In that, in embarassments there are still wisdoms. Unless life really is like a pinewood derby. In which case we might as well all pack up and go home because the Cub Scout with the dad with the best toolshop always won those. If capital and its exchanges truly bequeath and openness and levity onto us -- the very act of exchange as a boon -- then surely the dad souping up the little car should be hurtful to this process. But rather this cheating is the norm, from the pinewood derby to the church sack race to the boardroom. And those who spend their lives trying to play fair are out of the norm. I think more and more that writing is actually a grand attempt to play fair, generate a real form of sustaining, gnostic (in the general sense of the word) capital -- that rather than subverting the rule of law (although the best writing often seems to), it instead creates conditions that allow more decent exchanges to engender themselves. Which in the long run are more orderly, humanizing. And to sometimes entreat against the gin-induced musings of the ogliarchic heart...
Sleepy. Finished "Ogres" right under the gun, 2am! Dump truck with shiny bits careening down a hillside, etc. But I finished. Wondering about the suburbs lately, as in, curious that I live in one. Maybe a little quixotic. The household doesn't mind terribly much, but there are days when it would be swell to live closer to Pig's Eye. It's not every day that a city was named after a one-eyed moonshiner. But naturally -- blackrobes did NOT approve, and so they went, to use sporty terminology, the safe draft pick. That guy was blinded too, butterfingers falling off a horse! But of course he recovered and xianity started rising the chart with a bullet. Heatseeker! Sometimes I think that Pig's Eye didn't die but still can be seen from the corner of the eye when you're not expecting it. So how's that for clarity?
Prediction segment: by 2008 Home Depots will have full service restaurant/bakeries, perhaps pied with NASCAR themes. Next to the paint department today, there was a platform with 2 Yorkshire Terriers. 1 was terrified and contemplated the (for him) vast plummet to the ground, like Walter Raleigh in the tower and how he must have thought thousands of times that it would have been better to jump.
"To this purpose likewise is that other way of secret Information by divers Knots tied upon a String according to certain Distances by which a Man may as distinctly and yet as Secretly express his Meaning as by any other way of Discourse. For who would mistrust any private News of Treachery to lye hid in a Thread wherein there was nothing to be discerned but sundry confused Knots or other the like Marks?"
--Bishop John Wilkins, Mercury the Secret and Swift Messenger, 1641.
"Accident is that which occurs in a substance and deserts a substance. If it thus occurs, whence does it come? To where does it proceed after it disappears? Certain people understand it thus: when it comes it does not come from elsewhere nor, in returning, does it return to something."
Anyone up for a game of Liar's Poker? I know I am!
Was reading John Cleveland's antiplatonicks in the bathtub when the lightbulb died, withdrew her beams, yet made no night, but left the sun her curate-light. The book's pages didn't wet, but neither did they dry, infused with steam. Our household stayed up to watch X beat Y, except for me, which is unusual, since I'm the biggest proponent of x in Rancho Peach Stucco. X makes me nervous, it's hard to watch and anyway I needed to sleep. I haven't taken an actual bath in several years, I wonder if the shower changes perceptions -- meditations -- so as to render submersion and its wrinkles inchoate, lumbering. Go X!
Incidentally, the ptarmigan to the left in the image above is not in pain, nor dead. He or she is about to leap from a cliff. The cliff is difficult to see from that vantage/shade. I cannot say why the ptarmigan is about to jump. But remember, many birds tend to fly, so I think the fellow will be fine.
Funky floating pictures, there.
For me, it's Get Your "Oh My Fucking God Why Do I Share the Same High School Alma Mater with Tom Ridge" On.
Santorum looks vat-grown.
Poling from one skerry to another. Working on "Ogres" for this (link on left). Editing for rural social work. Champing at the bit. No it's not chomping. Already the trees outside are blossoming like SARS, verdant spread everywhere. Plagues have historically been caused by the displacement of toxic but isolated bacteria and viruses into areas of human habitation. E.g., the bubonic plague came through civilization, many suppose, because of an earthquake in Siberia -- shaking up the disease borne rats/fleas to move to villages. Who spread news of the death with black tulips already spry out of their necks. Amulets, cloths scented with rosemary and hyssop tied around the face tended to not, repeat not, help matters. Sometimes helpful, but not really, were quarantines, e.g., walling up with masonry the houses of those infected. CLEAN DRINKING WATER, though. Amazing what it can do, such as not killing you and all. The whitehouse is well aware of this in Iraq, I'm positive! The bibles they are to hand out in Mosul are actually water bottles in disguise. Those bibles make excellent coolers!
Prairie dogs still carry the plague.
I mean, it's really green outside.
Tracking those reading Ptarmigan, semi-far and semi-wide. Best google search finding this, ever: where i find food chain for a army ant
#7, pagerank. True.
Akin to Ringu: what if there was a haunted mineral? One that transmitted a viral tendency that bore a palimpsest of its dark maker? Which caused great consternation and if you didn't solve things it would kill you in a fortnight minus three? A mineral whose content so disturbed (even in its banals) that upon reading it you changed into a revenent positively vengeful?
NO, I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT FEAR DOT COM!
Mixing the onyx dye. What a morning! The corvids in the lawn sight have never administrated the burning of Korans. So that's good. They continue to unapologetically move nuts and skulls into the path of oncoming cars. The carrion (genetic lint) is organically certified. Able. The permafrost seems to be gone but who knows it may come back. May snow. Evening wants to take a night class at the Minnesota School of Poetics. But I tell her that whatever feelings she may have locked away down in there has no key. It's not a matter of keys. We are not a guild of safecrackers. Instead figuring out how the bird itself has become a cage.
What will the end result be, all you tiger lemons? What spheres of influence will coast, what will fall? Grace's lake has drained and a thousand clamor in marketplaces: "Here have this glass of water. It's water. Water is good for you and also others."
Evening and Quail--the latter in partic.--have had ideas about the veracity of this statement. Its product placement. Walking home today, I saw a white heron try to bathe in a drying marsh, amongst peeps wrappers. Which come from Peepsville. Made buy Just Born.
Every holiday is a birthday song and an elegy.
All of this = not a lark, more like guffaws on a tightrope made of crocodiles.
In the hopes that in the tiniest ghostly reckonings we are in fact judged by our best moments rather than our worst.
The souls of such persons are inferior by nature and unable to attain perfection. Therefore, they have a better perception of particulars than of universals. They get involved with the former and neglect the latter. Therefore, the power of imagination is most strongly developed in those persons, because it is the organ of the particulars. The particulars completely pervade the power of the imagination, both in the sleeping and the waking state. They are ever ready and present in it. The power of imagination brings the particulars to the attention of those persons and serves as a mirror in which they are seen constantly...
The highest state this type of person can reach is to achieve disregard for the senses with the help of rhymed prose...
The soothsayer, thus, often speaks the truth and agrees with reality. Often, however, what he says are falsehoods, because he supplements his deficiency with something foreign to, different from, and incompatible with, his perceptive essence.
--Ibn Khaldun, The Muquaddimah
Quite a dry lurch we're in here.
What if dittoheads decide to "freedom loot" the Academy of American Poets?
Time estimate to that: 2-whenever years!
NOOO! Other minerals are delinkifying to me at a rapid pace!
Sorry sorry sorry sorry
Should I just shut it all down?
Quail is free in a kind of "too poor to move away from the neighborhood near the trash incinerator, but hey, this is Amerigo" kind of way!
OMG, how did a week pass like that? Freedom makes the time go faster, I guess!
Except if you're Lenny Kravitz! Which I'm not!
So, the fonts are bleeding, changing colors. Well, not actually changing colors, but changing sides. Families. Fonts live in families, correct? I have no idea how or whether to resolve this. Evening -- who has never really liked this anyway -- says fuck it, let it slide, as it would, into the ocean, the coral reefs colored much like our sidebars. Quail is doing her nails. Sharpening them, I mean. She's trying to build a birdcage but doesn't have the right amount of plywood.
This could go on for quite some time, and yet nothing could be more pointless.
We've all gotten together and harnessed our love of France into a commune. It's always been a commune of some sort, right? Evening and Quail have been laying low and for that there is apologies. Quail spent seven days on the permafrost, gathering soil samples for her collection. Evening has been working overtime, the extra money she makes she burns. On the steps of the bank. This is not a metaphor for whiskey in a paper bag. Meanwhile, even I have felt distant, but at the same time far away.
Oh! And some lollygagger with the same name as me has started their own mineral! Well we'll see how long THAT lasts.