Yes, this is this song's second designation as Theme Song for a month. Here's its inspiration.
Spent a lot of last week's trip listening to Gabriel's great first four solo albums (and yes, Mercy Street is from the pretty good fifth album). They hadn't aged well for a few years, now they've aged great, which is to perhaps say I was aging well but now I'm aging bad.
Or the world is.
Strange days, being compelled both into and against my complicity, which is all this shitty bleg has been about since day one. What is Kind but a pact with other co-conspirators and hypocrites to broadcast our unKind at everyone else?
UPDATE! Serendipitously, someone else wrote about your complicity today.
Judging by all the people who out-clicked on yesterday's Fleabus photo, it's time I again remind everyone that all Fleabus photos are by Planet, whose testimonials by those who know her are true. Click, yo.
I've been cleaning closets, burning, shredding, smashing, erasing evidence. That I'm deliberately loud while insisting on my invisibility is why I'm stupidly angry at being ignored.
Yodel, I get cleaning jags so infrequently, I've done some blegrell pruning; long-abandoned blegs, blegs always tertiary (and never reciprocal), a couple whose advertising freezes my Dell Dinosaur 1999 at home, one guy who reads me daily, doesn't reciprocate links or rells or Kind, rips me off. It was like watching Fleabus watch the raccoons eat the ferals' food.
Just kidding! I only purged that one guy. I needed to write this so I'd stop thinking about writing it. There are some new pingworthies over to the left under New New, though.
Cleaning out my closets I rediscovered different theories and models of tablets, including the Moleskin journalist model with 5x5 quad, excellent for prose-poems, sluts that they are, excellent for the long lines I've been experimenting with, kinda successfully, actually,
but I'm in love again with this tablet for no greater reason than I've no mechanism for publishing content to eyes beyond mine. Let me drink this candle.
That's this month's bleggalgazing - I allow myself twelve per year; otherwise it'd be everyday. Thanks everyone for the Kind. As always, if you're Kinding me and I'm not Kinding you back, drop me a email. And click Fleabus up top, yo.
UPDATE! On the new Zizek: Slavoj Zizek
has identified the four horsemen of this coming apocalypse: the
worldwide ecological crisis; imbalances within the economic system; the
biogenetic revolution; and exploding social divisions and ruptures. Good thing I have access to a university library.
On the map it is precise and
rectilinear as a chessboard,
though driving past you would hardly notice it, this boundary
line or ragged margin, a shallow swale that cups a simple
trickle of water, less rill than rivulet, more gully than dell,
a tangled ditch grown up throughout with a fearsome assortment
of wildflowers and bracken. There is no fence, though here and
there a weathered post asserts a former claim, strands of fallen
wire taken by the dust. To the left a cornfield carries into the
distance, dips and rises to the blue sky, a rolling plain of green
and healthy plants aligned in close order, row upon row upon row.
To the right, a field of wheat, a field of hay, young grasses breaking
the soil, filling their allotted land with the rich, slow-waving
spectacle of their grain. As for the farmers, they are, for the most
part, indistinguishable: here the tractor is red, there yellow; here a
pair of dirty hands, there a pair of dirty hands. They are cultivators
of the soil. They grow crops by pattern, by acre, by foresight, by
habit. What corn is to one, wheat is to the other, and though to some
eyes the similarities outweigh the differences it would be as
unthinkable for the second to commence planting corn as for the first
to switch over to wheat. What happens in the gully between them is no
concern of theirs, they say, so long as the plough stays out, the weeds
stay in the ditch where they belong, though anyone would notice the
wind-sewn cornstalks poking up their shaggy ears like young lovers
run off into the bushes, and the kinship of these wild grasses
with those the farmer cultivates is too obvious to mention, sage and
dun-colored stalks hanging their noble heads, hoarding exotic burrs and
seeds, and yet it is neither corn nor wheat that truly flourishes there,
nor some jackalopian hybrid of the two. What grows in that place is
of a beauty all its own, ramshackle and unexpected, even in winter, when
the wind hangs icicles from the skeletons of briars and small tracks
the snow in search of forgotten grain; in the spring the little trickle
water swells to welcome frogs and minnows, a muskrat, a family of
nesting doves in the verdant grass; in summer it is a thoroughfare for
raccoons and opossums, field mice, swallows and black birds, migrating
egrets, a passing fox; in autumn the geese avoid its abundance, seeking
out windrows of toppled stalks, fatter grain more quickly discerned,
more easily digested. Of those that travel the local road, few pay that
fertile hollow any mind, even those with an eye for what blossoms, vetch
and timothy, early forsythia, the fatted calf in the fallow field, the
rabbit running for cover, the hawk's descent from the lightning-struck
tree. You've passed this way yourself many times, and can tell me, if
would, do the formal fields end where the valley begins, or does
that surrounds us emerge from its embrace?
Dr Leo reminds me of this plus a personal theme song:
I knew Thompson collaborated on a few of Thomas' solo albums, but yesterday, searching for a Pere Ubu song as today is possibly David Thomas' 57th birthday (a friend sent an email saying it is; I can't corroborate goooglyways, but when has that ever stopped me?), I discovered that youtube.