Atblggrphy, Or: Being and Purge

!oHeHo!, the first time (I've noticed) I've been purged from a blegrell. A soccer-blegger back from hiatus, freshening up the bleg, adding-to and purging his blegrell, appropriately purged my ass. I'm not soccer-centric, I tell myself, but I'm shallow and have esteem-issues: it nags me like a sore tooth I can't step tonguing.

Set theory, taxonomy: people smarter than me keep writing about Alain Badiou - Alain Badiou this, Alain Badiou that, just what does Alain Badiou say in his seminal Being and Event about my shetty bleg being purged:

The anxiety of the void, otherwise known as the care of being, can thus be recognized, in all presentation, in the following: the structure of the count is reduplicated in order to verify itself, to vouch that its effects, for the entire duration of the exercise, are complete, and to unceasingly bring the one into being within the un-encounterable danger of the void. Any operation on the count-as-one (of terms) is in some manner doubled by a count of the count, which guarantees, at every moment, that the gap between the consistent multiple (such that it results, composed of ones) and the inconsistent multiple (which is solely the presupposition of the void, and does not present anything) is verifiably null. It thus ensures that there is no possibility of that disaster of presentation ever occurring which would be the presentational occurrence, in torsion, of the structure's own void.

Whew, what immediately jumps out in Badiou's thought is YOU CAN HEAR THE NEW SONIC YOUTH SINGLE HERE!

Voids and nulls, even if I could have understood Badiou in my intellectually-athletic youth (and honestly, I don't think I could have, I think I am was the class capable of understanding the best people interpreting Badiou for me, which puts me - wishful thinking best case - on Level Three), I sure as fuck can't now, my thought-muscles flabby and fifty - but even then, I don't think Badiou would have invited me to be his Facebook friend, but I'd still not drop his ass from my blegrell if I had blegrelled his shetty bleg in the first place. Click Fleabus, yo.

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• Heh, serendipitous timing.
• Perrin's Version of the Fuck-Me Jig:

The day that senior Bush officials, like Bush and Cheney themselves, take the perp walk in chains and orange jumpsuits is the day I publically register as a Democrat, don an Obama t-shirt, and burn a stack of "Savage Mules."

• I am a tree, what do I know?
• Learned helplessness.
• Exactly the formula of everything.
• Pragmatism: it doesn't take a teenage FBI.
• Another unfortunate misunderstanding.
• Your future overlords. S'funny how they mock The Villagers as they self-insulate (while self-congratulating) the heir apparent Village. As we go up we go down.
• That vial of Venezuelan Equine Encephalitus Virus is missing? Adding, the gov't don't want you knowing what they do at Fort D. Luckily, I've got bulldog skin.
• Speaking of creepy, watch rich elites slobber over their bathetic adoration of Susan Boyle.
• My valuable hunting knife.
• HEY! What about Barra and Screaming Eagles?

• Thoughts, plus links to good places.
• Listen to Merwin.
• Today's listening assignment.
• Today's listening assignment.
• Jon Hopkins?
• Today's listening assignment.
• King and Caroline motor away. !oMy! !bOnUs!

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MEMORY

Hayden Carruth

A woman I used to know well died
        A week ago. Not to be mysterious:
She and I were married. I'm told
        She fell down dead in the street in
Lower Manhattan, and I suppose
        She suffered a stroke or a heart attack.
The last time I saw her was in the spring
        Of 1955, meaning forty-four
Years ago, and now when I try
        To imagine her death I see in my
Mind a good-looking, twenty-nine-
        Year old woman sprawled on the pavement.
It does no good to go and examine
        My own ravaged face in the bathroom
Mirror; I cannot transpose my ravage-
        Ment to her. She is fixed in my mind
as she was. Brown hair, brown eyes,
        Slender and sexy, coming home
From her job as a sales editor in a huge
        Building in midtown. Forty-four
Years is longer than I thought. My dear,
        How could you let this happen to you?

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One of my five desert island bands (I have at least 20 of them)