Here Is the Man Night-Walking Who Derives Tomorrow's Manifestos from This Midnight Meeting

So today's the day this blog's domain name is supposed to automatically renew. Blooger has been sending me email every week for the past month warning me to renew or else and sending me email every week for the past month telling me all is fine, my automatic renewal is good as long as billing information is up to date. We're talking ten dollars after all for the exclusive domain name ownership of this shitty blog on a free blogging platform, ten dollars on vanity. My billing information DID change since last year's debacle and rescue: Earthgirl lost the credit card, we put a block on it immediately, were issued new cards. I logged into Blooger's weirdass and creepy Blogger admin site and made the change a month ago. I'm told I'm good by one email. Another email tells me I'm not. Maybe I'll get a confirm later today. Maybe this blog will disappear in a week. It's a win-win.

• Yes, I do post this particular Gubaidulina all the time.
• Silence for Gaza.
• America's war crimes in Gaza.
• Israel's war crimes in Gaza.
• A slowly unfolding genocide.
• I haven't wasted breath saying Motherfucking Obama because duh but what the fuck, Motherfucking Obama.
• The stupidest propaganda since the last until the next.
• In praise of weariness: So why would Americans not be weary? The survey results that worry Kagan and Rice – that show Americans growing wary of overcommitment abroad – are actually a sign of vernacular wisdom. They suggest a dawning public recognition that the problems of boarded-up storefronts and evacuated cities present more urgent policy concerns than the remaking of regions abroad that resist remaking. Interventionists will need to evade or overcome this wisdom if they intend to embark on further misadventures overseas. Let us give weariness its due, as a necessary counterweight to the centrifugal force of an activist foreign policy, ever on the prowl for investments to explore and wrongs to set right. Maybe weariness can bring us home before dark.
• The real world plainly bores us.
• The weaponized naked girl. The best thing you'll read today.
• Bossa Nova: on the World Cup and nationalism and stuff.
• The future of Rocketville? I expect it means our favorite vegetarian Chinese restaurant in a dumpy little strip will disappear as well as our favorite Peruvian restaurant in a dumpy little strip too.
• A reference of female-fronted punk bands!
• Shuffling tropes.
• The serenity and vitality of Proust. I can only read Proust when I'm calm and not angry. I'm rarely calm and not angry, so slow going, but when Proust works it's wonderful.
• I was not calm and was angry last night, instead of reading Proust I listened to Gubaidulina and read Muriel Rukeyser.

METAPHOR TO ACTION

Muriel Rukeyser

Whether it is a speaker, taut on a platform,
who battles a crowd with the hammers of his words,
whether it is the crash of lips on lips
after absence and wanting : we must close
the circuits of ideas, now generate,
that leap in the body's action or the mind's repose.

Over us is a striking on the walls of the sky,
here are the dynamos, steel-black, harboring flame,
here is the man night-walking who derives
tomorrow's manifestos from this midnight's meeting ;
here we require the proof in solidarity,
iron on iron, body on body, and the large single beating.

And behind us in time are the men who second us
as we continue. And near us is our love :
no forced contempt, no refusal in dogma, the close
of the circuit in a fierce dazzle of purity.
And over us is night a field of pansies unfolding,
charging with heat its softness in a symbol
to weld and prepare for action our minds' intensity.

Eighty-Two Years Old Yesterday

  
Sofia Gubaidulina, love love love, I didn't forget, just didn't have chance for a stand alone. More tomorrow, or not. Click on the label below for more songs in the meantime. Or not. Just as Berio made me love a bassoon piece, Gubaidulina makes me love an accordion piece.





*

He's in a State of Pitch Fuck Diurnal?

Blegsylvania is slowly dying, or: I again fall one short of making the final list, both in main post and in comments. Are you trying to be weird and willfully obscure? G asked me at Thursday Night Pints after K showed her this shitty blog on K's iPad. A digital friend told me earlier in the week he misses the overtly political, wishes I'd motherfucking Obama more, really wishes I'd balance that motherfucking Obama with the occasional sensible acknowledgement of motherfucking crackers. I had lunch yesterday with a bud who's both analog and digital, we mostly avoided bleggalgazing though we discussed - laughingly - recent bleggal catfights (an irony being, re: the above list, the participants will be forever - which in Blegsylvania is a week - linked). Well, I did say I'd killed the >>Deleted Bleggalgazing<< gag, hence this paragraph, so: I told G I write what makes me giggle; I said to digital friend I still motherfucking Obama when motherfucking Obama does something especially motherfucking Obamable, and as for motherfucking crackers, they're motherfucking Obama's best weapons, I'm tired of him using them against me; as for the conversation over lunch yesterday, the ride home on the Metro and subsequent hour on the elliptical at the club gave start to this paragraph. K said to G, it took me a while to find my level of fuck it. L said to G, he told me he thinks of each post as a poem. I've told other people that too.

• Yes, these are old poems, they fit this post, fine metaphors abound, there are multiple new ones in the works, when done they'll show up elsewhere.
• Adding to G, who is not reading this, she's your friend, K, pass this on or don't, nothing would be worse than my explaining the long history of the development of favorite obscure gags, yes? I mean more than I already do.
• Bleggalgazing.
• Bleggalgazing.
• On quitting.
• The human digital.
• Of course they do.
• Bested worsted. 
• Here's a truth: I love Clark Coolidge's 88 Sonnets, love it, when you see one of his poems here it means I'm on my laptop, on which motherfucking Blooger will not let me cut and paste, I have to type the poems (I can cut and paste on the work PC - early in the morning, mind, before I've clocked in), sonnets aren't a pain in the ass to type.
• darkblack's Weekend Overnight celebrates James Brown's birthday.
• Gubaidulina (need Spotify).
• Yes, I've posted this Gubaidulina before, often, I love love love.

THE PRICE OF SO MUCH

Clark Coolidge

He's in a state of pitch fuck
diurnal?          secondary smoke Palooka
relaz        have a Creosote        there's guys
with aluminum tear ducts up there        solid
I have caught the concrete and it does resound
well it's time we heard from someone        and
these are the Streets of Shenanigan an endless
recording of closing doors has an air of finality
the andirons of cars?        as Yellowstone goes
so goes the nation         dipstick licorice and everything
not as if we all should get a free ride
those plates are soon empty         of rutabagas too
the wishing well is now a lap pool      last seen
warming hands on Mickey's Caldera

Difficult to Recall an Emotion That Is Dead, Particularly So Among These Unbelieved Fanfares and Admonitions from a Camouflaged Sky

             
Irene played that yesterday. Show includes a new Richard Thompson song. Skeet-shooting, let's argue about skeet-shooting and authenticity. Definitions and distinctions. Among believers. Triangulating utopia (h/t) The Rawlsian Veil of Ignorance. The American veil of omnipotence. The next Left? Wars that aren't meant to be won. Bring on the drones. Why the elite want you to fear robots. World War I. Violins on television. Gnossciene. Phantom time. Bleggalgazing Blogroll Amnesty Day (and bmpthnx). >>DB<< More proof MLS is minor league - gangsters don't think MLS worth bribing. Silliman's always generous litlinks. An anti-review of an anti-novel. Gaddis. Ashbery interview. Grateful Dead Kennedys. I am hearing ELO everywhere, gas stations, WFMU, everywhere. >>dBs<< And it's always been perturbing that the creator of ELO is named after my marriage. Baudrillard and The Minutemen (or members of). Gubaidulina, holyfuck, she is as devout towards Christ as I am profane, I'm cascading my ears, holyfuck the music, my pens are mute. The Ballads of John and Yoko. Obscure Sounds' Best of January (w/sound). Launderette. Two new Lips songs. New Nick Cave video below the poem.  I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry I like Beach House.





THE PATIENT IS RALLYING

Weldon Kees

Difficult to recall an emotion that is dead,
Particularly so among these unbelieved fanfares
And admontions from a camouflaged sky.

I should have remained burdened with destinations
Perhaps, or stayed quite drunk, or obeyed
The undertaker, who was fairly charming, after all.

Or was there a room like that one, worn
With our whispers, and a great tree blossoming
Outside blue windows, warm rain blowing in the night?

There seems to be some doubt. No doubt, however,
Of the chilled and empty tissues of the mind
- Cold, cold, a great gray winter entering -
Like spines of air, frozen in an ice cube.

We Undertook to Talk About the Phrase “Once in a While” Once in a While Noting the Vagueness Then Named “a While” and How “Once” the Phrase Recurs and Therefore Means More Than Once the “While” is Defined

This is true: Earthgirl and Planet found the above youtube last Saturday night in Bamgier. Earthgirl and I are seeing Kronos Quartet with Laurie Anderson tonight with Hamster!

I've sat on that youtube for a week. And to be fair, what fascinates us is not how or how much Hamster eats (he eats politely, he eats moderately), it's that we can't imagine him not trying something (I'll have the nutria-oysters in mule's-snot sauce). It's admirable. It's frightening. Here's KQ playing Irina Gubaidulina's 4th String Quartet:









Holyfuck. First two pieces this post taken from KQ's Night Prayers. This is true, when Earthgirl and Planet and I took our 2008 vacation to San Francisco, Napa, Fort Bragg, on California 128 between Mendocino and Cloverdale a DJ on a public radio station played that album from start to finish, holyfuck driving through the redwoods, up over the mountains, one of the best drives I've ever. I didn't know what it was, was out of range as the last song faded, never heard the subsequent mike break. I emailed the station, gave date, time, heard back seven months later, bought the CD then. Was your twitter hacked? The master meme. The elite losing sleep. Could have seen. Another scalp. Falling short. Holding education hostage. My "hip" future hell. Love toilet. It's Blogroll Amnesty Day. Be Kind, motherfuckers. One more KQ piece from Night Prayers immediately below, a Bongos song I heard last night beneath the Hejinian poem.





[COME OCTOBER, IT'S THE LAKE NOT THE BORDER]

Lyn Hejinian

Come October, it’s the lake not the border

that has been redrawn. Thinking

about the event afterwards, I realize how remarkably well-prepared   

the girls are. There don’t seem to be any slouches

among them. Please tell them I say hello and that we’ll need 14   

for the green salad and 14 for the apple tarts between

with some rapid washing in clear water I remember as play

and planning in childhood, preparing until the very last moment   

for a gripping narrative that was itself perpetually given over

to improvisations and asymmetrical collaborations that could run

for days. That makes another 14. It was ”the word“ or “the world” in 1981   

when we undertook to talk about the phrase

“once in a while” once in a while

noting the vagueness then named “a while” and how “once” the phrase   

recurs and therefore means more than once

the “while” is defined. We too are in “a while”   

and when “once” next occurs, if the basic design suits

you, we will need a bit of modestly biographical contextualization   

for November. I’m going to put some thought to something

implausibly contemporary which perhaps isn’t wise

since between then and now no new coincidences have been noted   

just one large color photograph of bespangled cowgirls

herding heavy bulls up the avenue that opens this week carefully   

wearing baby blue boots to take out the garbage

but it never rained. At the end of the month, Halloween should be clear.

Full of the Same Wind

Full on XTC cascade, YAY! sparked by listening to Nonsuch on drive home from Ohio. Full album at bottom of post. Expect LOTS next week or so. A friend asks, Proust? I failed, will be buying amber Nyquil for TNPers all of 2014. Why I wanted a quieter mind is a larger question than why I thought I could achieve one. Another friend asks, Tablet? Maybe. Another friend asks, fucking blooger? YES! If anyone has any suggestions on how to make the Apply to Template button work, I'll buy you amber Nyquil all the rest of 2013 if you can fix it. Links: Police state. Capitalism. Capitalism. Capitalism. Priorities. The myth of justice. The coming collapse. Dirty Wars. Israel's Tuskegee. More here. Police state practice. One year ago. Why aren't you using these apps to track your death?




 
Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?  Writers on writers. I've never heard of Joseph Ceravalo. While I have failed Proust, I have not failed Olson, Maximus works. William Gass discusses Rilke. Everybody knows this is nowhere. On not like Wallace Steven's poetry. Pynchon and Ashbery. Prunella's latest playlist. Mr Alarum provides a Rainer Maria cascade: Rain Your Hand, Viva Anger, Viva Hate, Breakfast of Champions, Contents of Lincoln's Pockets, Make You Mine. FourTEEN. Gubaidulina.





THE SNOW MAN

Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. 

XTC's Nonsuch, what a great fucking album, listened for the first time in maybe a year between Friendsville all the way downhill to Hancock this past Sunday (and at least three times since, and HOLYFUCK! what an XTC cascade I'm only beginning to indulge, it's medicinal). Peter, above. My Bird Performs. Dear Madam Barnum. Humble Daisy.
    




Holly Up on Poppy. Crocodile. Rook. Omnibus. Not only is that one of my favorite songs in the world, there's an allusion - I insist on believing - to Yvonne Craig in the lyrics. Then She Appeared. War Dance. Wrapped in Grey. The Ugly Underneath. Bungalow.

other kinds of balm

• I've posted Gubaidulina often hear though never her Piano Concerto, found this morning on the amazing Atonality.net, a simply astonishing resource. It also encourages reading the web while listening to it since I'm already on the web listening to it, discourages the reading of novels since I can't read fiction while music is playing. So have links.
• >>Deleted bleggalgazing<< Two Giftmas presents for you today!
• Six rules for criticizing Obama over Social Security.
• Not fiscal cliff, descent into lawlessness.
• Taxation with representation.
• I have no idea what a Piers Morgan is, but he pissed off Liberals by saying something so Liberals sign petition to have him deported. 
• UPDATE! While I'm still not sure what a Piers Morgan is, multiple people tell me that I have it ass-backwards - that it's conservative gun-supporters who want to deport him. My sincerest apologies, I'll double-check my sources from now on when reading something about someone I know nothing about. 
• No, I wasn't advocating Loomis be fired, I advocated acknowledging what a hypocritical assclown he is.
• I've offered a blogfriend looking for a rebrand free rights to this tag: Straddling the International Date Line Like a Perpetual February 29th. I like it, anyway.
• The same fucking card every year. 
• Oh look, Fuckface Hiatt gave column inches to Max Boot:

 

• Haven't had a chance to use that gag in a while. 
• Happy Blegday. I steal links from them all the time, thanks!
• Gamification.
• Fuck the US Park Service.
• Wonder what the main topic of conversation in DMVtown will be this week? I hope the Racist Slurs win for all my beloved who are Racist Slurs fans. As for the authoritarian in me, the Racist Slurs, when they wear the gold pants, have the best uniform in Helmetball.
• My current and future hell.
• Quick review of Ashbery's Quick Question.
• On The Grand Inquisitor. Maybe it's my imagination, but I'm seeing Fyodor (especially C&P) show up in more litblogs this past year than in recent memory.
• End of Oulipo?, The
• Sonata.
• British currency. What is a Robbie Williams?
• The 50 Most Anticipated Albums of 2013? Number Two disqualifies the whole list. Fuckingsuck.
• Trust the cloud with your music?

85. A FINAL SHOPPING LIST

Julie Carr

hands.
melted ice.
sun.
shine.
wire.
wire.
that which can be.
that which cannot.
a strategy.
the end of the day.
the heat at my neck.
sugar high.
the inside of his mouth.
the mother skirt.
hot sidewalk by the DMV.
the buzz in my head.
the fear running up the side of it.
partitions.
balm.
other kinds of balms.
whatever the children want.