And now I’m in…Golden Meadow, Louisiana.
And now I’m in…Golden Meadow, Louisiana.
And now I’m in…Little Rock, Arkansas.
Finished “Percival Everett by Virgil Russell” by Percival Everett / Finished “The Stories of Breece D’J Pancake” by Breece D’J Pancake / Dipped into “The Expeditions of Zebulon Montgomery Pike, Vol. 1” by Zebulon Montgomery Pike, just for fun / Concentrating on “The Poetics of Space” by Gaston Bachelard / Also reading “A Wave” by John Ashbery / And “When My Brother Was an Aztec” by Natalie Diaz / Eventually getting to the periodicals / And on deck is “Hopscotch” by Julio Cortazar
And now I’m in…Poplar Bluff, Missouri
Well raise another round boys and have another glass be thankful for today knowing it will never last still let's leave the world laughing when our eulogies are read may we all get to heaven before the devil knows we're dead.
And now I’m in…Athens, GA.
Y’all: if I have to watch the world burn, I want to watch it burn from New Orleans.
Finished Laszlo Krasznahorkai’s “The World Goes On” / Reading Percival Everett’s “Percival Everett by Virgil Russell” / Working on and off on Gaston Bachelard’s “The Poetics of Space” (still) / And I have new issues of A Public Space and the Paris Review to work through
In pursuing the objective to generalize theoretical models we must ask ourselves whether greater detail in formulating the contributing processes is warranted by truncation errors, by sensitivity of the results to detail, by the resulting increase in computational complexity and time, and by ignorance of the way these processes really work.
Chance is not simply a matter of choosing, but the result of that which might have happened anyway.
Finished Thomas Pynchon’s “Mason & Dixon” / Started Laszlo Krasznahorkai’s “The World Goes On” / Working on and off on Gaston Bachelard’s “The Poetics of Space” / On deck is “Percival Everett by Virgil Russell” by Percival Everett (oh that’s nifty to write)
To rule forever, it is necessary only to create, among the people one would rule, what we call...Bad History. Nothing will produce Bad History more directly nor brutally, than drawing a Line...through the midst of a People,— to create thus a Distinction betwixt 'em,— 'tis the first stroke.— All else will follow as if predestined, unto War and Devastation.
Q: What things bore you? Roberto Bolaño: The empty discourse of the Left. I take for granted the empty discourse of the Right.
In the distance is the gloom of the end of days, when the sun calls home its wandering rays, when all of the iron has gone to rust, and every living thing has turned to dust. There won't be anyone left to float your boat, they all went to high ground while their vessels still float, they scream God's will but you know it's a lie, by your own book it says by fire next time; the golden eggs cracked open, and there was nothing inside. Cast all dispersions build a levee of lies. I can see it comin': bite down on the leather, and close your eyes, there's nothin' to be done that can turn the tide. The money in your eyes has left you blind. You'll be the one drownin' when it's swimmin' time
If I had to hold up the most heavily fortified bank in America, I'd take a gang of poets. The attempt would probably end in disaster, but it would be beautiful.
It occurs to me that my thought process is essentially analog; my thoughts flow in forms warm and cold, strong and weak, loud and quiet. I think in terms of fields, vaguely topographical, upon which I am mostly, but not completely, blind. The solution I’m looking for is always in the exact center of this topography, but I only know what the center looks like when I finally arrive there. Is this intuition?
We are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps but an expression of a poetry that was lost.
Scouring a rural Walmart hardware aisle for a specific type of latch, listening to U2 singing “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for,” mocking me from the speakers between the lights in the trusswork above.
For y’all non New Orleans people: staying on the other side of the shotgun from where you used to live is weird. You begin to doubt your instincts. You become convinced your brain is wired backwards. When you stand up, you turn in the wrong direction to go to the bathroom.
We all know nationalist cultures are boring.