To Make Love, Turn to Page 121. To Die, Turn to Page 172

Got turned on to Foot Village last night by Bodah. I confess it's not a surprise that when I am actually capable of approaching not giving a fuck I rediscover not giving a fuck comes with its own baleful encumbrances, not that I am actually capable of approaching not giving a fuck. Here, one of many things I don't mind giving a fuck about that I don't write about on this blog: The Faculty Senate wishes to express its opposition to a cost reduction measure that puts the burden on staff (including AAPs) and non-tenureline faculty, and therefore on the most vulnerable members of the community, contrary to the values of the University. Austerity, bitches, >>delayed bleggalgazing<<. American exceptionalism. Police state. Banks win again. You win again. System of compromise. Control your local police. Day's work. Note to self: when large-scale pot growing in house, don't call police to report burglary of home. Geospatial predictive analysis. The way we kill today. The art of war. Bleggalgazing comments. Marcus and Markson. Ricouer, for those of you who do. Eight ways to ensure your first novel sucks. Ashbery talking. Oh, the Rosie photos - we bought a three foot green cat tunnel, photo taken with an iPhone camera set to automatic, I didn't manipulate the image. Why classical music has to be sticky. Gyorgi Kurtag is eighty-seven today, piece below poem.






[SONNET]

Bernadette Mayer

You jerk you didn't call me up

I haven't seen you in so long

You probably have a fucking tan

& besides that instead of making love tonight

You're drinking your parents to the airport

I'm through with you bourgeois boys

All you ever do is go back to ancestral comforts

Only money can get—even Catullus was rich but

Nowadays you guys settle for a couch

By a soporific color cable t.v. set

Instead of any arc of love, no wonder

The G.I. Joe team blows it every other time

Wake up! It's the middle of the night

You can either make love or die at the hands of the Cobra Commander

_________________

To make love, turn to page 121.

To die, turn to page 172.

She Added that Tired Magic about How Atoms of Julius Cheezer and Napoleon and Beethoven Did Their Fleet Anachronistic Dance in Every Inhalation of Ours

All's fine in Napistan. Yes, I've waited a year to snap this photo and a chance to use that pun. Napoleon our feral cat decided to become Napoleon our fifth indoor cat and spent the night inside, made buddies with Stanley. Napoleon is the Kind older brother Stanley, runt of his litter, always wanted. We lucked out - never lost power, basement didn't flood. Hey, Thudner has a proposal for you! You vote for Jill Stein in your safe blue state, he votes for Obama against the motherfuckers who vote for Romney in Ohio. I'm in, but I was going to vote for Stein anyway.

• Democrats and SCOTUS. 
• The pie of sacrifice: Obama doesn't have to sacrifice Social Security.  It doesn't contribute to the deficit; there's no fiscal necessity to cut the program.  As with the pre-emptive tax cuts in his 2009 stimulus bill, Obama offered cuts in social programs to the Republicans during the debt-ceiling fight without their having to demand them.   He's not obligated to accept Simpson and Bowles recommendations, since they aren't binding -- but he did appoint those two deficit hawks to his deficit-reduction commission, knowing in advance that they are advocates of cutting Social Security and Medicare.  Nor is there support in the general population for cutting Social Security and Medicare; they are both very popular, which is why Social Security has long been called the Third Rail of American politics.  Only Obama's wealthy campaign donors support his intentions, but as both his left critics and his right-wing supporters have been saying, once he's re-elected he'll be beholden to no one.  He doesn't have to cut Social Security and Medicare -- he wants to.  And he's always wanted to.
• The cynicism of calling it a Great Bargain.
• When Frankenstorms are normal.
• Of course they are.
• Update on fuckers (plus other stuff).
• Nurblings.
• I want to believe.
• She doesn't live in North Bethesda, she lives in Rockville. THERE IS NO NORTH BETHESDA!
• A.R. Ammons.
• Silliman's always generous litlinks.
• Once upon a time I would have been morally indignant that Penguin and Random House merge. Now? Fuck it.
• BTW, stay-tuned for Birchville Cat Motel and other Campbell Kneale projects. Thanks, Helen, for the CDs! I'm hooked.

THE POEM OF THE LITTLE HOUSE AT THE CORNER OF MISAPPREHENSION AND MARVEL

Albert Goldbarth

“He was mortared to death.”

A pity, how we misspeak and mishear.

—Or “martyred”? Not that/coin-flip/either

makes a difference to the increasingly cooler

downtick of a corpse’s cells. “We heard the crazy mating joy

of the loon across the water.” Yes, but what

do we know, amateurs that we are? Loon, shmoon.

It might have been dying, announcing

its pain in those trilling pennants. It might

have been the girl who was lost in these woods last week

and never found by the volunteer searchers,

it might have been her ghost

with an admonishment. The truth is,

even among ourselves we often can’t distinguish pain

from pleasure, not in our beds, our hearts, the tone

of a poem on the final exam (a coin-toss). A pity, because

we know the urgency of some utterance;

and the intended goodwill of our listening; and

the marvelous basic mechanics of speech,

of lung: 300 million alveoli that, “if spread out flat,”

as my eighth-grade science teacher preened, “would come to

750 square feet, the entire floor space of an average house,”

and she added that tired magic about how atoms

of Julius Caesar and Napoleon and Beethoven did

their fleet anachronistic dance in every inhalation

of ours, although at thirteen I preferred to think

that the atoms of Cleopatra’s body—my Cleopatra,

inflating her see-through empresswear

with husky breaths—commingled with my blood, and also

realized in my own dim way it wasn’t only Einstein,

Shakespeare, Madame Curie populating my oxygen,

but also the smelly and scabby old man

from across the street who’d died last year

when the late-shift ward nurse heard (as she said in her testimony)

“med injection” instead of (as the outgoing

ward nurse told her) “bed inspection”—altogether

an unfortunate example of my theme . . . although

exempla abound, misapprehension

also dancing inside us at the atomic level.

Someone thought the gate was locked, she always locked

the gate in the late afternoon when the haze set down

and the sun for a moment seemed to carmelize the lake top,

so the gate was locked; except that it wasn’t,

and seven days into it nobody’s found the girl

or a scraggle of hair or a single ribbon. I tell you

we’re amateurs, we’re sometimes bungling amateurs,

of the minutiae of our own lives. When I heard the sounds

that gurgled from my chest as my wife was leaving

into the dense, conspiratorial Austin, Texas night,

I couldn’t have said if it was defeat

or relief. She couldn’t have said which one

she’d have been happiest to cause. We only knew

that I’d been wrong at times, and she’d been wrong at times,

and that our total errors, if spread out flat,

become the house we live in. They’re another system

inside us, along with the cardiac and the pulmonary,

they’re moving us toward the horizon line. And when

enough errors accumulate there, that’s what

we call the future. Even now, as you read this,

someone in that unknowable distance

is breathing you in.


 

Once in a While You Get Shown the Light in the Strangest of Places If You Look at It Right

Jerry Garcia was born seventy years ago today. Yes, the above is a cover, but I listened to all of Europe 72 yesterday and I hadn't heard this in a decade. I see people writing - I've been writing - about the pathology of nostalgia as signature key of the clusterfuck, and a run of High Holy Days provokes from me the pangs I program it to, I'm a fucking romantic, I'm predisposed to the disease in good times. Anyway, I loved The Dead unto a lifestyle, fell away when I needed leave that lifestyle to save my life, cold-turkeyed to the point of self-disdain: Hey, what did the two Deadheads say to each other when the dope ran out? Hey Man, this music sucks. No, it doesn't.

• But yes, my response is always more self-indulgence.
• And yes, lots of Dead does suck, it always reminded me of baseball games, you sit through eighty shitty (versions of Scarlet Begonias) games for the one that abounds fine metaphors.
• Hegemony, nationalism, doxa.
• Tyranny of the synthetic.
• The Obama enabler's big lie.
• Panderer to plutocrats.
• Oligarchy.
• He's hip, her's cool, he's a libertarian.

• That was a buzz topic in Stringtown yesterday, the title of the post made me think of the KITH skit. The skit is posted for no other reason that my self-indulgence of my love for free association. Few things suck more than Definition: The Game. King of Anarchists is one.
• Had a conversation yesterday with Uncle, one of my favorite Hilltoppers, my favorite conservative economist, was reminded of the basic distinction between those who put a to after freedom and those who use a from.
• RIP Gore Vidal.
• RIP Gore Vidal.
• For the record.
• RIP Gore Vidal.
• UPDATE! Bad Vidal.
• RIP Gore Vidal.
• Vidal versus Buckley.
• Vidal and Cockburn.
• Bruce Cockburn.
• Oopsy.
• Visual sound.
• A great authors curriculum.
• Jack Spicer reading.
• New Deerhoof!

• Black Peter.
• St Stephen.
• Althea.
• Bertha.
• Dire Wolf.
• He's Gone.
• Not Fade Away.
• Cold Rain and Snow.

Got to Get Back Where You Belong

The excellent run of High Holy Days of Egoslavia continues tomorrow. The best part of the days is the day-before hunting.