaves coming toward me like a man. Then it passed me and went up the street. And then it disappeared. I walked on, toward the bank where I had some business to do. A man appeared out of an alley and stopped me and said, "Did you see that man made out of leaves go by?" "I did, could have fooled me," I said. "Hey, do you suppose you could lend me a dollar for a cup of coffee?" "No, I can't. I'm on my way to the bank," I said. I left him there and went on my way. Pretty soon a little boy crossed my path. He stopped me in my path and said, "I know who you are. You're the Man-of-Leaves. You just took your coat off. You can't fool me." "You're a pretty smart fellow, but you're wrong this time," I said, and went on my way. When I got to the bank I went in and waited to see an officer. When I saw one was free I went in. In the chair behind the desk sat a pile of leaves. It said, "Can I help you?" I stumbled at first, but managed to say, "I'm looking for a small loan, a thousand dollars for, say, twelve months." "Of course. Would you like a 4 1/2% or a 5 1/2% loan?" it said. "I'd like the 4 1/2% if you don't mind," I said. "Very good choice," it said. It made out the paper and handed them to me. "Have a nice day," it said. "It's windy out there," I said. "You're telling me," it said, smoothing himself with satisfaction.

 Have a great four years.

                         Yours sincerely,

                         James Tate

When We Tell Ourselves That So Many Bells Have Rung Beyond Our Understanding What We Really Mean Is That So Many Ring Counter to the Way We Wish to Understand Them

Lordy I love that song. Richard Butler is fifty-seven today. I really loved The Furs - many of the dozens of the best five nights of my life were at Furs shows, especially one at the Ontario Theater in Columbia Heights with Martha and the Muffins and Simple Minds (before that horrible single), then they aged bad for me (or me for them), now it's love again, they are always on the soundtrack either to or from Ohio when we go to visit Planet or take her there or bring her home.

So, um, I'm book-culling.

• This is the summer of purging the house of stuff we've collected since moving in twenty-one years ago that we haven't used in years. Most of the books I'm purging are non-fiction I stupidly bought thinking Hey! I'll read non-fiction and never read more than the intro plus novels I've read but will never read again or novels I've never read and will never read. I've a large stash of first editions which I will keep just because I don't want some asshole used book store owner to rip me off or get their fucking hands on them if I donate the books somewhere. Speaking of which, anyone have any suggestions for a good place to donate hundreds of books?
• No poetry in any of the bags.
• I found $380 in books. More to come, I'm sure.
• Sentence first, verdict later.
• The four plagues of the coming apolcalypse.
• Fall.
• The makers of global capitalism.
• The Rise of Pop Fascism part five.
• The all-powerful bike lobby.
• Photography is not a crime.
• Agamben, for those of you who do.
• Blood and roots.
• Sandy Spring! I have a friend who grew up on Brooke Road.
• TEN MILE CREEK! I've told this story many times before, will again, but as Gauron said to Kid Duras, perhaps, but not today.
• Imitation of Christ.
• Anthony's always generous lit links.
• In the bags: Jim Crace, Tim Winton, Rodney Hall, three novelists I hadn't thought of in ages, all heralded as the next big thing a lifetime or two ago.
• Hamster flagged this PERE UBU NEWS! too, wondered why I hadn't posted it, I responded, it requires a cascade, there is already a cascade today, and June 14th is a High Egoslavian Holy Day, there will be a massive Pere Ubu/Rocket from Tombs/Two Pale Boys/etc cascade that day.
• You only think I document the laws and bylaws of this shitty blog onblog.
• O, OK, have a Pere Ubu song.
• That Psychedelic Furs/Simple Minds/Martha and the Muffins concert is related to my dismissive disdain for used book store owners, the woman I was with at the time was the weeknight manager for Econdsay Torysay Books, the one in the big white house on Old Georgetown in Bethesda where now a giant condominium sits next to the Hyatt, the owner one of the biggest assholes I've ever met. 
• Serendipity is sometimes great good, sometimes great bad, always awesome.
• She also worked the Econdsay Torysay on Greenmount in Waverly, it had four very cool cats, I'd stop by and pick her up, we'd go sit in the upper right deck of Memorial on Three-Buck Nights after we ate dinner at the St Paul Deli.
• I was young once.
• Lordy, I love this song:

FANTASIES OF MANAGEMENT

Timothy Donnelly

When we tell ourselves
       that so many bells
have rung beyond
       our understanding

what we really mean
       is that so many ring
counter to the way
       we wish to understand them.

When I think back
      long ago, almost back
to that barbaric time,
       what I want is to lie

down in a mile-wide
       bafflement of grasses
until there is nothing
       left of me but willingness

to go though it all
       again, because unless
a donut box of dollars
       falls down from the

sky I like beneath admiring,
       it can't be avoided -
only this time, when they talk
       as if I had a choice

in the matter, a way to say
       no and live, I'll ask
if the wouldn't mind kindly
       doing me this favor

of repeating that please
       because I couldn't quite make out
whatever they just said
       through all that privilege.