Monday, November 22, 2004
I guess I hate eulogies. Lucia Berlin lived in whatthefuck. this is stranded, not flim and flam work in a life of each moment. a writer who cleaned, who did for. this isn't touching but a lot of other words. a lot. she was good, good enough. I guess there was trouble to relate her. the schemes are in. Creeley weighs in with metronome. just some bourgeois damage. goodbye, if it's decent.
Lenin was for toppling. he came out of the sunset, rather spare and included in something made like something. this is very indignity, said Lenin to comrade, but the address rose over frozen waters, seas forever denied access to party favours. this is choice as a colour told to be unknown, remarked Lenin, understood as a powder killed with kegs. our jury rigs steps of dance on trim lifting sustainment, said Lenin as natural as a candidate for porridge. how many clusters deny the very fact of the address? the people are twined by certain gummy shadows. a war grows over Iraq, called the war on Iran. Iran is a bed of nailed. its terror of function becomes the country’s side order of frying. Iraq as any one knows, remains a poor Iran station. Lenin has to adjust. the imperial buttress knows neighbours, relations, stumps of school chums. someone is able in burial, runt class. someone collides with the theory of colliding. Lenin matters as a judge for social chewing. what is wheat? what real rye will fill the federal bread? for instant cheer inside of numbered Presidential Library, and the extreme choice of furnishing scores of glum cadence, the voter popularity string swiftly digests the trash. this trash is a marvel, cries Lenin, the exhausted destiny of periods in sentences. jeers recorded for later were really clear in stopping reaction to endive. endive, said Lenin in one moment, will save us. yet the question of all that time, who are us? we were reading carefully for a flight while nothing seemed so rosy as the morning dew. how curious to read along these lines, said Lenin, at the back of the first book.
Chris's comments on Jukka's vispo are sharp, and certainly better spoken than I could do. it is interesting to take Jukka's several blog projects together. there's a sense of experimention with them that I think of as more scientific than avant-garde. tho his interest is aesthetic, of course, there's a formal curiosity at work that strikes me as scientific. I mean nothing pejorative here, it's a close attention and a working. Jukka offers hypothetical questions such as, what are words without meaning, and, how much does syntax hold us together, then proceeds to experiment. the motivation is artistic in the sense of pleasure involved. as is pretty evident here, I have a stupid curiosity. I do not 'think it thru', I ride it. which is just another way.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
watched a documentary on They Might Be Giants last night. I love them. I even have a modest TMBG story. while working for the wine store years ago, I waited on a woman who's check read either Flansburgh or Linnell and who lived in Lincoln. I knew that the Johns hailed from Lincoln, so mentioned that the woman's name sounded familiar re TMBG. she was the mother of one. the boys had just been in Lincoln for their 10th reunion. which I suspect was less grim than Janis Joplin going to hers (check it out motherfuckers: I'm famous now). like Richard Thompson, their words have a literary feel. not so much that their songs are poems, which I think really not, but the care in the words chosen shows thru. I own none of their cds and am not expert in their ways but enjoy their work immensely. one song last night was about James Polk, based on the dry info you get in civics textbooks. another song I recall speaks of the sun as a glowing ball of gases, and the planets around it. the lyrics, in fact, come from a Golden Book kid's version of the universe. getting a band wasn't a bad thing. I continue to be leery of tape machines, drum machines (ick!!!) and keyboards that do everything. at least, in live performance, I will pass on that stuff. since I am speaking of music, Erin played a cd by a group called The Darkness. when he put it on I thought it was some 80s band, which is consistent with Erin's taste. I am sure the band listened heartily to AC/DC (as well they should). the vocals changed my assumption. the singer periodically switches into a weird falsetto that I've never heard the like. mostly it's true falsetto (huhn?), not screeching over the amps. pretty tasteful music, crisply done, but I would tire of it quickly.