to remain silent

image: d. klein

Memorable Stuff I Read This Week

I have never thought this life particularly salubrious or benign and I have never understood in the slightest why I was here. If there is an afterlife — and I pray most fervently that there is not — I can only hope that they wont sing . . . Suffering is a part of the human condition and must be borne. But misery is a choice.

— Cormac McCarthy / The Passenger


To remain silent
Is consent, is wrong, is more
Deadly than more bombs.

— Faisal Mohyuddin / “Ceasefire Haiku”


There was a time in my twenties when I derived voluptuous satisfaction from going around dripping blood everywhere. I am a bleeding bloody creature, see how I bleed and bleed, look at all the blood crinkle-oozing out of me, onto my ankles, onto the ground, onto the street, onto your smart shoes. Bright as a ruby, dark as a garnet.

— Claire-Louise Bennett / Checkout 19


And I’ve come to suspect that the ground we walk is less of our choosing than we imagine. And all the while a past we hardly even knew is rolled over into our lives like a dubious investment. The history of these times will be long in the sorting, Squire. But if there is a common keel to our understanding it is that we are flawed. At our core that is what we know.

— Cormac McCarthy / The Passenger


I’ve always thought that we should take Donald Trump at his word. When a candidate for President tells the American people that he is going to use his power to initiate mass deportations, when he threatens to pursue and punish the “enemy within,” we should take it seriously, and not simply wait for it to happen or wish it away.

— David Remnick / “It Can Happen Here” / The New Yorker Daily


Here is a story. The last of all men who stands alone in the universe while it darkens about him. Who sorrows all things with a single sorrow. Out of the pitiable and exhausted remnants of what was once his soul he’ll find nothing from which to craft the least thing godlike to guide him in these last of days.

— Cormac McCarthy / The Passenger


Don’t make too much meaning of the fact
Depeche Mode is playing each time you
should but do not die.

— Karyna McGlynn / “When You’re Seventeen Everything Sounds like a Secret Anthem to Doom”

image: d. klein

What I’m Listening To:

Death is everywhere
The more I look
The more I see
The more I feel
A sense of urgency
Tonight

— Depeche Mode / “Fly On the Windscreen”

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 in my neighborhood pt. 78

What I’m Reading:

Where they burn books, they will, in the end, also burn people.

— Heinrich Heine / Almansor

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others needed clarity

The Dour Psephologist

The dour psephologist opened her eyes and instinctively reached for the phone. She tore off the charge cord, opened the notes app, and immediately started her thumbs pistoning. She enviviosned the dream as a perfectly composed script from the unconscious — thee paranoiac-critical paradigm! She was dead-set on making it into a short film—nonlinear, of course, and with a disjuncted asynchronous soundtrack. But she set it down in the linearity which it unspooled during her last REM cycle, otherwise how could she explain it to others — others needed clarity. So on she went:

Fade In. 

Above the blinding flats of white screen reveries: 

I’m flying over anonymous calamities with a courageous lack of temerity—then falling again. I plunge with celerity. A godwit plummet after 25,000 miles.

Think of the honeycombs of catacombs beneath us as we plant our feet on land again. There are rows—or rose and chaplets—along the banks of empire. So many tin-roofed huts we barely see the banks of barley spreading out to the horizon.

I rarely move once on land. But now we walk hundreds of miles—semibreves aloft in a hemidemisemiquaver aleatoric vortex—but it’s really just across the street, yet the zoetropic images flicking about in my vision are testament to the rustication of my senses. I give you abruptly-shaped children in sharp relief from the rheumy discharges of my cerebrum.

If dogma concerns you, I’d look elsewhere. I’d look for monologue arpeggiators . . . 

Meanwhile, someone in this world right now is thinking a righteous thought—others are concerned with pimples in the foregrounded glass, while the memeflow streams splenetic in the background!

While the rest of us feed the catastrophe—
Mandolins exhort electric car homilies—
With righteous vespers at half-past the hour.

Cut To Black.

Silence.

What I’m Listening To:

Can’t you hear the rooster crowing in the dead of the night?
Don’t you wanna trash ’em, jackboots step out of line
It’s a concrete jungle, stones and tears
Fast becoming what everybody fears
It ain’t just color the message keeps cutting clear
There’s a fire in the western world
Fire in the western world

— Dead Moon / “Fire in the Western World”

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cord that stretched

What I’m Reading:

… But I actually think the message and the moment is much deeper than that. What happened last night was that the cord that stretched back to FDR snapped. It had been badly frayed, especially in the Reagan years, but the Depression and World War II had been such deep and defining events that the formula that got us through them—a kind of solidarity at home and abroad—more or less held. No more. 

Everything is up for grabs now, including the basic entitlement programs that defined the New Deal. (If you haven’t read Project 2025 this would be a good day to start). In foreign policy terms it’s all far more complicated, and has been from Vietnam through Gaza—but today is a bad day to be Ukrainian, Taiwanese, or a Palestinian on the West Bank. Can things get worse? I think they can, and I think we will find out, here and around the world. But I don’t think it will last either, because the promises on which this new MAGA order are built are mostly nonsense…

— Bill McKibben / “The FDR era comes to an end” / The Crucial Years

What I’m Listening To:

So overconfident, confident, confident
They’re so overconfident, confident, confident
That’s another red flag, red flag
That’s another red flag, red flag

— The Smile / “Zero Sum”

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vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus vomitus

vomitus vomitus

What I’m Reading:

El American Dream que se va desvaneciendo
The longer I stay
Because the longer I stay
I realize
I am not heard
I am not seen
And I am not wanted here

— Valeria Ruiz / “You Know Me”

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vote please vote

our democratic experiment

take some time today

VOTE

(if u haven’t already)

VOTE

democracy will not function properly
without ur participation

VOTE

if we are to salvage
this democratic experiment—
+ hopefully improve upon it
+ live up to our ideals for once—
***we need a shot in the arm
/ as we list (towards Atwood’s Gilead) /

VOTE

preferably HARRIS / WALZ

VOTE

we are an imperfect lot
but we can aspire

please

VOTE

we can’t improve upon this human project
if u don’t

VOTE

What I’m Reading:

That was when they suspended the Constitution. They said it would be temporary. There wasn’t even any rioting in the streets. People stayed home at night, watching television, looking for some direction. There wasn’t even an enemy you could put your finger on. 

— Margaret Atwood / The Handmaid’s Tale 

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doppler their way

nanobluesiosity in situ

nanorhythm nanowrite nanofuckery
it’s nanoobjectionable
calcification of the non-
ossifiable the non-
frangible that which is un-
mistakable in the homeostatic
running of a life no strife
nothing classifiable as such
in any event permutational
it’s the truth it’s factual
everything is fractionable
as long as the sirens doppler
their way out of my life
the nanoinfection non-
fictional as it is will gas+bloat

as i need inflection points
to function correctly
let me ease into dysfunction
disaffection+dislocation by
dissociation

tra la
la

la la

What I’m Reading:

I sometimes wonder if my inclination for abstruse ideas wasn’t in fact a form of passive-aggression.

— Claire-Louise Bennett / Checkout 19

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stranger to myself

Memorable Stuff I Read This Week

It’s one void after another is what it is, he said. It aint just the one. Like it says in the good book. You think the void is just the void but it aint. It goes on.

— Cormac McCarthy / The Passenger


A crooked growth means it can be a loophole. And a loophole can be a means to freedom. I like being free.

— Margaret Rhee / “Crooked”


“A country that doesn’t believe in facts is not a safe place to build a career in science,” wrote one respondent.

— Jeff Tollefson / “The US election is monumental for science, say Naturereaders — here’s why” / Nature


These days I wake in the used light of someone’s spent life.
   I am often a stranger to myself;
  I have no place of origin, no home.

— Cheswayo Mphanza / “Frame Six”


More than 40 climate scientists are urging Nordic ministers to prevent global warming from causing a major change in an Atlantic Ocean current, which could trigger abrupt shifts in weather patterns and damage ecosystems . . . Global subsidies for fossil fuels reached a record $7 trillion in 2022, according to the International Monetary Fund . . . Such subsidies show there is no credible effort to prevent such a climate disaster, said professor Stefan Rahmstorf from Germany’s Potsdam Institute for Climate Impact Research.

— “Climate scientists warn Nordic ministers of changing Atlantic Ocean current” / Reuters


Hers is the kind of presence that registers as an absence. Motherly.

— Tess Gunty / The Rabbit Hutch


Maybe you’d better go eat. You need to keep your strength up if you aim to wrest the secrets of creation from the gods. They’re a testy lot by all accounts.

— Cormac McCarthy / The Passenger

What I’m Listening To:

Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider
Girls go to Mars, become rock stars

— Sonic Youth / “Nevermind (What Was It Anyway)”

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semiotics in french

The Day After the Day of the Dead

“… and task demotion is nearly over,” she says.

“Sure, go north,” the man says. “Proceed past the turnpike interchange and…” He stops pointing west north west, rubs his chin and says, “whatever you were talking about… wait, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about getting up at 6:30 in the morning and driving 16 hours to have an affair in a friend’s apartment — who isn’t really a friend just a big burly kissy-guy that likes to hug and give me cloth-band watches. There’s no sex, just a lot of staring at each other from opposing sofas.

There’s no telling what journaling will do. I wrote a story about semiotics in French, and according to him it’s tantamount to liberalism — or is it illiberalism?

Or it may be Antioch in antifreeze — or was it Antioch and antifreeze? It’s the preponderance of the evidence, which in this case is scant, but also attractive to dogs and super furry stuffed animals placed in reverence at the base of a tzompantli.

Hey, are you listening to me? Are you listening to this that I’m telling you on the Day of the Dead?”

She rolls the window down fully, so that he could get an unobstructed view of her face, so that he could see that she is serious.

“Technically, it’s the day after the Day of the Dead, lady,” the man says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. Fingers his keys, a quarter, some lint. “I believe you’re the one that missed it, m’am. Just go ahead and drive off, and have yourself a day while you’re at it.”

What I’m Reading:

With regard to Latin America, Secretary of War Henry Stimson said, “I think that it’s not asking too much to have our little region over here.” President Taft had previously foreseen that “the day is not far distant” when “the whole hemisphere will be ours in fact as, by virtue of our superiority of race, it already is ours morally.”

— Noam Chomsky / The Myth of American Idealism

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rejoice our dead

Celibates and Paraphiliacs (“So on this Day of the Dead”)

Sustain yourself with necro-normative inclinations, make use of what you consume, trap your inner child in an iron maiden. Spend time with your inner critic’s internal monologues parsing the sections of your Id with a rusty chainsaw giving your unconscious a case of terminal tetanus. Sublimate your inner demons to outer space—a wise man once said: “in space no one can hear you scream”—but it wasn’t really a wise man, not some mountaintop mandarin sitting lotus post-mantra, but merely a disembodied voice over in search of narrative sense, shilling a sci-fi flick—a lot of sound and fury signifying dollars for a moribund industry providing opiate delusions. Dziga Vertov once said: “film drama is the opiate of the masses.” I tend to aggress, and find egress repellant in the midst of an imminent dissolve. 

Cut to:

So on this Day of the Dead in the confabulated year of 2024 CE (common to exploiters and the exploited, common to prelates and agnostic fronts, common to atheist cutlery and baptismal fonts, common to celibates and paraphiliacs) may we rejoice our dead—in those we knew who sloughed this mortal coil—and have a kind thought for the living (specifically, those who deserve kind thoughts) and may those who live now, whose great desire is to foment anger, misunderstanding, strife and division … well, may they join the dead sooner than later, so their peeps may remember them and rejoice this time next year.

What I’m Listening To:

“… Death needs Time, like a junky needs junk.”
“And what does Death need Time for?”
“The answer is so simple. Death needs Time for what it kills to grow in. For Ah Pook’s sake.”
“Death needs Time for what it kills to grow in. For Ah Pook’s sweet sake? You stupid vulgar greedy ugly American death-sucker!”

— William S. Burroughs / “Ah Pook the Destroyer” / Dead City Radio

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