Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sports fans, fornicators, and pot smokers...
Someone has made of list of people who are going to hell. I only assume it is not all-inclusive.
But that said, I think they've covered almost everybody.
But that said, I think they've covered almost everybody.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Kos reconsiders caucuses
One thing I like about Kos is that he's willing to reconsider his biases when his biases conflict with hard reality. Case in point.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Dispatch
I often think of troubadours (cf.
cavalier poets), their metrical rhymes,
their passions (n.: the sufferings of a
martyr). They too wanted love—but burning
in the timbers of their desire was a
hope, that love would lift them above the mun-
dane and ordinary, that through love they
would become more like the gods—more alive.
Think, my friend, on how ordinary and
extraordinary love is—pause—then, breathe.
Your friend (and troubadour, of sorts)—s(d)h
cavalier poets), their metrical rhymes,
their passions (n.: the sufferings of a
martyr). They too wanted love—but burning
in the timbers of their desire was a
hope, that love would lift them above the mun-
dane and ordinary, that through love they
would become more like the gods—more alive.
Think, my friend, on how ordinary and
extraordinary love is—pause—then, breathe.
Your friend (and troubadour, of sorts)—s(d)h
Thursday, May 15, 2008
North Florida, 1998
When I return
in summer,
I return
to the summer rain—
thunder in the distance,
then near,
then rumbling
away.
If the trees could
they would shake themselves
like dogs—
every leaf is dripping.
And I walk
between the puddles
under the trees
to the field—
subdued sunlight
and grasses
and a moment
I try vainly
to grasp
from time.
Beneath the opening sky
the thunder soft in the distance
there is a peacefulness
which is caught
by the summer air
and fills
every crevice
inside.
in summer,
I return
to the summer rain—
thunder in the distance,
then near,
then rumbling
away.
If the trees could
they would shake themselves
like dogs—
every leaf is dripping.
And I walk
between the puddles
under the trees
to the field—
subdued sunlight
and grasses
and a moment
I try vainly
to grasp
from time.
Beneath the opening sky
the thunder soft in the distance
there is a peacefulness
which is caught
by the summer air
and fills
every crevice
inside.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Bestiality
“Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover, I courted sleep.”
— Robert Pinsky, from “Samurai Song”
1.
I could quote you—
I was told once that the rhinoceros
with its one horn was symbolic
of purity—
the rhinoceros was the unicorn—
but to me, the rhinoceros is rage—
“Your letter truly shocked me.”
2.
“Your letter truly shocked me.
And yes, it angered me as well.”
You could have accused me of arrogance,
of hypocritical self-righteousness.
But instead you accused me of ignorance:
“I realized you [. . . ] don’t know me at all—how sad.”
You are the zebra who says,
“You are not like me,
your stripes are not like mine.”
3.
When I swam with the fishes,
I was mean and cruel.
Sometimes, when I caught my prey
I would nibble on its fins
and let it swim away—
knowing, slower,
it would never escape
the next predator’s gaze.
But there is no ill-will among the fishes—
life is too short—
in the depths, they say, is Leviathon.
What Leviathon is afraid of
they do not say.
4.
Yes, there was a change in tone.
In our notes we discussed plans
to spend New Years in New York City.
Where I was so kind and understanding,
I became callous, cold.
I criticized you,
and I criticized your life.
I wrote that “I never did want to fall in love with you [. . . ]
the primary reason is this: you are fucked up.
Your life is fucked up.”
I must have sounded
like a baboon
chiding
the lion.
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover, I courted sleep.”
— Robert Pinsky, from “Samurai Song”
1.
I could quote you—
I was told once that the rhinoceros
with its one horn was symbolic
of purity—
the rhinoceros was the unicorn—
but to me, the rhinoceros is rage—
“Your letter truly shocked me.”
2.
“Your letter truly shocked me.
And yes, it angered me as well.”
You could have accused me of arrogance,
of hypocritical self-righteousness.
But instead you accused me of ignorance:
“I realized you [. . . ] don’t know me at all—how sad.”
You are the zebra who says,
“You are not like me,
your stripes are not like mine.”
3.
When I swam with the fishes,
I was mean and cruel.
Sometimes, when I caught my prey
I would nibble on its fins
and let it swim away—
knowing, slower,
it would never escape
the next predator’s gaze.
But there is no ill-will among the fishes—
life is too short—
in the depths, they say, is Leviathon.
What Leviathon is afraid of
they do not say.
4.
Yes, there was a change in tone.
In our notes we discussed plans
to spend New Years in New York City.
Where I was so kind and understanding,
I became callous, cold.
I criticized you,
and I criticized your life.
I wrote that “I never did want to fall in love with you [. . . ]
the primary reason is this: you are fucked up.
Your life is fucked up.”
I must have sounded
like a baboon
chiding
the lion.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
aroundabout
It was not a poem,
in one sense,
it was a meta-poem,
a poem about poetry,
although the term “meta-”
comes from the Greek word “after”,
because Aristotle’s books on
metaphysics
were those written after
his books on physics.
Thus the word “meta-”
took on a life of its own.
So was it a poem about poetry,
or was it a poem after poetry?
In the South—southern United States—
we say when someone is after someone,
they are out to get them,
that is when they are after them
they means them harm.
So was it a poem out to get
poetry,
to do poetry irreparable harm?
Of course, then there is the idea “after”—
what is poetry if it comes after poetry,
is it still poetry?
is it more poetry?
Why isn’t it with poetry to begin with,
why does it come after?
If it is a poem written after a poem—
is that plagiarism?
isn’t that copying someone else’s
style?
isn’t that what it means: done after
Ezra Pound’s “Cantos”?
So who is the poem copying anyway?
And if it wasn’t really a poem,
but a meta-poem,
what was it: prose? a song?
a legal treatise on thirteenth century
Burgundy?
If it wasn’t a poem,
what was it after?
in one sense,
it was a meta-poem,
a poem about poetry,
although the term “meta-”
comes from the Greek word “after”,
because Aristotle’s books on
metaphysics
were those written after
his books on physics.
Thus the word “meta-”
took on a life of its own.
So was it a poem about poetry,
or was it a poem after poetry?
In the South—southern United States—
we say when someone is after someone,
they are out to get them,
that is when they are after them
they means them harm.
So was it a poem out to get
poetry,
to do poetry irreparable harm?
Of course, then there is the idea “after”—
what is poetry if it comes after poetry,
is it still poetry?
is it more poetry?
Why isn’t it with poetry to begin with,
why does it come after?
If it is a poem written after a poem—
is that plagiarism?
isn’t that copying someone else’s
style?
isn’t that what it means: done after
Ezra Pound’s “Cantos”?
So who is the poem copying anyway?
And if it wasn’t really a poem,
but a meta-poem,
what was it: prose? a song?
a legal treatise on thirteenth century
Burgundy?
If it wasn’t a poem,
what was it after?
Monday, May 5, 2008
“Naked,”
Naked,
like the heart is naked
when it admits
to the soul beneath
that it is on fire—
together,
they overwhelm the mind.
A nakedness
of longing.
A nakedness of desire.
And this is how I long to see you,
to hold you,
to touch you,
with every touch
a touch
of desire.
This love
is not for the weak
but for the strong—
for when the soul whispers—naked—
it burns and sears and turns and touches
every aspect
of one's life.
Naked,
is how I long to see you
and be with you
in heart, soul, mind,
as I caress
each and every part
of you—
no, nothing, nothing
undesired.
like the heart is naked
when it admits
to the soul beneath
that it is on fire—
together,
they overwhelm the mind.
A nakedness
of longing.
A nakedness of desire.
And this is how I long to see you,
to hold you,
to touch you,
with every touch
a touch
of desire.
This love
is not for the weak
but for the strong—
for when the soul whispers—naked—
it burns and sears and turns and touches
every aspect
of one's life.
Naked,
is how I long to see you
and be with you
in heart, soul, mind,
as I caress
each and every part
of you—
no, nothing, nothing
undesired.
Fear of nihilism
Another data point: fear of nihilism is a potent motivator of conservative religious and political beliefs.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Stop telling me where to live!
Atrios:
For some reason I'll never stop being surprised by the number of people who read a post which says something like "maybe it'd be a bit better if suburban developments didn't have a single access point" or "maybe it'd be a bit better if people could actually walk to the shopping center which is half a mile away but on the other side of the highway" and interpret it as "ATRIOS IS TELLING ME I HAVE TO LIVE IN MANHATTAN!!!/snark
Thursday, May 1, 2008
“At some point,”
At some point,
you start counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
And then, later,
you want to stop counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
you start counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
And then, later,
you want to stop counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
What is in a name?
People of Lesbos take gay group to court over term 'Lesbian'
Using the term lesbian to describe a female homosexual is part of our culture now. And I understand the desire to differentiate female from male homosexuals. But I also understand the plight of these islanders. They are victims of identity.Three islanders from Lesbos — home of the ancient poet Sappho, who praised love between women — have taken a gay rights group to court for using the word lesbian in its name.
One of the plaintiffs said Wednesday that the name of the association, Homosexual and Lesbian Community of Greece, "insults the identity" of the people of Lesbos, who are also known as Lesbians.
"My sister can't say she is a Lesbian," said Dimitris Lambrou. "Our geographical designation has been usurped by certain ladies who have no connection whatsoever with Lesbos," he said.
[...]Very little is known of Sappho's life. According to some ancient accounts, she was an aristocrat who married a rich merchant and had a daughter with him. One tradition says that she killed herself by jumping off a cliff over an unhappy love affair.
Lambrou says Sappho was not gay. "But even if we assume she was, how can 250,000 people of Lesbian descent — including women — be considered homosexual?"
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Exonerated after 27 years.
A Dallas man who spent more than 27 years in prison for a murder he didn't commit was freed Tuesday, after being incarcerated longer than any other wrongfully convicted U.S. inmate cleared by DNA testing.
From letters:
From letters:
Feb. 25, 1981: "I'm in jail while (her) murderer is walking the streets ... My Social Status in society is below you but I think everyone is entitled to justice don't you?"It turns out this was more than a wrongful conviction: Illegally withheld evidence probably caused a man who will be exonerated today to spend more time behind bars than anyone in the country cleared by DNA, the Dallas County district attorney's office and the Innocence Project of Texas said Monday.
June 24, 1984: "I don't know your `philosophy' of life, but I assume you wouldn't take a man's freedom just because you can. That's why I keep sending these letters to you in hope that you will realize that a grave misjustice has been done to me ... I've been locked up 3 1/2 years now and it's been really `frustrating,' but I won't allow anything to prevent me from obtaining what God gave me at birth and what is rightfully mine, my freedom."
How do you we a man 27 years back? How do we prevent this from happening again? What if he had been sentenced to die?Mr. Woodard, 55, was sentenced to life in prison in 1981 for the strangulation and rape of his 21-year-old girlfriend, Beverly Ann Jones.
But information that Ms. Jones was with three men – including two later convicted of unrelated sexual assaults – around the time of her death was not disclosed to the defense nor was it thoroughly investigated, said prosecutor Mike Ware, who oversees the Dallas County district attorney's office conviction integrity unit.
Evidence that could benefit a defendant is required by law to be turned over to a defendant, though there is no criminal punishment for not doing so.
Mr. Ware said Mr. Woodard received a "fundamentally unfair" trial. He said he believes the evidence is something that prosecutors at the time should have investigated, "or at least turn it over so the defense could investigate."
Before the district attorney's office agreed that the DNA that exonerated Mr. Woodard of the rape also exonerated him of the murder – in itself an unusual step – a forensic pathologist examined the file and concluded that Ms. Jones was killed about the same time she was raped.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
On Reagan
I came across the following essay I wrote several years ago, when I was known as Honorable Mouse. I thought I would resurrect and share:
On Ronald Reagan
After thinking I would say nothing, other than the usual platitudes—that Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease and I wouldn’t wish it on my bitterest enemy and how I understand, to some degree, what the Reagan family is going through—worthy of a leftist who hated living under the Reagan administration, I have read with interest the condemnations and commendations, the hagiography and historiography, the hero worship and the anti-hero desecration which has accompanied the death of Ronald Reagan. I have reached a few conclusions.
Ronald Reagan is God. A hungry god, a benevolent god, a god who will not be appeased until every building, every highway, every park, every coliseum, airport, petting zoo, municipal water authority, auditorium, dog, cat, and every person, every single human being, is called Ronald Reagan. His name must be everywhere.
And it must be everywhere because Ronald Reagan was the greatest President in the history of the world—its all down-hill from here, America! His face should be engraved on Mount Rushmore, indeed all of the faces on Mount Rushmore should be his—let there be five Ronald Reagans on Mount Rushmore, smiling at us benevolently.
Ronald Reagan single-handedly mud-wrestled Communism to death. He rode Gorbachev through Geneva like a cowboy on a mule—angry that the beast couldn’t go faster. He is single-handedly responsible for saving Central America from Communism—he ordered the killings of Communist nuns in order to save Central American school children from the harsh rod of Communist atheism. Central Americans, and we don’t know who the hell they are, rejoice whenever they hear Ronald Reagan’s name. They rejoice even more now that he is dead.
Ronald Reagan won World War II. He went down with his bomber over France, died, and was resurrected. He rescued Jews from the death camps. He told a young, impressionable Yitzhak Shamir, pointing towards the death camp guards, “Be like them.” It explains a lot.
Ronald Reagan was a chimpanzee’s best friend. Off camera, he would groom the chimpanzee and the chimpanzee him. Bonzo was always Reagan’s best hair stylist.
Ronald Reagan made a deal with the Iranians, as part of his clever plan to be friends in secret and enemies in public, to not release the Embassy Hostages until after he had taken the oath of office. Ronald Reagan agreed to sell arms to the Iranians in order to secure the release of American hostages in Lebanon, all the while saying, “We do not negotiate with terrorists”. Ronald Reagan thought Iran was, next to America, a better bulwark against Communism than Iraq. Ronald Reagan thought Armageddon should be between two peoples who believe in God, not between believers and non-believers. Non-believers made him feel funny, like perhaps there was more to life than simple platitudes and blind conservatism. He didn’t like them.
In a previous life, Ronald Reagan had been an aborted child. In this life, Ronald Reagan achieved enlightenment: he would oppose abortion and it would strengthen his political base. Ronald Reagan thought fetuses should have guns.
Ronald Reagan was all this and more—he would go out in cognito in his other identity as Don Regan to find out how his policies affected the working man. He was happy when they were poorer and more miserable—“At least you are not homeless,” he would say, “homeless people make me really mad.”
Ronald Reagan could never understand why people would be mad at him. The students at Berkeley when he was Governor, the AIDS activists, and anti-nuke protestors. Didn’t they understand, Reagan thought to himself, I’m not doing this for them, I’m doing this for my vision of America.
And what a vision it was: the shining city on the hill. A city of light and grace and beauty. Surrounded by squalor, and filth, and poverty. Unspeakable squalor. Forgotten squalor. Unimportant squalor.
That, Ronald Reagans everywhere, was Ronald Reagan.
On Ronald Reagan
After thinking I would say nothing, other than the usual platitudes—that Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease and I wouldn’t wish it on my bitterest enemy and how I understand, to some degree, what the Reagan family is going through—worthy of a leftist who hated living under the Reagan administration, I have read with interest the condemnations and commendations, the hagiography and historiography, the hero worship and the anti-hero desecration which has accompanied the death of Ronald Reagan. I have reached a few conclusions.
Ronald Reagan is God. A hungry god, a benevolent god, a god who will not be appeased until every building, every highway, every park, every coliseum, airport, petting zoo, municipal water authority, auditorium, dog, cat, and every person, every single human being, is called Ronald Reagan. His name must be everywhere.
And it must be everywhere because Ronald Reagan was the greatest President in the history of the world—its all down-hill from here, America! His face should be engraved on Mount Rushmore, indeed all of the faces on Mount Rushmore should be his—let there be five Ronald Reagans on Mount Rushmore, smiling at us benevolently.
Ronald Reagan single-handedly mud-wrestled Communism to death. He rode Gorbachev through Geneva like a cowboy on a mule—angry that the beast couldn’t go faster. He is single-handedly responsible for saving Central America from Communism—he ordered the killings of Communist nuns in order to save Central American school children from the harsh rod of Communist atheism. Central Americans, and we don’t know who the hell they are, rejoice whenever they hear Ronald Reagan’s name. They rejoice even more now that he is dead.
Ronald Reagan won World War II. He went down with his bomber over France, died, and was resurrected. He rescued Jews from the death camps. He told a young, impressionable Yitzhak Shamir, pointing towards the death camp guards, “Be like them.” It explains a lot.
Ronald Reagan was a chimpanzee’s best friend. Off camera, he would groom the chimpanzee and the chimpanzee him. Bonzo was always Reagan’s best hair stylist.
Ronald Reagan made a deal with the Iranians, as part of his clever plan to be friends in secret and enemies in public, to not release the Embassy Hostages until after he had taken the oath of office. Ronald Reagan agreed to sell arms to the Iranians in order to secure the release of American hostages in Lebanon, all the while saying, “We do not negotiate with terrorists”. Ronald Reagan thought Iran was, next to America, a better bulwark against Communism than Iraq. Ronald Reagan thought Armageddon should be between two peoples who believe in God, not between believers and non-believers. Non-believers made him feel funny, like perhaps there was more to life than simple platitudes and blind conservatism. He didn’t like them.
In a previous life, Ronald Reagan had been an aborted child. In this life, Ronald Reagan achieved enlightenment: he would oppose abortion and it would strengthen his political base. Ronald Reagan thought fetuses should have guns.
Ronald Reagan was all this and more—he would go out in cognito in his other identity as Don Regan to find out how his policies affected the working man. He was happy when they were poorer and more miserable—“At least you are not homeless,” he would say, “homeless people make me really mad.”
Ronald Reagan could never understand why people would be mad at him. The students at Berkeley when he was Governor, the AIDS activists, and anti-nuke protestors. Didn’t they understand, Reagan thought to himself, I’m not doing this for them, I’m doing this for my vision of America.
And what a vision it was: the shining city on the hill. A city of light and grace and beauty. Surrounded by squalor, and filth, and poverty. Unspeakable squalor. Forgotten squalor. Unimportant squalor.
That, Ronald Reagans everywhere, was Ronald Reagan.
Friday, April 4, 2008
lucida
These photographs are moments of movement—
Bedouin racing their arab stallions
across the sand—dancers walking through air
with the same ease as Jesus on water—
how can I translate this for you
these pictures of goalies mid-lunge,
of these racers caught without time
of these smiles made without effort—
you who have arrested my heart
forever paused in the shutter’s eye?
Bedouin racing their arab stallions
across the sand—dancers walking through air
with the same ease as Jesus on water—
how can I translate this for you
these pictures of goalies mid-lunge,
of these racers caught without time
of these smiles made without effort—
you who have arrested my heart
forever paused in the shutter’s eye?
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Much ado about nothing
Be afraid, be very afraid, of hackers!
The video, produced for the Homeland Security Department and obtained by The Associated Press on Wednesday, was marked "Official Use Only." It shows commands quietly triggered by simulated hackers having such a violent reaction that the enormous turbine shudders as pieces fly apart and it belches black-and-white smoke.First there's no money in it--almost all malware currently out there is designed to either garner personal information, or take over a computer so it can be used as a spam-bot (or both). Second, such an attack has not happened, and is not likely to happen. Regardless, everyone needs to take steps to better protect their systems and computers against hacks. Keeping supervisory command and control computers off-line seems to be common sense.
The video was produced for top U.S. policy makers by the Idaho National Laboratory, which has studied the little-understood risks to the specialized electronic equipment that operates power, water and chemical plants. Vice President Dick Cheney is among those who have watched the video, said one U.S. official, speaking on condition of anonymity because this official was not authorized to publicly discuss such high-level briefings.
[...]
The electrical attack never actually happened. The recorded demonstration, called the "Aurora Generator Test," was conducted in March by government researchers investigating a dangerous vulnerability in computers at U.S. utility companies known as supervisory control and data acquisition systems. The programming flaw was quietly fixed, and equipment-makers urged utilities to take protective measures.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
General Zod in 2008
Zod 2008 Campaign Headquarters
When I first came to your planet and demanded your homes, property and very lives, I didn't know you were already doing so, willingly, with your own government. I can win no tribute from a bankrupted nation populated by feeble flag-waving plebians. In 2008 I shall restore your dignity and make you servants worthy of my rule. This new government shall become a tool of my oppression. Instead of hidden agendas and waffling policies, I offer you direct candor and brutal certainty. I only ask for your tribute, your lives, and your vote.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
The monkey's paw
This little tale starts with the classic "It was a dark and stormy night.", which is longhand for "fantastically good".
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
This is just sad.
It seems that whales can live a long long time: 19th-century weapon found in whale.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
spam blogging and nota bene
This blog has been identified as a spam blog.
Just another headache. (The headache is having to do the word verification at the bottom of each post... which I invariably have to do twice. I can't tell when letters are capitalized or not--or maybe its a mild dyslexia.)
N.B.: I will be away from my computer starting early tomorrow morning. So minimal posting at best until I return. Sometime next week.
Just another headache. (The headache is having to do the word verification at the bottom of each post... which I invariably have to do twice. I can't tell when letters are capitalized or not--or maybe its a mild dyslexia.)
N.B.: I will be away from my computer starting early tomorrow morning. So minimal posting at best until I return. Sometime next week.
Discourse and Intercourse, I. Prologue
Poetry is a martial art—
its rhythms
are the rhythms
of combat—pacing—
its words
are etched with blood
with sweat
with body blows
its meanderings
are long arms
entwining
its punctuation
kicks,
trips,
hits to the head
its messages
conveyed
in the silence
after
the scream.
its rhythms
are the rhythms
of combat—pacing—
its words
are etched with blood
with sweat
with body blows
its meanderings
are long arms
entwining
its punctuation
kicks,
trips,
hits to the head
its messages
conveyed
in the silence
after
the scream.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Edmund the Confessor
The pay phone is broken.
The night manager reads the horoscopes
from the day before—
does he ever think,
“These aren’t for today.
They were yesterdays”?
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if the pay phone
has succumbed
to heart break, existential pain,
abuse, being used,
or if it's waiting for an assignation.
I hear a woman, at the phone next to mine, say,
“I’m here now”—
but I’m not,
I don’t know where I am.
My ink has already stained the bed spread.
The ink bleeds now
in the phone book.
I think Edmund the Confessor
will be waiting for me in hell.
The woman next to me gets up—
I think she’s disappointed.
I want to offer her a cigarette,
but more than that
I want to use the phone.
What am I doing here, I think,
because I know this shouldn’t matter,
yet it does
and I don’t know why
I just move on.
A king, I remember, must always be a king.
A lover, once consigned to the role,
must be a lover,
even if it's wrong.
The night manager reads the horoscopes
from the day before—
does he ever think,
“These aren’t for today.
They were yesterdays”?
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if the pay phone
has succumbed
to heart break, existential pain,
abuse, being used,
or if it's waiting for an assignation.
I hear a woman, at the phone next to mine, say,
“I’m here now”—
but I’m not,
I don’t know where I am.
My ink has already stained the bed spread.
The ink bleeds now
in the phone book.
I think Edmund the Confessor
will be waiting for me in hell.
The woman next to me gets up—
I think she’s disappointed.
I want to offer her a cigarette,
but more than that
I want to use the phone.
What am I doing here, I think,
because I know this shouldn’t matter,
yet it does
and I don’t know why
I just move on.
A king, I remember, must always be a king.
A lover, once consigned to the role,
must be a lover,
even if it's wrong.
Friday, June 1, 2007
the limit
“I confess to find
Myself astonished by the outskirts of things:”
—Sarah Hannah, from Cassetta Frame (Italy, circa 1600)
At first there were these little strips of wood,
then larger pieces, connected pieces—
I dislocated my jaw a few times—
large stretches of painted chamfered poplar
and when that picture frame was done—no rest—
my distorted mouth would open wider
for a rococo niello frame.
I wondered if I had swallowed some strange
emetic. For hours each day I retched
increasingly complicated pieces
carved gilded painted molded all designed,
or so it would appear, for some canvas
or photograph or painted panel.
(I began to feel incomplete.)
What was the meaning of this, this vomit,
that drove me away from my family
with my strange gurgling sounds of agony
and interrupted my work with visits
to my doctor, who, despite this piece
of walnut extruding from my
mouth, could find nothing wrong with me?
Perhaps my mouth became an artisan—
a form of glandular psychosis—
with dreams and ambitions and emotions
all unto its own, separated.
What could I tell the rest of me?
“Let’s stick together boys. The mouth
will come around. He’ll come around.”
But without my mouth to echo my speech—
strange how resonance adds authority—
parts of my body deserted me.
My left leg became a dancer,
jumping about in odd rhythms
and at odd times of day. My ears,
annoyed with my mouth, stopped listening.
Lame, deaf, and muted—spewing brushed alum-
inum with gold inlay—and writhing,
I had long lost what dignity
I may have thought I might have had.
I scolded my mouth, little good
that it would do: “It’s all your fault.
Why not make art? Why only frames?”
But we are all caught by the edges—
the edges between life and death,
hatred and desire, reason
and insanity, between breaths,
longing, friendships, loss, and heartache.
The border is where my heart gasps
and I redefine who I am.
I dance more often now, listen
more acutely, and speak more freely,
no longer hindered by spewed wood
(however beautifully ornate).
The absurdity of it all
confounds me. I should learn to paint,
if only to show off these frames.
Myself astonished by the outskirts of things:”
—Sarah Hannah, from Cassetta Frame (Italy, circa 1600)
At first there were these little strips of wood,
then larger pieces, connected pieces—
I dislocated my jaw a few times—
large stretches of painted chamfered poplar
and when that picture frame was done—no rest—
my distorted mouth would open wider
for a rococo niello frame.
I wondered if I had swallowed some strange
emetic. For hours each day I retched
increasingly complicated pieces
carved gilded painted molded all designed,
or so it would appear, for some canvas
or photograph or painted panel.
(I began to feel incomplete.)
What was the meaning of this, this vomit,
that drove me away from my family
with my strange gurgling sounds of agony
and interrupted my work with visits
to my doctor, who, despite this piece
of walnut extruding from my
mouth, could find nothing wrong with me?
Perhaps my mouth became an artisan—
a form of glandular psychosis—
with dreams and ambitions and emotions
all unto its own, separated.
What could I tell the rest of me?
“Let’s stick together boys. The mouth
will come around. He’ll come around.”
But without my mouth to echo my speech—
strange how resonance adds authority—
parts of my body deserted me.
My left leg became a dancer,
jumping about in odd rhythms
and at odd times of day. My ears,
annoyed with my mouth, stopped listening.
Lame, deaf, and muted—spewing brushed alum-
inum with gold inlay—and writhing,
I had long lost what dignity
I may have thought I might have had.
I scolded my mouth, little good
that it would do: “It’s all your fault.
Why not make art? Why only frames?”
But we are all caught by the edges—
the edges between life and death,
hatred and desire, reason
and insanity, between breaths,
longing, friendships, loss, and heartache.
The border is where my heart gasps
and I redefine who I am.
I dance more often now, listen
more acutely, and speak more freely,
no longer hindered by spewed wood
(however beautifully ornate).
The absurdity of it all
confounds me. I should learn to paint,
if only to show off these frames.
They Still Shoot Horses
They still shoot horses
who break their legs
tangled twisted
no more a race horse
no longer desired.
They train you
give you amphetamines
and they tell you who to kill—
the wife of a dissident in hiding
the ten year old son
of a minor official
whose loyalty is suspect.
You don’t know why you kill these people.—
you sight the scope
you calm your breathing
you squeeze
a puff of smoke
and it is done—
but you imagine
you have to imagine
a reason.
You tell yourself
these people are terrorists
these people are insurgents
but there are too many men who kiss their children goodbye
too many wives
too many children.
The reasons you imagine are lies
and you realize this
and it is the loneliest, most desolate night
of your life.
You remember a racetrack in your youth
a trampled jockey
the horse neighing in pain
silence both before and after
the firing of the gun.
who break their legs
tangled twisted
no more a race horse
no longer desired.
They train you
give you amphetamines
and they tell you who to kill—
the wife of a dissident in hiding
the ten year old son
of a minor official
whose loyalty is suspect.
You don’t know why you kill these people.—
you sight the scope
you calm your breathing
you squeeze
a puff of smoke
and it is done—
but you imagine
you have to imagine
a reason.
You tell yourself
these people are terrorists
these people are insurgents
but there are too many men who kiss their children goodbye
too many wives
too many children.
The reasons you imagine are lies
and you realize this
and it is the loneliest, most desolate night
of your life.
You remember a racetrack in your youth
a trampled jockey
the horse neighing in pain
silence both before and after
the firing of the gun.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
American Oratory
Kermit the Frog's commencement speech to Southampton Graduate Campus, 1996.
Stephen Colbert's 2006 commencement address to Knox College.
Fred McFeely Rogers 2002 Commencement Address at Dartmouth College.
Text of Mr. Roger's Congressional testimony, 1969.
I found the video through Oliver Willis.
Stephen Colbert's 2006 commencement address to Knox College.
Fred McFeely Rogers 2002 Commencement Address at Dartmouth College.
Text of Mr. Roger's Congressional testimony, 1969.
I found the video through Oliver Willis.
worthy of crime
Sao Paolo graffiti artists decorate a Scottish Castle: The Graffiti Project.
Barista provides context.
Barista provides context.
When Anubis
When Anubis places my heart
in front of Ammit and Thoth unrecords
my name from the scroll of the blessed dead
I will plead, pleading first to Thoth,
for the god of writing writes and unwrites
with sacred ink that has known no mistake
a hierography of all things
worth reckoning in their truest measures.
I will plead not for release, but for pause,
and should his plumed quill arrest
I will lie prostrate in front of Ammit
mumbling the litany of the guilty—
do not devour everything,
just that which is lacking inside of me—
and this petition will amount to naught
for I will have been adjudged.
Ammit’s crocodile tears will bring no cheer
when I no longer cease to be.
Perhaps Thoth might make a note,
“of insufficient literary or historical value”,
a note that, too, will be unwritten
in the golden scroll of the blessed dead.
in front of Ammit and Thoth unrecords
my name from the scroll of the blessed dead
I will plead, pleading first to Thoth,
for the god of writing writes and unwrites
with sacred ink that has known no mistake
a hierography of all things
worth reckoning in their truest measures.
I will plead not for release, but for pause,
and should his plumed quill arrest
I will lie prostrate in front of Ammit
mumbling the litany of the guilty—
do not devour everything,
just that which is lacking inside of me—
and this petition will amount to naught
for I will have been adjudged.
Ammit’s crocodile tears will bring no cheer
when I no longer cease to be.
Perhaps Thoth might make a note,
“of insufficient literary or historical value”,
a note that, too, will be unwritten
in the golden scroll of the blessed dead.
Jack Kerouac on the Road
A video excerpt from Kerouc's appearance on The Tonight Show with Steve Allen.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Nice work if you can get it.
Profiting from profiling: The nice life of a female dealer (via TalkLeft)
The Latino drug dealers on the sidewalk below "Jennifer's" apartment in the Mission keep getting arrested. Not once a year or even every few months, but constantly. (If the city wanted to be efficient, it would just have its mail carriers do the arresting, since they're there anyway.) Off to jail they go, and then others fill their place, and then the first ones get released, and all the while the dealing continues.
Jennifer, who is white, and who dresses tidily and arranges flowers for a popular art gallery, talks about the dealers with clear discomfort. Not because they're troublesome or violent. It's more that she feels guilty. The police never arrest her.
Jennifer enjoys the flower arranging, but mostly it functions as a legitimate income to show the IRS. Really, she's a marijuana dealer.
In many ways, Jennifer's a typical one for the Bay Area: She sells a relatively small amount, she sells almost exclusively to friends and she draws a line between pot and harder drugs. What's atypical is that she's a middle-class she.
Why do some people resist reality?
Paul Bloom and Deena Skolnick Weisberg look at why some adults refuse to accept science. (via Pharyngula)
It is no secret that many American adults reject some scientific ideas. In a 2005 Pew Trust poll, for instance, 42% of respondents said that they believed that humans and other animals have existed in their present form since the beginning of time. A substantial minority of Americans, then, deny that evolution has even taken place, making them more radical than "Intelligent Design" theorists, who deny only that natural selection can explain complex design. But evolution is not the only domain in which people reject science: Many believe in the efficacy of unproven medical interventions, the mystical nature of out-of-body experiences, the existence of supernatural entities such as ghosts and fairies, and the legitimacy of astrology, ESP, and divination.
Noting the obvious
Valerie Plame was a covert agent at the time of being 'outed' by Bob Novak. (via Atrios)
Well worth reading: An exposé of SAIC, one of the largest government contractors.
An unclassified summary of outed CIA officer Valerie Plame's employment history at the spy agency, disclosed for the first time today in a court filing by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald, indicates that Plame was "covert" when her name became public in July 2003.
Well worth reading: An exposé of SAIC, one of the largest government contractors.
It is a simple fact of life these days that, owing to a deliberate decision to downsize government, Washington can operate only by paying private companies to perform a wide range of functions. To get some idea of the scale: contractors absorb the taxes paid by everyone in America with incomes under $100,000. In other words, more than 90 percent of all taxpayers might as well remit everything they owe directly to SAIC or some other contractor rather than to the IRS.
tiger, jungle, fog
It is approached
as one would approach a tiger
in the jungle
in the fog—
what is this song you sing,
who is this lover you are leaving?
There is no need to explain
the particulars—fogs, jungles, tigers—
only,
in describing the path,
the particulars fade
to shadows and dust.
I want you—
who is this lover you are leaving?
as one would approach a tiger
in the jungle
in the fog—
what is this song you sing,
who is this lover you are leaving?
There is no need to explain
the particulars—fogs, jungles, tigers—
only,
in describing the path,
the particulars fade
to shadows and dust.
I want you—
who is this lover you are leaving?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
A grieving father becomes disillusioned
Colonel Bacevich writes: I Lost My Son to a War I Oppose. We Were Both Doing Our Duty.
Not for a second did I expect my own efforts to make a difference. But I did nurse the hope that my voice might combine with those of others -- teachers, writers, activists and ordinary folks -- to educate the public about the folly of the course on which the nation has embarked. I hoped that those efforts might produce a political climate conducive to change. I genuinely believed that if the people spoke, our leaders in Washington would listen and respond.Bacevich's editorial reminds me of Major General Smedley Butler, who after retirement became a vociferous speaker against the military industrial complex (long before it was called the military industrial complex by President Eisenhower).
This, I can now see, was an illusion.
The people have spoken, and nothing of substance has changed. The November 2006 midterm elections signified an unambiguous repudiation of the policies that landed us in our present predicament. But half a year later, the war continues, with no end in sight. Indeed, by sending more troops to Iraq (and by extending the tours of those, like my son, who were already there), Bush has signaled his complete disregard for what was once quaintly referred to as "the will of the people."
[...]
To whom do Kennedy, Kerry and Lynch listen? We know the answer: to the same people who have the ear of George W. Bush and Karl Rove -- namely, wealthy individuals and institutions.
Money buys access and influence. Money greases the process that will yield us a new president in 2008. When it comes to Iraq, money ensures that the concerns of big business, big oil, bellicose evangelicals and Middle East allies gain a hearing. By comparison, the lives of U.S. soldiers figure as an afterthought.
Memorial Day orators will say that a G.I.'s life is priceless. Don't believe it. I know what value the U.S. government assigns to a soldier's life: I've been handed the check. It's roughly what the Yankees will pay Roger Clemens per inning once he starts pitching next month.
Money maintains the Republican/Democratic duopoly of trivialized politics. It confines the debate over U.S. policy to well-hewn channels. It preserves intact the cliches of 1933-45 about isolationism, appeasement and the nation's call to "global leadership." It inhibits any serious accounting of exactly how much our misadventure in Iraq is costing. It ignores completely the question of who actually pays. It negates democracy, rendering free speech little more than a means of recording dissent.
This is not some great conspiracy. It's the way our system works.
I spent 33 years and four months in active military service and during that period I spent most of my time as a high class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism. I helped make Mexico and especially Tampico safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefit of Wall Street. I helped purify Nicaragua for the International Banking House of Brown Brothers in 1902-1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for the American sugar interests in 1916. I helped make Honduras right for the American fruit companies in 1903. In China in 1927 I helped see to it that Standard Oil went on its way unmolested.General Butler's book, War is a Racket is available to read online.
a question
Not that I mind it too much, but why is celery a staple vegetable in soup? And if there is a secret law (#149, perhaps) stating that all soups must contain celery, why isn't it cut into smaller pieces?
Friday, May 25, 2007
The End of the Poem
[. . .]
something seems to be lost,
but in time,
like the memory of a lover,
it returns. . .
sometimes
in an unexpected way.
Do not ask the big questions—
why
and why
and why now—
with the expectation of an answer.
Sometimes
the lack of an answer
is the reason
for being:
it is what the sailor hears
when he is seduced
by the sound
of the sea.
something seems to be lost,
but in time,
like the memory of a lover,
it returns. . .
sometimes
in an unexpected way.
Do not ask the big questions—
why
and why
and why now—
with the expectation of an answer.
Sometimes
the lack of an answer
is the reason
for being:
it is what the sailor hears
when he is seduced
by the sound
of the sea.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
fwiw
I was at this show (Starscape in 2000).
This year's Starscape looks to be pretty good.
I stumbled on all of this because every now and then I wonder about this band that blew me away... Big in Japan. They're playing again at Starscape this year. But its not the kind of name that leads to a distinctive search on the interwebs... (Also... doesn't look like they have much of an internet presence.)
This year's Starscape looks to be pretty good.
I stumbled on all of this because every now and then I wonder about this band that blew me away... Big in Japan. They're playing again at Starscape this year. But its not the kind of name that leads to a distinctive search on the interwebs... (Also... doesn't look like they have much of an internet presence.)
trends in crime
Virtual Kidnapping, a new phenomenon in Latin America, made possible because real kidnappings are common.
Reliable statistics don't exist because most police forces register virtual kidnappings as robberies or assaults. Many victims also don't come forward at all because police are often unresponsive, inept or corrupt. Some people fear revenge for going public, while others are embarrassed about falling for the hoax.
But anecdotal evidence suggests virtual kidnappings are big business. In the Brazilian state of Sao Paulo, police reported at least 3,000 virtual kidnapping complaints between Jan. 1 and Feb. 14. A Mexican citizen's group used polling to estimate that in 2004, 36,295 kidnappings took place in the country. They haven't reported newer data.
The criminals often get household details by hacking into databases or posing as service workers. Then they monitor the family's habits and choose a moment when the family is separated to make the call demanding money.
Others simply steal a cell phone, dial the preprogrammed number for "home," "mom" or "dad," and tell whoever answers that a kidnapping is in progress.
Virtual kidnappings have surged partly because criminals are increasingly adept at using new technology such as cell phones and computer databases, said Alejandro Zunca, a consultant who advises Brazilian and Argentine police. Criminals of all stripes also have embraced the scheme because it can be carried out from behind bars.
Another reason is that real kidnappings are so frequent. While an estimated 90 percent of victims don't report the crime, most experts agree that Mexico, along with Haiti and Colombia, is a world leader in kidnappings, and victims' relatives have so little faith in authorities that they usually try to resolve abductions on their own.
Mitt Romney positioning himself as The Great White Hope
Carpetbagger looks at two over-the-top news stories from NewsMax.
It seem outlandish and over-the-top, but bear in mind that propaganda usually is outlandish and over-the-top.
If you pay attention to the Romney campaign, you'll notice that it is a campaign that pays a great deal of attention to style while doing the bare minimum for substance. You are supposed to envy and admire Romney for his wealth and his good looks and his beautiful wife and their beautiful children. In his campaign videos he is always shown speaking to a sea of white people.
He is running as The Great White Hope, and I fully expect him to win the Republican nomination--following the theory that in a field where all of the candidates are damaged goods the candidate with the winningest smile and the most presidential appearance will carry the field.
The Great White Hope is a 1970 drama starring James Earl Jones that more people should see. It is loosely based on the true story of Jack Johnson the first African-American world heavyweight boxing champion. The title refers to the furtive attempts of the white boxing world to find a white boxer who could beat him.
You can bet that racism and misogyny will be prominent undercurrents in the 2008 campaign. You can also bet that anyone who points out those undercurrents will be openly derided in the main stream media.
Romney's tighty-whitey campaign is calculated. The Democratic field is heavily dominated by a woman and an African-American. And Governor Richardson has decided to run as a the Latino candidate. On the Republican side, McCain regularly shows African-Americans in his advertising. And Giuliani's campaign, as befitting a former mayor of New York, also embraces diversity.
The only opponent that Romney could potentially face that could throw his 'white-man-deluxe' campaign out of kilter would be John Edwards--the other handsome white man. In fact the comparisons between them are stark. Romney grew up rich and privileged. Edwards was the son of a mill-worker. Romney has always used connections (prime example: his appointment to head the Salt Lake Olympic Organizing Committee). Edwards is a former trial lawyer. They both have essentially the same amount of national experience: Romney, 1 term as Governor of a liberal state; Edwards, 1 term as Senator of a conservative state. And their messages are strikingly different. Romney is for social stagnation, and Edwards is for social mobility.
Thus the contrast between the Romney is handsome and well-groomed stories, and the Edwards is a Bret-girl stories. These contrasts are deliberate. They are planted. They are propaganda.
There are many Democratic partisans who think that there is no way that Romney can win the nomination, with his record of flip-flops (was for abortion before he was against it; was for gay rights before he was against it). But these partisans haven't learned the lesson of IOKIYAR: it doesn't matter. What matters is looking good while saying the right things.
p.s.: Go read this excerpt from Al Gore's new book on media manipulation and political discourse.
Look, I know NewsMax is a conservative political magazine. I don’t expect hard-hitting investigative journalism, and I don’t expect anything but flattering coverage of Republican candidates and officials.The article Carpetbagger notes is one of several fluff pieces from NewsMax positioning Romney and his family as the beautiful family we should all envy and admire.
But Ben Smith noted yesterday that NewsMax wrote a profile about Ann Romney, Mitt’s wife, that is so remarkably over-the-top, one almost wonders if it’s a joke. Alas, it isn’t.“Ann is warm and very natural. She has the look of an outdoors woman bred to be an equestrian, which she is — good carriage, rosy complexion, square jaw, and blond mane.
“When she is not flashing her truly unbelievable smile, she may lower her eyes demurely. But Ann Romney is not demure — she may be modest, but she isn’t meek. She is unpretentious, but she isn’t shy. She lowers her eyes, thinking, and then looks up directly at her interviewer and dazzles him with that smile.”
It seem outlandish and over-the-top, but bear in mind that propaganda usually is outlandish and over-the-top.
If you pay attention to the Romney campaign, you'll notice that it is a campaign that pays a great deal of attention to style while doing the bare minimum for substance. You are supposed to envy and admire Romney for his wealth and his good looks and his beautiful wife and their beautiful children. In his campaign videos he is always shown speaking to a sea of white people.
He is running as The Great White Hope, and I fully expect him to win the Republican nomination--following the theory that in a field where all of the candidates are damaged goods the candidate with the winningest smile and the most presidential appearance will carry the field.
The Great White Hope is a 1970 drama starring James Earl Jones that more people should see. It is loosely based on the true story of Jack Johnson the first African-American world heavyweight boxing champion. The title refers to the furtive attempts of the white boxing world to find a white boxer who could beat him.
You can bet that racism and misogyny will be prominent undercurrents in the 2008 campaign. You can also bet that anyone who points out those undercurrents will be openly derided in the main stream media.
Romney's tighty-whitey campaign is calculated. The Democratic field is heavily dominated by a woman and an African-American. And Governor Richardson has decided to run as a the Latino candidate. On the Republican side, McCain regularly shows African-Americans in his advertising. And Giuliani's campaign, as befitting a former mayor of New York, also embraces diversity.
The only opponent that Romney could potentially face that could throw his 'white-man-deluxe' campaign out of kilter would be John Edwards--the other handsome white man. In fact the comparisons between them are stark. Romney grew up rich and privileged. Edwards was the son of a mill-worker. Romney has always used connections (prime example: his appointment to head the Salt Lake Olympic Organizing Committee). Edwards is a former trial lawyer. They both have essentially the same amount of national experience: Romney, 1 term as Governor of a liberal state; Edwards, 1 term as Senator of a conservative state. And their messages are strikingly different. Romney is for social stagnation, and Edwards is for social mobility.
Thus the contrast between the Romney is handsome and well-groomed stories, and the Edwards is a Bret-girl stories. These contrasts are deliberate. They are planted. They are propaganda.
There are many Democratic partisans who think that there is no way that Romney can win the nomination, with his record of flip-flops (was for abortion before he was against it; was for gay rights before he was against it). But these partisans haven't learned the lesson of IOKIYAR: it doesn't matter. What matters is looking good while saying the right things.
p.s.: Go read this excerpt from Al Gore's new book on media manipulation and political discourse.
still life, with memoranda (1)
wooden chair
fabric of a fine dress
draped
on its arm, its shoulder, its back
notation:
after the evening rain
two nights ago,
I looked out of the window—
a few cars
every once in a while—
and even after we made love
I was tired
and tragic.
I told you
I was trying not to be depressed,
but there are times
when this anguish
overtakes me—
that night,
even the streetlights
were crying.
fabric of a fine dress
draped
on its arm, its shoulder, its back
notation:
after the evening rain
two nights ago,
I looked out of the window—
a few cars
every once in a while—
and even after we made love
I was tired
and tragic.
I told you
I was trying not to be depressed,
but there are times
when this anguish
overtakes me—
that night,
even the streetlights
were crying.
The Daily Music Video
Diana Krall, live in Paris, performing an extended improvised All or Nothing at All.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
omg
A naked American tourist raised eyebrows when he went for a walk through a German city and told police he thought this was acceptable behavior in Germany.
"We have been having unusually hot weather here lately but, all the same, we can't have this," a spokesman for police in the southern city of Nuremberg said Tuesday. "The man said he thought walking around naked was tolerated in Germany."Some people really are that clueless.
An important day
Today is the day that, for the first time in human history, more people will live in urban areas than in rural areas. Another inevitability? Or perhaps a chance to stop and think about how societies are changing?
I mention this because of a light-hearted post at Pharyngula whose discussion thread is a mess of ambivalent observations and questions: i.e., where do suburbs and exurbs fit into the urban-rural divide? But lets start with a global perspective.
In large part the world population shift is due to large-scale changes in India and China--the two most populous countries in the world. People from rural areas move to urban areas to find employment. Its an age old story (think Les Miserables), but when these changes take place on a large scale social movements are not far behind. Pockets of urban poverty, historically, make great incubators for social unrest and often this unrest is violent. Couple this potential social unrest with nuclear weapons, and headaches for everyone...
In the United States the picture is different. You don't have to leave your rural environment at all... the exurbs will come to you. When they sold it a few years ago, my parents' farm was surrounded by exurban houses. It was depressing to drive out there yearly and see the steady transformation of farm after farm into tracts and houses. Everyone, it seems, wanted a chance to have the 'good life'.
The creation of exurbs has been particularly disconcerting. Instead of neighborhoods with neighborhood bars, neighborhood restaurants, a neighborhood post office, and a neighborhood school... millions of Americans have traded that in for gated communities, large weed-free yards, and soulless copycat bars, restaurants and box stores that you have to drive to. We are a nation that, by becoming more attached to our homes, has become less attached to each other*.
Economically, suburbs and exurbs are not sustainable, as their very existence requires both a thriving metropolitan area and cheap fuel. Well gasoline is not going to become cheaper--although we might save on our long term costs by switching to hybrid cars. But... well I don't want to derail this entry too much by going into the state of our cities. Let's just say that my city, Rochester, gets by... but barely. Also, it is used to wearing a lot of hand-me-downs.
This rural-exurban exchange is troublesome on many levels--cities need rural areas to provide food and farm products (cotton, flowers, and dope)--but few people actually think about the realities of farming--the increased incidences of cancer and accidents involving machinery. Sure, people may have a vision of farmers as living the good life. But it is a life of long hours, hard work, and high occupational risks. Also, hay fever sucks and animals stink (this may be obvious, but it is never mentioned in the brochures).
Yet in the end, exurbs suck at the life of our country. They take land out of production. They landscape land that could have been a wildlife area. They transform landscapes with black asphalt and cars. And yet at a time when household debt continues to rise and household savings are at an all-time low, the exurbs continue to expand. In part this is because people are willing to borrow what they cannot afford--it is no longer a question of being able to pay it all back, now it is a question of making the minimum monthly payment. And in part it is because developers cut deals with county commissioners (look: jobs!) and because 5 houses will always bring more tax revenue than 1 farm... never mind the fact that 1 farm will use less of a county's resources.
I've always thought that exurbs were an example of all of the shortcomings of classic economic thought--anyone who assumes that people make decisions about money in a rational manner is out to lunch. But that could just be me.
*This is actually a Fascist's wet dream. The Vichy slogan--work, family, and patriotism--is embodied in the exurban dream.
I mention this because of a light-hearted post at Pharyngula whose discussion thread is a mess of ambivalent observations and questions: i.e., where do suburbs and exurbs fit into the urban-rural divide? But lets start with a global perspective.
In large part the world population shift is due to large-scale changes in India and China--the two most populous countries in the world. People from rural areas move to urban areas to find employment. Its an age old story (think Les Miserables), but when these changes take place on a large scale social movements are not far behind. Pockets of urban poverty, historically, make great incubators for social unrest and often this unrest is violent. Couple this potential social unrest with nuclear weapons, and headaches for everyone...
In the United States the picture is different. You don't have to leave your rural environment at all... the exurbs will come to you. When they sold it a few years ago, my parents' farm was surrounded by exurban houses. It was depressing to drive out there yearly and see the steady transformation of farm after farm into tracts and houses. Everyone, it seems, wanted a chance to have the 'good life'.
The creation of exurbs has been particularly disconcerting. Instead of neighborhoods with neighborhood bars, neighborhood restaurants, a neighborhood post office, and a neighborhood school... millions of Americans have traded that in for gated communities, large weed-free yards, and soulless copycat bars, restaurants and box stores that you have to drive to. We are a nation that, by becoming more attached to our homes, has become less attached to each other*.
Economically, suburbs and exurbs are not sustainable, as their very existence requires both a thriving metropolitan area and cheap fuel. Well gasoline is not going to become cheaper--although we might save on our long term costs by switching to hybrid cars. But... well I don't want to derail this entry too much by going into the state of our cities. Let's just say that my city, Rochester, gets by... but barely. Also, it is used to wearing a lot of hand-me-downs.
This rural-exurban exchange is troublesome on many levels--cities need rural areas to provide food and farm products (cotton, flowers, and dope)--but few people actually think about the realities of farming--the increased incidences of cancer and accidents involving machinery. Sure, people may have a vision of farmers as living the good life. But it is a life of long hours, hard work, and high occupational risks. Also, hay fever sucks and animals stink (this may be obvious, but it is never mentioned in the brochures).
Yet in the end, exurbs suck at the life of our country. They take land out of production. They landscape land that could have been a wildlife area. They transform landscapes with black asphalt and cars. And yet at a time when household debt continues to rise and household savings are at an all-time low, the exurbs continue to expand. In part this is because people are willing to borrow what they cannot afford--it is no longer a question of being able to pay it all back, now it is a question of making the minimum monthly payment. And in part it is because developers cut deals with county commissioners (look: jobs!) and because 5 houses will always bring more tax revenue than 1 farm... never mind the fact that 1 farm will use less of a county's resources.
I've always thought that exurbs were an example of all of the shortcomings of classic economic thought--anyone who assumes that people make decisions about money in a rational manner is out to lunch. But that could just be me.
*This is actually a Fascist's wet dream. The Vichy slogan--work, family, and patriotism--is embodied in the exurban dream.
ARGH
Meteor Blades says:
72% of Americans don't like the President. Virtually the same number think we're losing in Iraq. Certainly it doesn't take genius to figure out that, if you take the moral stance this once, not only will you remain popular with the voters, you might even begin to reclaim a part of your soul... you know... that thing you sold a long time ago in order to get sex, fame, money, and power. Maybe, you should have kept a receipt...
It would be hard to find a progressive who had a good Tuesday as far as Iraq is concerned. The Senate-House conference committee put together an ugly compromise that would give Mister Bush tens of billions of dollars to continue the catastrophe in Iraq. Call it what you will - a blank check, a sell-out, a surrender - it ultimately amounts to failure, unless victory is defined as getting a signable bill on the President's desk regardless of its contents.I don't understand the deluded political calculus that our politicians are laboring under.
72% of Americans don't like the President. Virtually the same number think we're losing in Iraq. Certainly it doesn't take genius to figure out that, if you take the moral stance this once, not only will you remain popular with the voters, you might even begin to reclaim a part of your soul... you know... that thing you sold a long time ago in order to get sex, fame, money, and power. Maybe, you should have kept a receipt...
the moment
History is a subtle music,
developing in long complicated movements
with touches of brash
which seem significant
but amount to nothing.
The melody we hear
is harsher
than the melody
we remember hearing.
At the end of the moment
we will not notice its passing
until
it is long gone.
developing in long complicated movements
with touches of brash
which seem significant
but amount to nothing.
The melody we hear
is harsher
than the melody
we remember hearing.
At the end of the moment
we will not notice its passing
until
it is long gone.
Give us our daily video
Open Up, by Leftfield with John Lydon (a.k.a. Johnny Rotten) on vocals, is exhibit A in the case that punk evolved into techno. Exhibit B is the wild and funny movie 24 Hour Party People.
Carry on, revolution.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
The dream is dead
Bill Maxwell, who was friends with my father when they both taught at Santa Fe Community College, goes back to teaching, this time at a historically black college, with depressing results. (via Nancy Nall)
Aside: this thread at Nancy Nall's is fascinating.
By the end of the spring semester, I knew that I could not remain at Stillman another year. I had a few good students, but a few were not enough. One morning as I dressed for work, I accepted the reality that too much of my time was being wasted on students who did not care. I felt guilty about wanting to leave. But enough was enough.
A week before I left Stillman as a professor, I drove through the main gate en route to a final exam. As always, I saw a group of male students hanging out in front of King Hall.
The same four I had seen when I drove onto campus nearly two years earlier were milling about on the lawn. I parked my car and walked over to the group.
"Why don't you all hang out somewhere else?" I asked.
"Who you talking to, old nigger?" one said.
"You give the school a bad image out here, " I said.
They laughed.
"Hang out somewhere else or at least go to the library and read a book, " I said.
They laughed and dismissed me with stylized waves of the arm.
I walked back to my old Chevy Blazer, sad but relieved that I would be leaving.
In my office, I sat at my desk staring at a stack of papers to be graded. I'm wasting my time, I thought. I've wasted two years of my professional life. I don't belong here.
Aside: this thread at Nancy Nall's is fascinating.
Culture and Ownership
John Scalzi hits on some important points.
In Helprin's formulation, the value of a copyright resides in monetizing the content the copyright represents. In the real world, however, there's also value for the copyright holder in manipulating copyrights in ways that have nothing to do with the content itself.
Stronger than me
Stronger Than Me by Amy Winehouse. This was her breakthrough single in the UK and is a great example of British Soul.
Who owns culture?
In Search of Lost Copyright: Disney & Proust, Viacom vs. YouTube, CSI: Miami, 2 Live Crew, & the Carpenters
Save for stylish mustaches, Walt Disney and Marcel Proust probably had very little in common. That is, until the enactment of the Copyright Term Extension Act of 1998, a.k.a. the "Mickey Mouse Protection Act."
[...]
The big deal arises from the prohibitive environment the Copyright Extension Act and the DMCA promote. For fear of being slapped with lawsuits and injunctions, the ordinary citizen's ability to engage in cultural and political criticism is severely limited. In a cultural lexicon increasingly dominated by corporate-generated images, the inability to comment and critique these images for fear of retribution cuts at the very heart of what it means to engage in "speech." This prohibitive environment especially curtails the speech of "emerging" artists and political actors, whose lack of financial resources and public regard afford them little help in taking on an allegedly infringed-upon wealthy and/or corporate adversary. The most important kind of speech, that which critiques the images and concepts of our media culture, becomes "chilled."
When the day buttons up her petticoat
When the day buttons up her petticoat
and prepares to go home, we want to walk
through the park and see the softball players
sweating it up for the church league, or the
pick-up basketball game on the concrete
courts, or walk across that unplowed pasture
down at the end of the block and spread the
blanket over the soft, uncut grasses
and huddle there, cuddle there, watching the
sky, the sky which holds the mysteries of
night, and is known for her scarcity of kisses.
and prepares to go home, we want to walk
through the park and see the softball players
sweating it up for the church league, or the
pick-up basketball game on the concrete
courts, or walk across that unplowed pasture
down at the end of the block and spread the
blanket over the soft, uncut grasses
and huddle there, cuddle there, watching the
sky, the sky which holds the mysteries of
night, and is known for her scarcity of kisses.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Future trends in music
The Inevitable Guitar Hero Controller Band Finally Surfaces
A band called The Guitar Zeros deciphered the Guitar Hero controller's data commands and connected them to the limitless Max/MSP software to create music more complex than what would seem to be possible with a five-button fretboard.Both videos are worth watching. I expect that some version of this will become commercially available for 'musicians' in the next few years.
The next crime wave?
Crime rises as police fight other threats
I normally don't link to these types of stories--panic, panic, panic now!--but I found the notion that Homeland Security is making us less secure to be... well, a dose of common sense."We're at a tipping point in violent crime in many cities," said Chuck Wexler, executive director of the Police Executive Research Forum, a Washington-based law enforcement think tank that released data in March showing the murder rate rising by more than 10 percent in dozens of big U.S. cities since 2004.
"What we're seeing over the past 24 months is a new volatility. In some big cities violent crime and murder are up. Some are seeing a reduction. It's a dramatic shift from the past 10 years when it was mostly all decreases," he said.
Criminologists are worried. Federal Bureau of Investigation data shows murders and shootings hitting smaller cities and states with little experience of serious urban violence. The last similar period of volatility was right before the big crime wave of the 1980s and 1990s.
Explanations vary -- from softer gun laws to budget cuts, fewer police on the beat, more people in poverty, expanding gang violence and simple complacency. But many blame a national preoccupation with potential threats from overseas since the attacks of September 11, 2001.
"Since 9/11, police obligations have increased substantially above and beyond decreasing street crime," Jens Ludwig, a criminal justice expert at Georgetown University.
"So even if police resources were held constant, there is this growing obligation on their part, so the resources available to fight street crime have gone down."
religion gets postmodern
The diarist is an atheist writing tongue-in-cheek – however, she believes the world would be better off if religious people actually followed this advice.Theological atheism: The belief that God exists, but he does not want us to believe in him.
God created evidence to prove that the universe, earth, and life came into existence and developed slowly by natural processes, without any apparent divine intervention. He left this evidence everywhere for us to discover — in the rocks, in fossils, in the DNA of all living things, and in outer space. Since God chose to hide his divine creative powers by using only natural processes that make him redundant, we can conclude he wants to remain invisible and not be acknowledged or worshipped.
Love Letters
In love letters there are two themes.
There is the theme of longing—
the writer wishes to be
the letters words pages envelope
delivered by the force of wild desire
into the hands eyes and heart
of the person being written to—
no matter what the circumstance—
and we are not naïve,
we know that circumstances
defy, even drown,
longing.
It is circumstance that makes longing
a wild howl of life
in a dark night of sadness—
sometimes the howling is beautiful.
There is the theme of belonging
which completes the circle
and transforms this bestial hunger
into love—
the writer delineates a transformation
from a solitude
into a nation of two
and hopes that this documentation of identification—
a visa for a faraway heart—
will suffice, if just for a moment,
for the writer’s voice, laugh, touch, smile
as the words dance under the eyes.
I became a different person
when I learned to belong—
just being in the same room with you
brought a certain joy
and thus I have been lonely
since this divorce of sorts.
We were not naïve, we knew the circumstances
some pain here, some pain there
was worth it.
We created a shared life.
Perhaps there is a third theme—
I have not decided—
that of gratitude.
Thank you for your heart your love your kisses.
Thank you for holding my hand in yours
for howling with me
with life.
There is the theme of longing—
the writer wishes to be
the letters words pages envelope
delivered by the force of wild desire
into the hands eyes and heart
of the person being written to—
no matter what the circumstance—
and we are not naïve,
we know that circumstances
defy, even drown,
longing.
It is circumstance that makes longing
a wild howl of life
in a dark night of sadness—
sometimes the howling is beautiful.
There is the theme of belonging
which completes the circle
and transforms this bestial hunger
into love—
the writer delineates a transformation
from a solitude
into a nation of two
and hopes that this documentation of identification—
a visa for a faraway heart—
will suffice, if just for a moment,
for the writer’s voice, laugh, touch, smile
as the words dance under the eyes.
I became a different person
when I learned to belong—
just being in the same room with you
brought a certain joy
and thus I have been lonely
since this divorce of sorts.
We were not naïve, we knew the circumstances
some pain here, some pain there
was worth it.
We created a shared life.
Perhaps there is a third theme—
I have not decided—
that of gratitude.
Thank you for your heart your love your kisses.
Thank you for holding my hand in yours
for howling with me
with life.
Friday, May 18, 2007
an observation
Phil Nugent makes a well-informed observation:
I guess there are just certain names that, by dint of some mystical connection of being just not common enough and being linked to some public figure who's just weird enough, take on a special power of their own. If your name is Newman, I don't suppose you have to worry too much about being asked if you're related to Paul. But if your name is Knieval...In New Orleans, Helen Hill and Me discusses the death of his friend and the death of his city.
from the department of duh
Breaking News: Guerilla Tactics Work
Wikipedia has a nice article on the Irish War for Independence. It is a war well worth studying, as it was the first modern war against colonialism and relied heavily on urban terrorism.
Another war worth examining was the Algerian war for independence (not only is the film Battle of Algiers a masterpiece, it is also an expose of why defeat is inevitable if one side is seen as occupiers.
Given that the historical antecedents were there... the question then is: why did the advocates for the invasion believe that victory was self-assured? Especially when many of them knew that the case for invasion was based on lies?
The evidence available suggests that the answer is hubris. Given the nature of things, this is turning into a Greek tragedy--the kind where there are no victors, there are no lessons learned, there are only a whole lot of dead people and tears.
Wikipedia has a nice article on the Irish War for Independence. It is a war well worth studying, as it was the first modern war against colonialism and relied heavily on urban terrorism.
Another war worth examining was the Algerian war for independence (not only is the film Battle of Algiers a masterpiece, it is also an expose of why defeat is inevitable if one side is seen as occupiers.
Given that the historical antecedents were there... the question then is: why did the advocates for the invasion believe that victory was self-assured? Especially when many of them knew that the case for invasion was based on lies?
The evidence available suggests that the answer is hubris. Given the nature of things, this is turning into a Greek tragedy--the kind where there are no victors, there are no lessons learned, there are only a whole lot of dead people and tears.
Rasoul Sorkhabi talks about Rumi
Master Rumi
Eight hundred years ago, in a northeastern town of the Persian kingdom, a boy was born. When he was twelve years old, he chanced to meet the great Sufi master and Persian poet Attar, who told the boy’s father: “The fiery words of this boy will kindle the souls of lovers all over the world.”
That boy was later to be known as Rumi. And this year, 2007, many literary, cultural and spiritual organizations are celebrating his 800th birth anniversary. UNESCO has issued a medal in Rumi’s honor. According to various sources, including The Christian Science Monitor (1), TIME Asia magazine (2), and the US Department of State’s Washington File (3), Rumi has become the most widely-read poet in North America, and translations of this Asian poet are increasingly popular in the other Western countries. For three decades, I have been reading Rumi everywhere I have been — India, Japan, and the USA. It is thus a personal delight to see the growing popularity of Rumi’s poetry.
the exposé
Her bra
fell to the floor
into a tangle
of dancing lines —
psychosomatic waves
[DRIVERS: No exp. needed]
first there was the jack,
then the five,
a bitter-sweet king
felled
by the ace
with the knowledge
that the jack
need not have been played
[OFFICE SUPPORT: Immedi-
ate opening avail. for self start-]
a string of pearls
a million petit moans
a long cry to heaven
[Thank You, Saint Jude for
favors received. S.C.]
fell to the floor
into a tangle
of dancing lines —
psychosomatic waves
[DRIVERS: No exp. needed]
first there was the jack,
then the five,
a bitter-sweet king
felled
by the ace
with the knowledge
that the jack
need not have been played
[OFFICE SUPPORT: Immedi-
ate opening avail. for self start-]
a string of pearls
a million petit moans
a long cry to heaven
[Thank You, Saint Jude for
favors received. S.C.]
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Testing
I scored a 10 on the Kamber-O'Leary "Are You Liberal or Conservative?" test. I answered every question, even when I disagreed with the premise or with the given answers (quite often).
But seriously, anyone who thinks that Reagan was a better president than FDR is historically retarded.
But seriously, anyone who thinks that Reagan was a better president than FDR is historically retarded.
Inserting oneself into the culture...
Kevin Drum has an interesting bit on music placement in prime time TV shows. (I made a comment, woo-hoo for me...)
This is a subject that I find fascinating, because in any society in which there are de facto cultural gate keepers, there will arise subversive strategies to bypass the gate keepers. It is emblematic of our (perhaps hyper-) capitalist society, that the primary gate keeper for music is money. In 2001, before the War on Terror, Salon ran an excellent series on payola and the music industry in the US. Having that as background, you can understand why TV and advertising became such attractive avenues to reach an audience for many independent musicians. As I note in my comment to Kevin's note... TV and TV-advertising has been a significant outlet for techno for a number of years--to the point where there are awards for 'best electronic dance song featured in a television ad'.
Somewhat related: WalMart as a cultural gatekeeper.
This is a subject that I find fascinating, because in any society in which there are de facto cultural gate keepers, there will arise subversive strategies to bypass the gate keepers. It is emblematic of our (perhaps hyper-) capitalist society, that the primary gate keeper for music is money. In 2001, before the War on Terror, Salon ran an excellent series on payola and the music industry in the US. Having that as background, you can understand why TV and advertising became such attractive avenues to reach an audience for many independent musicians. As I note in my comment to Kevin's note... TV and TV-advertising has been a significant outlet for techno for a number of years--to the point where there are awards for 'best electronic dance song featured in a television ad'.
I expect with the continuing boom of YouTube, that the internet and word-of-mouth will become ever more important in giving teenagers the music they want to listen to, and in allowing them to claim a cultural identity of their own. And artists and independent labels will continue to find crafty ways to insert their works in out of the way places where they can be found.
Rock and roll died a long time ago. But I expect in the next ten years we will see the beginnings of a new generational form--blending and bending current genres into a new fusion.Somewhat related: WalMart as a cultural gatekeeper.
Al Gore's new book
Al Gore has a new book, called The Assault on Reason. The following is an excerpt (more at Time.com (via Atrios)).
Our Founders' faith in the viability of representative democracy rested on their trust in the wisdom of a well-informed citizenry, their ingenious design for checks and balances, and their belief that the rule of reason is the natural sovereign of a free people. The Founders took great care to protect the openness of the marketplace of ideas so that knowledge could flow freely. Thus they not only protected freedom of assembly, they made a special point—in the First Amendment—of protecting the freedom of the printing press. And yet today, almost 45 years have passed since the majority of Americans received their news and information from the printed word. Newspapers are hemorrhaging readers. Reading itself is in decline. The Republic of Letters has been invaded and occupied by the empire of television.
Radio, the Internet, movies, cell phones, iPods, computers, instant messaging, video games and personal digital assistants all now vie for our attention—but it is television that still dominates the flow of information. According to an authoritative global study, Americans now watch television an average of 4 hours and 35 minutes every day—90 minutes more than the world average. When you assume eight hours of work a day, six to eight hours of sleep and a couple of hours to bathe, dress, eat and commute, that is almost three-quarters of all the discretionary time the average American has.
In the world of television, the massive flows of information are largely in only one direction, which makes it virtually impossible for individuals to take part in what passes for a national conversation. Individuals receive, but they cannot send. They hear, but they do not speak. The "well-informed citizenry" is in danger of becoming the "well-amused audience." Moreover, the high capital investment required for the ownership and operation of a television station and the centralized nature of broadcast, cable and satellite networks have led to the increasing concentration of ownership by an ever smaller number of larger corporations that now effectively control the majority of television programming in America.
In practice, what television's dominance has come to mean is that the inherent value of political propositions put forward by candidates is now largely irrelevant compared with the image-based ad campaigns they use to shape the perceptions of voters. The high cost of these commercials has radically increased the role of money in politics—and the influence of those who contribute it. That is why campaign finance reform, however well drafted, often misses the main point: so long as the dominant means of engaging in political dialogue is through purchasing expensive television advertising, money will continue in one way or another to dominate American politics. And as a result, ideas will continue to play a diminished role. That is also why the House and Senate campaign committees in both parties now search for candidates who are multimillionaires and can buy the ads with their own personal resources.
The Stars and Moon
They roll in mud—because it feels good.
They smell each other, they smell you—
they like the way people smell,
but prefer the way they smell.
When wet, they shake their bodies
twisting contorting—
the world around them is the world around them—
when happy, they shake their tails,
sometimes, they drool.
They roll in mud—it feels good.
They smell each other, they smell you—
they like the way people smell,
but prefer the way they smell.
When wet, they shake their bodies
twisting contorting—
the world around them is the world around them—
when happy, they shake their tails,
sometimes, they drool.
They roll in mud—it feels good.
Interview with Hubert Védrin
...in L'Orient-Le Jour, translated by Nur al-Cubicle:
The overall theme of my book is that after the fall of the Soviet Union, the West went overboard with euphoria in the notion that it had won the battle of history. It believed that its notions would then be automatically applicable everywhere : its ideas of democracy, its conception of the market economy, its values –which it believes are universal. In its mindset, there will be no more policy problems because there will be no more fundamental disputes on anything. All that would remain is how the world would be organized. It has even been adopted World Bank jargon, talking about things like "governance" which suggests business management rather than policies.
This Western illusion is split into two branches: one is American and the other European. The American branch attributes primordial importance to military superiority. It is here where the Neocons suceeded in hijacking US foreign policy with their very peculiar understanding of the Middle East –an interpretation which they tried to foist on the rest of the world. In their minds, the Palestinian question is of no importance –it is merely a pretext invented by the enemies of Israel– and therefore it is necessary to transform Arab states willy nilly and make them democratic, which would naturally make them pro-Western. But this type of reasoning is borrowed from Dr. Strangelove. How in heaven’s name did the United States, a great country, –certainly very nationalistic but overall very smart– get hijacked in this way ? This is worth investigating.
The other branch, the European branch, is very different but I would lable it ingenuous. Modern Europeans believe that the world is made up of Boy Scouts who want to protect the overall well-being of humanity. They believe that we are part of an international community that works to prevent conflicts through the United Nations, etc.
These two irrealistic branches of thought, which are very different, really don’t work. Actually, a kind of multi-polar world is in the process of forming.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Bush finds a patsy
Lt. Gen. Lute to be named War Czar.
My take is the same as Atrios's... this will be another excuse to give the war another 4-6 months.
More at Carpetbagger.
My take is the same as Atrios's... this will be another excuse to give the war another 4-6 months.
More at Carpetbagger.
Room 47
My neighbor is searching through the drawers of his dresser
and perhaps
he might find,
since the clumsy way seems to be the only way,
those things I am trying to find
would try to find
if I knew the way.
I changed, without realizing that I changed—
it wasn’t the mirror that told me—
strange how no one tells you anything to your face—
but a whisper that I wished I was whispering
into someone’s ear. . .
I stopped singing the blues some time ago,
but you told me that if I sang you would dance,
and even though this is
the Age of Lies
I want to believe you,
I need to believe you,
I need that chance.
Maybe you’ll have reservations about your reservation
to hear the strange song I will sing—
barely a whisper—
what words, what notes, what phrases. . .
perhaps you will hear in them
the things I’ve lost
and the things
I’ve gained.
and perhaps
he might find,
since the clumsy way seems to be the only way,
those things I am trying to find
would try to find
if I knew the way.
I changed, without realizing that I changed—
it wasn’t the mirror that told me—
strange how no one tells you anything to your face—
but a whisper that I wished I was whispering
into someone’s ear. . .
I stopped singing the blues some time ago,
but you told me that if I sang you would dance,
and even though this is
the Age of Lies
I want to believe you,
I need to believe you,
I need that chance.
Maybe you’ll have reservations about your reservation
to hear the strange song I will sing—
barely a whisper—
what words, what notes, what phrases. . .
perhaps you will hear in them
the things I’ve lost
and the things
I’ve gained.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Silence (10 of 10)
Both the broth
in a cup of noise
and cup
that holds a broth of noise—
we sip
eye to eye
knowing that nothing is complete
except this moment
and moments are fleeting.
in a cup of noise
and cup
that holds a broth of noise—
we sip
eye to eye
knowing that nothing is complete
except this moment
and moments are fleeting.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Metamorphosis 3: A Passage from Philip K. Dick’s VALIS
In my interconnected dreams
I live another life—sometimes
I drive north in my red Capri
to my house on the shore of the lake—
I enjoy working with my wife
in the garden—she is slim and
attractive and loves to smile—
we tend to the wild roses planted
near the retaining wall in our
back yard—the house next to us is
a mansion—we’re quite modest in
comparison. And for an hour
after I awake from these dreams
I can still see in my mind’s eye
my wife in her blue jeans, dragging
the garden hose across the driveway.
And yet I am not married—I
have never loved anyone as
deeply as I love my wife in
my dreams—I live in an apartment—
I would never feel comfortable
in an upper-middle class life—
and to my knowledge there is no
such lake in the north one could drive to.
I am different from how I am
in these dreams. These dreams baffle me—
I awake disoriented,
living a double life—wondering
which one is really more fulfilling—
the life I have when awake
or the one which seduces me,
those long peaceful drives north, to the lake?
I may have more to say about these metamorphosis poems later. But I felt compelled to share this given the news that Dick has been given a volume in the Library of America series (see below).
I live another life—sometimes
I drive north in my red Capri
to my house on the shore of the lake—
I enjoy working with my wife
in the garden—she is slim and
attractive and loves to smile—
we tend to the wild roses planted
near the retaining wall in our
back yard—the house next to us is
a mansion—we’re quite modest in
comparison. And for an hour
after I awake from these dreams
I can still see in my mind’s eye
my wife in her blue jeans, dragging
the garden hose across the driveway.
And yet I am not married—I
have never loved anyone as
deeply as I love my wife in
my dreams—I live in an apartment—
I would never feel comfortable
in an upper-middle class life—
and to my knowledge there is no
such lake in the north one could drive to.
I am different from how I am
in these dreams. These dreams baffle me—
I awake disoriented,
living a double life—wondering
which one is really more fulfilling—
the life I have when awake
or the one which seduces me,
those long peaceful drives north, to the lake?
I may have more to say about these metamorphosis poems later. But I felt compelled to share this given the news that Dick has been given a volume in the Library of America series (see below).
Canonizing Dick
From Danny Yee I find that Philip K. Dick is being canonized into the Library of America. The Library of America volume includes Man in the High Castle, The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, and Ubik. Wow. Just wow.
I've always found Philip Dick a guilty pleasure. His writing was not particularly polished. His plots went in bizarre tangents and didn't necessarily mesh. His characterizations could be cold. And yet... it worked. He presented some much needed truths, holding a mirror to the world around him and within him.
I've always found Philip Dick a guilty pleasure. His writing was not particularly polished. His plots went in bizarre tangents and didn't necessarily mesh. His characterizations could be cold. And yet... it worked. He presented some much needed truths, holding a mirror to the world around him and within him.
Silence (9 of 10)
In this ragged breathing
as we nuzzle
fresh smells of sex and sweat
me with you, you with me
there is no need to explain
explore or negotiate.
Everything is evident.
You smile.
I brush your cheek.
as we nuzzle
fresh smells of sex and sweat
me with you, you with me
there is no need to explain
explore or negotiate.
Everything is evident.
You smile.
I brush your cheek.
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