The shallow coast has migrated to higher elevations We live in the time of burning landscapes Rainforests to savannas in two easy days The grand ice shelves in five easy pieces We’re on finite time and nothing unspools Like priorities heavily influenced by neglect You speak in deeper tones when you’re shallow It’s a conscious choice to avoid detection Like providing soft beds for corpses
What I’m Reading:
On a green summer night, a horse of glass neighs in the distance
The pith of the pang is what I pity. Nowhere is it written that this must be done, but I strive to do it nonetheless for fear of not doing it with empathy. What is it you say? It is simply this, this thing. This thing that is so easily overlooked. Don’t tell me how to see it, this thing. I can only see it the way my mind perceives it. This thing, the thing which is the subject of our consciousness, is a particular thing, that if it was not the subject of our consciousness would just be any other thing—ill formed and undefined in our minds. But not this thing—which is the pith, the perfect form of this class of thing. The apotheosis, the ideal of the thing. This thing is … well … just the right sort of thing.
ii.
I have to write what I have to write in the way I have to write it—because of the strictures and self-imposed parameters, because I have to read quickly—I have to write this way. I have to write everyday because of the strictures. I have to write everyday in some way because of the parameters. I have to write in my own way—because it’s my way, it’s the only way I know way. I have to write everyday, the man said, I write because I am unhappy—I write because it’s a way of fighting unhappiness, the man said. I too have to write this way—but it’s not his way, the man’s way—it’s may way. I have to write what I have to write in this way because it is my way—the only way I know way, and because of the strictures and the parameters—I have to write this way. It’s only one way of writing—it happens to be the way I’m writing. I have to write this way, because it’s the only way I know way. It’s not a popular way, but I have to write this way. It’s not a happy way, but I have to write this way. It’s not a beautiful way, but I have to write this way. It’s not a prosperous way, but I have to write this way—it’s the only way I know way, it’s an unhappy way, it’s not a sunny way, but it’s the only way I know way. I have to write this way because of the strictures and parameters way—this is my way, not the only way. It’s an unhappy way. I have to write this way. Thanks for reading this today.
What I’m Reading:
What to do with these disordered herds of words? I said I would eat my words and do so, now you see. He eats them, all up. Greedily.
Take the wheel straight into the bay. Stay just one second more and let me try to change your mind. That’s a great height to fall from the top of the bridge.
Maybe you’ll change your mind. Text me in the morning. Call me around 5:30 — 5:40. Get a good night’s sleep. Stay away from the Delirium Tremens. Have a communion wafer from the corner church. Place a wager at the pub.
You need a change of mood. A change of brood. A change of food. Go back on pablum. Go back to gruel. Go back to school. But, don’t go back to Rockville… and waste another year.
Now the climb begins.
What I’m Reading:
sometimes, that late-june sun unsexes me whole,,,,,
We’re above an endless plateau of cirrus. Look at that wisp of crescent moon nailed to this impossibly saturated blue sky. The moon out at noon. Proof, and more proof, that I’m being watched.
The wolf ponders the caribou and presidium of both frogs and finches.
All creation conceptually pressed together like dried flukes onto grainy pilgrims carrying the resolve of photochemical interventionists.
Two photorealists connect and diverge as the narrative’s historical, artistic and scientific linearities are placed upon one another with enlightening translucence. But nothing truly connects.
Through the fog and supervolcanic water vapor saturating the stratosphere we see finches, cane toads, and poison dart aristocracies working wing by haunch at their various outposts across the world.
It’s all visible from this height. And this must suffice.
What I’m Reading:
Taurine — a common ingredient in energy drinks — might not be as closely linked to ageing as previous research has suggested. A study in 2023 suggested levels of the amino acid declined in people, mice and rhesus monkeys as they aged. A new study found that isn’t so. In fact, in all groups they studied, except male mice, natural taurine levels increased with age. “Taurine levels were not decreasing [with age] and are not related to any abnormality that they could see in this very good longitudinal study,” says geneticist Nir Barzilai.
I was reminded of something Orwell wrote about fascism in 1936: “If you pretend that it is merely an aberration which will presently pass off of its own accord, you are dreaming a dream from which you will awake when somebody coshes you with a rubber truncheon.” Nineteen Eighty-Four is a book designed to wake you up.
— Dorian Lynskey / The Ministry of Truth: The Biography of George Orwell’s 1984
Imagine standing in a constant cone of light. Imagine surrender. Imagine being useless. A stone on the path means the tea’s not ready, a stone in the hand means somebody’s angry, the stone inside you still hasn’t hit bottom.
— Richard Siken / “Seaside Improvisation”
My whole political stance pretty much boils down to “I care about other people and the planet” and wow does that make some people mad.
— Anonymous Meme
But if all we are is organisms in an exploded cosmos, the sum of our biology, then what is love? What is forgiveness? What is that faculty that, as if from out of nowhere, shows up in some unnamed way and provides a kind of feeling you couldn’t have asked for on your own? Is the fact that we must suffer really only evidence against the knowable within the realm of human intelligence, which time has proven wrong over and over?
— Blake Butler / Molly
For a few years now how we’ve tried to accept we won’t ever be back to this particular quarrel
of sheets, to this exact plastic milk-jug morning, opening our eyes together, again, yes
once more, again, how ferocious that shock of light carving its own vows on each other’s skin.
— Kirun Kapur / “Rajat Jayanti”
“A party that formerly proclaimed allegiance to the Constitution and the rule of law, warned about the concentration and abuse of power, and championed virtue, restraint, and moral formation has been transmogrified. The Republican Party now stands for everything it once loathed.
— Peter Wehner / “The Unconstitutional Conservatives” / The Atlantic
And I say then I’m glad I dream the fire is still alive
— Louise Glück / “Song”
What I’m Listening To:
It’s already dead I know you have the dove I’m not gettin’ wet Looks like a date is set Show the ferret to the egg I’m not getting led along
“I’ve heard the most intriguing things about you.”
(light classical tune is playing)
“Really?”
“Will no one hold you accountable?”
“Me? Never. You?”
“I don’t know. But I feel like we’re on the road to nowhere.”
An early sign of change was spotted outside. It could be seen through the grand room sliders. Clouds were gathering in formation and staring at the dinner party guests. There was tinkling glass and the smell of burning lamb wafting from the kitchen.
“Hey, get a load of this. Look at the clouds.”
“Oh my goodness.”
“That’s amazing.”
The smoke became dense and flames began spreading through the living room shag. Then the chaise longe caught fire and the ottoman whooshed into flames.
“Hey, look. The clouds are forming a ring around the setting sun.”
“It looks like a pumpkin pie festooned with whipped—“
“Folks, please move out into the backyard. The house is on fire.”
“Oh, my god. No!”
“That’s ok. The clouds and sun do our bidding. They always do. Remember, we are the first estate. We’ll build a new house, no matter. It’s you good, god-fearing folks that can’t be replaced. Grab your drinks and let’s head outside. The help will do what they can in here.”
where i dont upbraid myself continuously—where john currin paintings dont come to life—where id like to be in some remote place like yellowknife—but as the earth is burning there—and there remains no place to go—that isnt burning—and there remain too many places to go to upbraid my fellow man—because life is one endless upbraiding—i unbraid myself some more—upbraid my boulder—upbraid existence—upbraid the cure— because they remind me of camus—with that song—i even upbraid myself—again—i dont upbraid my curry chicken—because its ethiopian—or should i say eritrean—but as im not certain i upbraid that as well—im upcycling my upbraiding—im braying in my seat right now—as i mute my video and sound on zoom—which i often upbraid—which brings me joy—oh joy—
What I’m Reading:
There is less and less difference between your shadow
thee istsfor manity reader 