Today is the day I came and left.

The fields faced the graveyard, symmetrical with themselves and each other. The spikes that marked the bushes were alike...so were the corpses, down instead of up. I'm not my body, am I? I don't think, I don't...but you feel differently, don't you? Even if you feel the same.

This isn't making sense, which is apparently a common complaint among my consumers. The absence of sence. For what it's worth, I feel the same way-I don't know what I'm talking about half the time. I just don't think that it detracts.

Lists

Like messages, a letter from a younger you. Or like your will, externalized and free. "I don't need to want to do this, because an earlier version of myself dedicated some of her/his time to it and freed me up from that internalized ambition. Thanks, previous me! Now I can devote some of my finite (but not limited) attention to this sandwich."

I have a bit. Not now, maybe later. But I have one (another one. I think that makes three all told. Not all told in this blog post. Earlier. Piece it together. Or don't, whatever.) and it's coming together. It's all moral and clever. It's winning me over, which is odd-I'm not much of a joiner. Even when it's my thing, and I'm doing it. Not a joiner.

Also, having listened to lots of really bad Xmas music (musical war crime/abortion set to music bad), it's occurred to me that Frosty the Snowman's about death. That it's cruel to use a magic hat to bring a snowman to life, knowing that he'll melt so soon. Now, I'm not wed to this-a coworker of mine hypothesized that it's actually a metaphor for Christ (which makes the children god, and the hat...I don't know what the hat is) and the recursive nature of winter represents Christ's inevitable return. And I'm willing to acknowledge the similarities between Frosty's mortality and our own. I may just be a bigot, unable to reconcile the difference between a few months at most (in colder climes) and our own longer, more nuanced lives. It's anthropomorphism, is what it is. Reduced to my scale, and I have no sense of proportion.

Brunch

So I'm up early, on a Sunday of all things. Gonna try and clean the house, got family coming. Cook too, I think I'll make some bread. One of my HD has 1.21 Gigs left. Nice.

It's warmed up, but it's still winter, and my old body aches as I try and cross the terminus of one more year. Twenty days left.

Perihelion

Two days, burned days. Shot and sundered and wandered and warm. I've got Jimmy Buffet and Bob Dylan stuck in my head, neither good, neither wanted. It's blood warm outside, feverish where I work. Last day, to-day. Good, good.

Demonoid

Is back up after about 3 months downtime. Hot damn.

Long Days and Lovers and Seasons and Skies

It was six when I woke up this morning, at five o'clock. Like separation, like Kevin Bacon. God is made of bacon, did you know that? He's haram. Like a colander, like the calendar.

Look it up.

I came home and sharpened my face (I did other things betwixt and between, but that's just work, and thus not really worth writing about until it is). Made myself what Patton Oswalt calls a "failure pile, in a sadness bowl", and waited for it to succeed. Cleaned, swept, vacuumed (there's a handful of words in the english language that have two "u"s next to each other...know any others?) and finally, finally, settled down to write. To "blahg", the kids are calling it.

I've been writing a lot, not here, so that's probably wounded my blogging a little. Whoops. But it's still me, still an extension of myself. And it's not that I haven't had things to say-I had a whole bit about this a couple days ago, but it seemed like it would take too long to run it around (long story short, I'm racist. No, not like that). You'll have to forgive me-I'm nesting. Like a gorilla.

It's the holidays, holy days. I'm looking forward to Cthulhu and my mother's company, dreading the Xmas music that hollows out my place of employment (it's improved, though. My doing, I'm sure) and drowning in solitude and self-satisfaction. There's worse things.

So I'm well, well enough. Strangely good, really. Better than in forever, to tell the truth. I'm new, different, strong and burning bright. I have hopes and dreams, friends and allies. Some of you are some of those, some of you are others. I'd leave it ambiguous, leave you guessing. You choose, alright? Everyone gets to do whatever they want. Even me.

Sabbaths

Never having been what you would call ambitious, it's odd then, to reach a point in my life where I save up my resting and look forward to the day. Day of.

I have lots to do, have set myself to something. Somethings. It's odd, to have a purpose.

...

Not bad. I'll let you know how it goes.

Patience

I've had it up to here with people. And let's bear in mind, my here's higher than most people's. Which implies that the tall are more patient. Which is clearly true. One more proof.

Anglophile

I was a weird kid-no really, it's true. I fell into all sorts of odd things-I must have been about six when I started watching Dr. Who (the old one) and I still have a Red Dwarf shirt from a PBS marathon in 1993. My mother always liked English TV, we watched a lot of PBS back when that was what they played. So I had strange tastes in that sense, a fondness for things that were out-of-the-ordinary (though I can't stand Monty Python).

I must have been around twelve when I caught an episode of The Prisoner. Very few things have stuck with me so strongly, but then, there's nothing like The Prisoner.

It's beautiful. It's the strangest thing that's ever been on TV. Truly.

So when I heard that AMC was doing a remake, a reboot, I was worried. Like you would be, right? Other people taking something you love, doing new things with it...you'd worry, right? Tonight it premiered, and it's fantastic. Smart and odd and sinister and funny and brilliant. Just brilliant.

You can watch episodes of the old series here, see the webpage for the new here. Check it out, it's something I love.

Hanlon's Razor

Tabs open in my three Firefox windows.


www.gmail.com

http://www.blogger.com/post-create

http://www.rpol.net/game.cgi?gi=39364&date=1257917745

https://wave.google.com

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Title#Professional_titles

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Occitan_cross

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ba%C3%ACo

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vergonha

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&client=firefox-a&rls=org.mozilla%3Aen-US%3Aofficial&
hs=Apk&q=commer%C3%A7ants+in+english&aq=f&oq=&aqi=

http://www.rpol.net/display.cgi?gi=39364&ti=5&date=1257880302

http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/playlist/Querealist/18658933

http://www.xs4all.nl/~fwb/rgbmars.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inferno_%28Doctor_Who%29

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_eponyms

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scientific_laws_named_after_people

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wine_bottle#Sizes

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Group_dynamics

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Entity

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Entity_class

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darian_calendar

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adages_named_after_people

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_paradoxes

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scientific_phenomena_named_after_people

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Chinese_criminal_organizations

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raven_paradox

Howl

I need a break. A break from magic future bullshit. It's eating me alive, from my head on out.

If you're not watching Glenn Beck...

You're missing one of the great spectacles of the 21st century. I mean it-he's incredible. 2PM and 11PM weekdays on FOX News. Check it out.

Last Chance

"And it looks like, yes, the skies are opening up...and, yes...yes...it's raining fire. No, no wait...it's fiery jaguars. That's right, jaguars. Late model too. Looks like it's the apocalypse, and the aztecs were right."

Lithium Tuesday and the Season of Spiders

Abandoning the real for the surreal and the ur-real. Tiers and jodhpurs and nonsense nonsense nonsense. It's the post-post-ironic era, did you know that? The Age of Nonsense, and I will be your harbinger and herald. This is the Season of Spiders, Plaid Wednesday, the year I learn to love persimmons.

I leave so many bits behind, shards of odd scattered in the streets and in my wake. Try not to cut yourselves-they're bits of me, and I'm fucking sharp.

Eato mutata resurgo.

Gerard de Nerval

Je suis le Tenebreux, -le Veuf-, l'inconsole,
Le prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie:

Ma seule etoile est morte, -et mon luth constelle
Porte le Soleil noir de la Melancolie.

Ghetto

Down at the laundromat, contemplating my doom.

Wizardz Paste

My computer's spell check hates me. All red lines-not right!, it screams. There are twenty-four on the screen when I Alt+Tab over. But it's not that I can't spell. I can fucking spell. It's that my spell check has no idea what I'm talking about(just like the meat world). Here are some examples from the aforementioned page...

ferrier
cyberbrain
Lojban
Nemorensis
areography
Apollinaris
Mercurii
fane

Some of you know what this is about. Those of you who don't, I propose a game. Tell me what you think all those words add up to.

Pumpkin Bunker

Say it out loud-it's worth it.

My roommate described to me once, the sensation he had when he was stressed out, upset, chewing on something. Like you do. He told me that he got so bored with himself.

That never would have occurred to me. Never. Speaks to our differences. Nonetheless...

I am so fucking bored right now.

Ragnaroktoberfest

I'm sick, not well. Weak, feverish. Every time I cough, I oink*. You know what that means.

What it doesn't mean is that I'm out of the loop. Loup-Garou I am, I can't let certain things go by, even though I'll avoid the rest of the world like Sierra del Plata. Watch this-it's my favorite.





*Not my bit, my favorite Marxist's. I've stolen it, like property is theft. Even intellectual property.

Apples

We have the best, at Capella right now. Local Liberty apples, crisp and white and tart. I wait all year for these apples.

Familiars

I live with omens. Cats, the four of them. Black, and white. Black and white. And gray. Not mine, but mine nonetheless.

Lips and Hunting

I've been mum, lately. There's not a good reason. Or at least, what reason there may be is vague and unclear, even to me. And something that cannot be described cannot be good-so the reason isn't, either.

The degree to which that statement is absurd is in direct proportion to the degree to which it is arbitrary. It's true. I can measure it. Think about that the next time you're right about something.

So I've been off. A little. It is unfortunate. And I've had things to say, too-I had a whole bit about race going in my head the other day, and I've left out all my familial vacation stories. Which are downright Shakespearean, wouldn't you know. But I'm not feeling up to being raw and unburdensome or even articulate. Instead...

I have a purse. It's a messenger bag, whatever. It's a fucking purse. I carry all sorts of crap I might use in it. Something I never thought I'd do (I have a tendency to lose things. Why I don't wear a hat*). So it's a purse, I carry it around. And tonight I had to switch over, one version (messenger bag) to another (a more standard, conventional backpack). Don't ask me why. There's not a good reason. But I thought, as I maneuvered through my personal paraphernalia, that it might be revealing to let you know what I feel like I should keep with me. So...this is my inventory.

A bike pump. Nice one, compact with a gauge. It'll fill a tire in less than two minutes. I love it.

A bicycle tire iron. Yellow, plastic. It was free at my bike kitchen.

A bicycle multi-tool. Allen wrenches and such. I think I traded a hobo for this one.

Three pens, two ballpoint, one large sharpie. Generic felt tip, really. I'm sure "sharpie"'s a brand name.

A pound and a half of dried pineapple rings covered in chili pepper. No, they came that way. Really.

A box knife, from work.

Three golf balls (Two Dunlop, one Top Elite) in a plastic, ziploc™ bag.

A toothbrush (some hippy brand from work)

Toothpaste (likewise)

A tupperware container w/ oatmeal soap and a washcloth in it.

My glasses case, containing my glass-cleaning cloth. And a chillum.

A sample bag from work containing two tampons and one pad.

Lifesavers, about 2/3 of a roll of wintergreen.

Two amtrak stubs.

A condom.

Four quarters.

A shamwow.

A glass jar with a cork top that originally was attached to something else. The jar, not the cork. Though I imagine the cork came from an oak, originally. So it was also attached to something else.

A lighter. It's got a pheasant on it. The pheasant's name is Earl.

Chain oil.

My dental insurance card.

A tube of Dr. Haushka's Lipstick, Allegro color.

A bottle of asprin.

Two band-aids.

Electrical tape.

A rock (I think it's obsidian, actually).

Cuticle nippers (I love these things. I regret the portion of my life I lived without knowing they existed).

A nickle.

Two dimes.

Three keys I don't know the provenance of. One looks like it's for a bike lock I don't have.

A spare tube for my bike. This one has one of those damn european valves on it, which makes it useless to me. Fuck. I just noticed this.

Some ginger, once fresh, now dessicated and sad. Gotta be careful, handling ginger. It's a rhizome, have to treat it delicately. Gingerly, even.





*Also, I have a gigantic head.

Nulhomme

As I cleaned the house last night, did the dishes this morning...I felt very adult. Not just because I was doing it, but because I wanted to. It's not a chore, not outside myself. It's part of my rhythm. Which is how it should be-everyone gets to do whatever they want, me included. I'm just glad that I've gotten to the point where the things that are good for me are the things that I want. Some of them, anyway.

This is an obfuscation, by the way. Or a diversion, maybe. I'm back from a long way away, worn out from sales tax and driving and family. It was good, very good. Give me a minute-I'll tell you about it later.

Tessellated

Are my days, and the hours and spaces in them. Saw a bunch of art today-at the art museum, no less. And met a Danish Englishman. Held forth and court with fine people, new and old. Yesterday that was. Ignore the grey, there is nothing but grey.

So I'm having a good time, that's the whole and the half of it. It's more complicated than that, but it evens out. Black and white, wounds and clotting quick. I'll post some Escher when I get a chance. It was awesome.

Traveling

Going, going. Ready to go. I've cooked and packed and ruined everything, and with only eight short hours of work between my window and me...

I'm ready to go.

Up to see my family and the geography of my childhood. I grew up in Moscow, moved to Portland when I was 8. This trip reverses that, Portland then Spokane then Moscow and Troy. Stops along the way, too. We are civilized people. But it'll be backwards, my youth upside down and inside out.

I'm hoping I'll get younger.

Themeless

There's a big whiteboard in the breakroom at work. For notes and such. A coworker of mine had been having trouble with his apron being stolen. So he took advantage of the whiteboard, left a note about his trouble. He wrote, in big purple letters...

Stop taking aprons that don't belong to you!

That's fine, right? Nice, to the point. And it had been up for about a day before I decided to adulterate it slightly. I erased "taking" and wrote "the", ending up with...

Stop the aprons that don't belong to you!

Which is also fine, right? It's the sort of thing I'd do at work-I did it quickly, casually, at the start of my day. Because that's what I'd do at work. Out in the world at large too. I make a little trouble. Every pantheon needs a coyote.

Wasn't me, stealing his apron. In case you were wondering.

When I came back later that day, someone else had been at it. They'd made drastic changes. They'd erased all of "that don't belong to you" and had changed "stop" and "aprons". And there was a whole new preamble. The end result was...

Is there no Stopping the Aarons?

Oh. Oh my.

I don't doubt that the rest of you talk/think about me when I'm not there. It must happen. It's still lovely when I get to see the proof.

I've made my pizza with death

Do you ever feel as though everyone you know is dysfunctional, misanthropic, and deaf? Like the world is full of hollow tubes of rotten blood, and you have to navigate their jostling, gelatinous selves without them bursting all over you? Have you ever wanted to take vinegar back in time? To see the wine it might have been?

I'm a mess. Right now. And I've figured that out, and believe that it'll stop being true in the future. I imagine I can wait myself out. But it's not fun for me-I can only imagine it for the rest of you.

The greatest gift is the gift of surprises

It's hot here. Blood warm, everywhere. I walked home in it yesterday, bathing in the air and basking in the sun. We're all a little angry at the sky, lately.

Bad day....fuck it.

Rough 24 hours, at the end of a period of taut hypersensitivity. I've been remote-it's true. From some of you more than others. Sorry about that.

I'm winding down though, and I'll try to locate those of you for whom I've gone all Flying Dutchman.

Caesarian

The streets were littered with faux corpses this afternoon. Jumbled piles of cloth and flesh that used to be people, up and around. Hobos, of course, and more transient grommets here for the summer and the fair. And middle-class folks too, in the downtown area. Napping in the sun and the verge, like you wouldn't see anywhere else. Much as I bemoan Eugene for its pedantic nonsense and awful statuary, it is nice to see tolerance for things that shouldn't have been verboten in the first place. Take a nap outside on your lunch, for god's sake. We'll all be better off.

Not the point, by the way. That's just an aside, an anecdote to get me into this (incidentally, as I'm all ten-dollar words again, check out the 'llectuals video on my other blog). I'm troubled. There, said it, I'll say it again. Right here in River City.

I'm always troubled (who isn't?) but this is different. Deep trouble, traumatic trouble. Traumatic double trouble-that's my dream, that's my nightmare. Snails and razors, and the rest of you cut so slow. I have several predicaments (and I'm going to be obsucure here, as this is meant to be revealing without being explanatory) but the big one's looming like a ship, or a bridge. Like I'm the bridge, but not the ship. And I know something about burning, and wreckage in wake.

I took the train this evening.

Everyone crawls up out of their eyes, eventually. Flailing out of their pupils like flatworms teased up the gullet, lured by cheese in the kitchen's tweezers. Hand over bilious hand, foot after foot after food drawn up and spilled out, pale and wet, into the sink.

My kitchen, my sink.

And I know you might get lost there, back behind, and down the drain. And you have my sympathy. But stop looking at me, else you all end up vomiting yourselves.

Out your eyes.

-Mancy

None for me, thanks. Cartomancy, aeromancy, ornithomancy-apparently. Goddamn Queen of Diamonds appears on my floor one day, the Ace of Spades the next. Lemmy and Angela Lansbury, pentacles and swords (pronounce the "w"). Mind control and death. Cedar waxwings in the holly bush, bald eagles pounding their way out of the air above my neighborhood. Does the neighborhood persist upwards? Where's the boundary? The tropopause? The orbit of the moon? That'd make sense-crystal spheres make for clear lines of terminus.

I have no truck with oneiromancy, as I rarely dream. This is true.

I have a bit about children, raised in creche, deposited at...oh I don't know, six? Deposited in tunnels beneath major cities and raised remotely in a series of calculated social/physical/logical labyrinths. Terminals where math problems solved or well-written essays garner the child food, or weapons. Or love.

Do this for ten years, then draft the ones that survive (the lethality of the process could be adjusted for demographic purposes). Everyone does their time in national service. The talented and gifted could find themselves as paramedics, police, soldiers, teachers. The best and the brightest. Everyone else does customer service. Waiting tables, jockying a register, working the counter at a department store. Two years of this, until you get out and take up the post-morlock education that will lead to your permanent career. But everyone has to do customer service, so that they'll be a little more civilized once they've become middle class. And everyone was raised in deadly tunnels.

The mind lives by aims as well.

Yes it does, doesn't it?

Worst-

Case, liver. Of.

I love a list.

And the hot, wet city. Cities should be dank, damp, blood-warm places. Lush and green and breathing thick, wet wind through the streets. I can't go too far down this road without running headlong into song lyrics, and as I'm making a concerted effort with regard to original content...well, let's move on.

I'm taking risks, breaking new ground. I've been up since five AM, which is a silly, uncivilized time of day. I've got lots to talk about, lots to say. New bits, new faces, things and stuff.

Give me a minute.

Sabbatical

One-in-seven indeed. I know, I know, it's been a while. I've been laid low, laying low. Gotta pull myself together under less-than-ideal circumstances. But then, what other kind of circumstances are there?

So I've been unwell, and well, all at once. Never fails-just when I think I've finished and figured it all out...nope, not even close. New angst, this year's fresh crop of pathos. The covalent radius of a sulfur atom. Over and over and over. Had a revelation today. That's not uncommon-I just hope I can remember it later.

So I'm back, working it out. I have a number of projects, one of which is here-I've decided that I while I enjoy sharing videos with the rest of you, I don't want to clutter up what has become a fairly personal slice of me online with random YouTube-ery. So...I've got a video blog. Add it to your bookmarks, and check back for what should end up being a rich gumbo of news, odd, and probably the occasional funny. Check back here soon for recipes, anecdotes, and my standard verbose angsty bullshit.

Pathos

Lockstep with the sky. Still.

...

I woke up Manchurian this morning, a queen of diamonds staring up at me from my laundry-strewn bedroom floor like some awful conjoined Angela Lansbury. Adorable cartoon spainel on the back, wistfull and feckless. Like me. Wasn't Dave left the card, so I can only assume that the cats have activated me for some terrible purpose.

My axis is sure like a gyroscope, my allies are legion, and I have too many irons to be bored. Still I plumb the depths of my thoughts, and find them lead-grey. There's no reason, no metaphorical foe to take behind the middle school and put a bullet to. There's only the grey streets and the news and broken vessels for my broken self. I am a vegetarian by default. I am quitting quitting.

On the plus side, I got that laundry done.

Bea Arthur is dead.

This makes me very sad. She was the most Golden of all. Here's this, to fill the void.

Three Minutes Late

I don't know quite how to begin. The beginning is a delicate time.

Anyway, this is in lieu of several emails to a bunch of you that I may or may not write when I have more than a few minutes 'fore work to write them. I've dropped right out, some ways, and I need to keep those plates in the air.

(Sometimes you're all plates on sticks. That's a secret)

I'm...troubled. No other word for it.

That's not true, there's other words for everything. But I am troubled, and for no good reason. Which is doubly troubling, as it doesn't really suggest a solution to my problem. But I've nailed it down, I'm pulling its wings off. I think I'll be fine-just bear with me.

Mother of God

I'm fucking moody, you know that? All over the place.

That's not bad, you understand. I had a very good day.

Failures

Of correspondences, sympathies and similarities. Voodoo, 'ware the voodoo. Keep your hair close, your blood too. And your less comical humors.

Your teeth! Your body's most puissant weapons, the swords in your head. Keep your teeth, above all other forms of fleshy jetsam.

(When I was 18, I had my wisdom teeth out. Sitting in the surgeon's chair, waiting for the lidocaine that would numb my mouth but leave me conscious, I wondered what my teeth would look like, out of my head. Only three-one was missing. After seven shots, I was finally numb, and they cut the flesh away from my three anachronistic teeth. Then I remember the surgeon bracing himself as he pounded away at my head with a hammer, and a chisel. Didn't work, they were in there too good. So they cut bone away from the roots of my teeth with a dremel. I still remember the smell of hot bone. I have my teeth, by the way. They're huge.)

I've been insular, uncommunicative. I think, perhaps, depressed. I decided not long ago that I'm moody. It's good to know.

I love the President

I do. Every time.

Sow the squirrel, reap the squirrelwind

Last one, for a while at least.

Look...I'm just super busy. I'll have a moment, soon I think, to actually blog. I know you're angry-here's this to harness your rage.

Verisimillitude

One of my favorite things

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.

The Waste Land

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering	5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,	10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,	15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,	20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,	25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.	30
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;	35
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,	40
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od' und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,	45
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.	50
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.	55
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City,	60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.	65
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!	70
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!	75
'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'
II. A GAME OF CHESS THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out	80
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;	85
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended	90
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,	95
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale	100
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms	105
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.	110
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
I think we are in rats' alley	115
Where the dead men lost their bones.
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.	120
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.	125
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent	130
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.	135
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,	140
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,	145
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.	150
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.	155
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)	160
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME	165
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.	170
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
III. THE FIRE SERMON THE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.	175
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;	180
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear	185
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse	190
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.	195
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter	200
They wash their feet in soda water
Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd.	205
Tereu
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants	210
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back	215
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives	220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,	225
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.	230
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,	235
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;	240
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall	245
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows on final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;	250
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,	255
And puts a record on the gramophone.
'This music crept by me upon the waters'
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,	260
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.	265
The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails	270
Wide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach	275
Past the Isle of Dogs.
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
Elizabeth and Leicester
Beating oars	280
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores	285
Southwest wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
Weialala leia	290
Wallala leialala
'Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'	295
'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised "a new start".
I made no comment. What should I resent?'
'On Margate Sands.	300
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.'	305
la la
To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest	310
burning
IV. DEATH BY WATER PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea	315
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,	320
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying	325
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience	330
Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink	335
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit	340
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water	345
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring	350
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock	355
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together	360
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?	365
What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only	370
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London	375
Unreal
A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings	380
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains	385
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.	390
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves	395
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
D A	400
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed	405
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
D A	410
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours	415
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
D A
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded	420
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?	425
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins	430
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih

Tuesdays in March

Tuesday named for Tyr, one-handed Norse god of War. March, natch, for Mars. Red planet, iron planet. Roman god of War. Too many war gods, yesterday. Rage and angst, measured in the diameters of atoms. Had a bad day, all I'm saying.

But my angst was all boilerplate (thanks, Diane), nothing new there. And once I came home I had magic waiting. I'll leave early and happy this morning, thanks to my northward-wandering friend.

Wicker Ventriloquist

I want information. I'll get it, by hook or by crook. I know the nooks, and the crannys. My shortcuts and dark alleys and places safe only for me and my volume. There has been a leonine fuzzy slipper crammed into the windshield wipers of a box truck with an abstract logo that looks like a reclining man w/ an erect corkscrew penis looking at a black moon, for the last three months. I saw it (the slipper) in the alley on 2nd three months ago in the daytime. It was cold and grey but dry, and I was walking around. The next night, with a companion, I saw it again, moved 30 yards west and five feet up the front of the box truck that never moves. Pinned like an aethered butterfly against the windshield-I thought it never moved, never thought it would. There are so many abandoned vehicles outside decrepit buildings that house failing businesses...that slipper was cemented in my map of my neighborhood.

Tonight, it was gone.

Genius

This makes up for that other video...I think.

Context

You should know...this is Nancy Pelosi's cat. The Speaker of the House of Representatives for the United States of America...her fucking cat.

Winnowed

to nothing, winnowing to lose. I had an autophany yesterday, cosigned and buttressed by the man I live with. I'm still grappling, still terrified. Not that it's bad-it isn't. It's me, after all, revealing to myself. One more thing is one more thing. And usually, lately...they're only good. This one's no exception.

I really can't figure this out

Help me out, here.

Heart

My kitchen's been crippled lately. Seat of my power, center of my life's onion. No light, for a minute 'fore I left (sorry Goethe) a microwave that's given up the ghost, and now the fridge's been down for two weeks. Not broken totally-still keeps things cold. But no freezer, no ice or long-term storage. I woke up this morning, pulled myself together, and answered a knock at my door to find my landlord's handyfem there to look in on the fridge. Great! She's bringing me a new one. Fantastic! 'Cept I have to clean out the one I have already. Poop. Did that, wrangled it swiftly and surely, covered every surface in my kitchen w/ the contents of my fridge that I gauged able to stand the heat. Those contents that couldn't got out of the kitchen, into the neighbors' fridge (I have great neighbors, if you didn't know) and set out to work secure in the knowledge that I'd have a new fridge when I came home.

Not so much. Dave texts me just after I leave...no fridge. 'Till tomorrow. I look for metaphor and correspondence in my day-to-day. My kitchen's my place. The seat of my power. This can't be good.

Tramps

For symmetry's sake, let's go from breakfast to desert. That'll confine the rest of the spectrum, like bookends. So...here's my one cookie recipe. That's right-just one. I have what I feel is a broad palate and an extensive repertoire...but for some things, I just keep one version, and adjust it to suit my needs. These are my cookies.

They're called Apies, and my childhood recollection of the story goes something like this: during the Revolutionary War, a woman named Ann Page would hide minutemen in her basement, and send them out into the night to fight the british with cookies she stamped w/ her initials-A.P. The soldiers called them "Apies" as a result.

Now, this is likely all bullshit, and having just performed scant and haphazard research online, I've found nothing even remotely like that story associated with either Ann Page or Apies. In fact, the recipes Google tells me are Apies look terrible-generic crispy cookie-cutter sugar cookies. Blurg. These are much better. And like Jon Hodgman says "Truth may be stranger than fiction, goes the old saw, but it is never as strange as lies. (Or, for that matter, as true.)" My narrative, as always, is powerful. So remember the minutemen thing.

Apies

3/4C Butter (That's a stick and a half)

1 1/2C Sugar (I almost always cut this to 1 1/4C, and find that reducing the sugar content of almost any sweet recipe by 1/4C detracts not at all from the texture, and cuts down on the number of cloyingly sweet things I eat. Americans like things very sweet. Me, not so much.)

2 eggs.

Let me presume for a moment that you're not a baker (as many of you are not). This is the point in the recipe where I should tell you what to do with the above three things. And I'm going to, don't fret. But it should be noted that with almost any recipe with a structure similar to this one's eventual...structure, the method's basically the same. So cookies, brownies, quickbreads...they're all going to work like this. There's sugar and butter, then eggs and whatever else that's a wet ingredient (yogurt, sour cream, oil, whatever).

The sugar and the butter need to be creamed together. Like with the biscuits, you don't want to have melted butter, and if you use oil it will behave differently (inferiorly, in my opinion). Butter that's soft-room temperature, depending on the room-and sugar creamed together creates a sort of foamy yellow mixture that will persist throughout the recipe. The sugar crystals will cut into the butter and help you add air to the whole, which in turn will result in a lighter, fluffier end result.

Did I say these are light and fluffy? They are. I hope that doesn't dissuade you-I know some people are looking for dense and angry. These are not those cookies.

So, to sum up. Cream the sugar and butter, then add the eggs. Mix the eggs well-they're the emulsifier, help hold all the ingredients together. Also, this is a good point to add any other flavors you'd like to-nutmeg or cocoa or what have you. This'll come up more later, but for now...this is a good point to adjust.

Once you have this mixture of butter, sugar, and egg, consider the dry ingredients. These are very simple...

2 1/2C flour
1/2tsp baking soda
pinch salt

With any flour/leavening (that's the soda) mixture, you want to make sure to distribute the leavening as evenly as possible. If you don't, then there'll be parts of the batter that rise differently than the others, and you'll get crappy cookies. I'll put these three things in a sifter and sift them together-that seems to work fairly well, but if you lack a sifter or the wherewithal, you can always mix them together in a bowl. Just be sure to be thorough.

Combine the Dry and the Wet, being careful to mix them thoroughly (this is a recipe where I often get flour clumping at the bottom of the bowl) and add the final ingredient. If you're really dilligent, you'll add it in batches to the Wet, alternating with the Dry-got that? Some of the dry, then some of the Final, then some of the Dry, and so on, 'till you're done.

What? Oh, yeah, the Final Ingredient (capitals today).

1/3C sour cream. I realize this is a little funny, and I can see some of you being put off by the thought of sour cream in cookies. Let me be clear-it makes them tender, adds a nice tang that goes well w/ the sweetness of the cookie, and it activates the leavening. You can leave it out-you can. But they won't be nearly as good. So again, to sum up...

3/4C butter, soft
1 1/2C sugar
2 eggs

Cream these things together in the traditional fashion.

2 1/2C flour
1/2tsp baking soda
pinch salt

Sift together well, then add in batches to the butter mixture, alternating with...

1/3C sour cream

Mix well, the batter will be fairly creamy and soft at this point-if you like, refrigerate to set up the batter and make it easier to work with. If you don't care, (they'll spread out more on the sheet. I'm just saying) spoon out onto a greased cookie sheet and cook at 350 degrees for 10-15 minutes, or until golden brown.

Now, that's the basic recipe-sugar cookies, mostly, but endlessly variable with some adjustments. I like to add a few (4-6) tablespoons of cocoa to the wet ingredients and make them chocolate. Or add chocolate chips to the dry ingredients and they're very good chocolate chip cookies. I've been, recently, adding nutmeg (freshly grated, of course. I'm not a monster) to the Wet and then rolling the dough, once it's set in the fridge, in cinnamon and sugar, making sort of eggnog-snickerdoodle Apies. Once you've made them enough times, try your own variations-vanilla, coffee, what have you. They're basic enough to fiddle with, simple enough to be easy to make.

As with the biscuits, give them a try and give me feedback-I'd love to know how my staples work out for the rest of you.