les amusements de ce matin



Over in Wijk aan Zee, Topalov increases his lead and other stories.

*****

"Hurra, Wir Kapitulieren" - Henryk M. Broder on the ugly little secrets of the West and Islam.

*****

Neil DeGrasse's Death by Black Hole, an initiation into the universe.

*****

Amusements from the The State of the Union Word Scorecard charting how many words a chimp can intone and how often he intones them. You are getting veeeeeery sleeeeepy.

*****

Blauwe stilte


Zoals het vliegen druppelt van gebroken vleugels
valt blauwe stilte op steen.
Mijn binnenkant is voortaan de enige plek waar ik reis.
Ik ben de rijstvelden vergeten, de dadelpalmen,
de gewonde zwanen door witte mist omgeven.
Op het paard van mijn portemonnee kwam ik hier aan.
Mijn hart is mijn bankpasje,
de zon, de maan en haar ogen mijn pincode.

En nu ben ik hier, in het koninkrijk
van vallende wateren en opstijgende ambtenaren
als een kwartiertje vertraging in regen.

Mijn vertrek is mijn enige bestaan.

Ik moet gaan,
naar het Zuiden als deze stilte het Noorden,
naar het Noorden als deze stilte het Zuiden is.

Al Galidi

Al Galidi (1971) werd geboren in Irak. Zijn laatste bundel De herfst van Zorro is genomineerd voor de VSB-poëzieprijs 2007

*****

Hasta Siempre Comandante Che Guevara

Aprendimos a quererte
Desde la historica altura
Donde el sol de tu bravura
Le puso cerco a la muerte

Estribillo:

Aqui se queda la clara
La entraniable transparencia
De tu querida presencia
Comandante Che Gevara

Vienes quemando la brisa
Con soles de primavera
Para plantar la bandera
Con la luz de tu sonrisa

Estribillo

Tu mano gloriosa y fuerte
Sobre la historia dispara
Cuando todo Santa Clara
Se despierta para verte

Estribillo

Seguiremos adelante
Como junto a ti seguimos
Y con Cuba te decimos
Hasta Siempre, Comandante

Estribillo

Or the Disco version....




And, as background, The Gotan Project...

*****

LA ENAMORADA
-- Alejandra Pizarnik

esta lúgubre manía de vivir
esta recóndita humorada de vivir
te arrastra alejandra no lo niegues.

hoy te miraste en el espejo
y te fue triste estabas sola
la luz rugía el aire cantaba
pero tu amado no volvió

enviarás mensajes sonreirás
tremolarás tus manos así volverá
tu amado tan amado

oyes la demente sirena que lo robó
el barco con barbas de espuma
donde murieron las risas
recuerdas el último abrazo
oh nada de angustias
ríe en el pañuelo llora a carcajadas
pero cierra las puertas de tu rostro
para que no digan luego
que aquella mujer enamorada fuiste tú

te remuerden los días
te culpan las noches
te duele la vida tanto tanto
desesperada ¿adónde vas?
desesperada ¡nada más!

más de Alejandra Pizarnik

*****

The Sun In Capricorn

-- Joyce Mansour

Three days of rest
Why not the grave
I suffocate without your mouth
Waiting drains the stillborn sunrise
And the long hours on the stairway
Smell of gas
Flat on my face I wait for tomorrow
I see your skin glisten
In the black breach of the night
The slow surge of moonlight
On the inner sea of my sex
Dust on dust
Hammer on mattress
Sun on leaden drum
Still smiling your hand beats indifference
Cruelly clothed bend towards emptiness
You say no and the smallest object a woman’s body can shelter
Bows down
Artificial Nice
Synthetic perfume one hour on the couch
For what pale giraffes
Have I left Byzantium
Solitude stinks
A moonstone in an oval frame
Yet another stiff-jointed bout of insomnia
Once more a dagger throbs in rain
Diamonds and delirum tomorrow’s desiderata
Sweat of taffeta beaches without shelter
Lunacy of my lost faith.

more about Joyce Mansour

*****

Listen

Listen,
if stars are lit
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means - someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.

And overwrought,
in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God's sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won't be able to stand
that starless ordeal.

Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.
And to everyone else, he says:
'Now,
it's all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?'

Listen,
if stars are lit,
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.

1914

Vladimir Mayakovsky

Miscellania

The tenor, Roberto Alagna, stormed off the La Scala stage on Sunday night after singing Celeste Aida. He has produced what a critic called "a rather laboured B flat", and the gallery has erupted in boos.

to hear how it's sung without the laboured B flat: listen here.

*****

Prostitutes in Ipswich are being given money by police and drug workers to stop them risking their lives by touting for business on the streets.

Why not just turn the police stations into brothels and let the Council earn a few extreee to offset increased council taxes?

*****

White Vase
Felix Dennis

Two figures on a sofa, side by side,
The stench of bitter almonds, smoke and sweat;
A man who ate no meat lies with his bride.

Fresh tulips and narcissi cast aside,
A white vase tipped; a chiffon dress splashed wet.
Two figures on a sofa, side by side.

The room is hushed, its spell defies the tide
Of history ­ no servants enter yet.
A man who could not paint lies with his bride,

Her spittle flecked with glass and cyanide,
Her buckskin pumps beneath the blue banquette.
Two figures on a sofa, side by side.

The brimstone face grown slack and glassy-eyed,
Its shattered skull concealed in silhouette.
A man who blamed the world lies with his bride.

Outside, the spring has come while worlds collide.
Here, blood and water drip in grim duet.
Two figures on a sofa, side by side:
A man who ate no meat lies with his bride.

(The first Millionaire Poet?)

*****

6e Festival International du Film de Marrakech


"What a Wonderful world" est le deuxième long métrage de Bensaidi après "Mille Mois" qui lui a valu plusieurs prix internationaux. Le film sera présenté à Marrakech en avant-première marocaine après une participation au dernier Festival de Venise et le Festival du Film Francophone de Namur. La sortie du film est prévue pour le mi-décembre au Maroc et en France.

http://www.maghrebarts.ma/cinema/images/wakeup_morocco.jpg

Wake-Up Morocco est également le deuxième long métrage de son auteur, Narjisse Nejjar, déjà titulaire d'un prix du meilleur scénario de la 3éme édition du festival de Marrakech pour son oeuvre "Les Yeux Secs".

*****



THE SHELF LIFE OF EXPATRIATE SOULS

This is the artist, then, life's hungry man, the glutton of eternity, beauty's miser, glory's slave.
-- Thomas Wolfe

I waited years for the sequel.
We left off with a man
armed with desire, that slinking word
that means anything is inexcusable.
That man was also armed
with the innate sense of not knowing
what there wasn't to know.
So what could we have told him?
Watch out for the future
lest time at the moment
be stolen?

Slavishly I selfishly
filled those years of hours in between
with words and photographs of memories
no dictionary could house,
no pub crawl could summon,
no thinking man's game whose
rules could be broken without consequence
like a shattered mirror
could be played
until the grooves wore out
and the teteh, teteh, teteh
of the needle stuck in submission
rambled on like a litany of rules
in a bureaucrat's laundry list
of don'ts, conveniently leaving off
the do's and blues to follow.

Here the sacred heart unbeknownst
to the screedish hue of night owl
drinkers and hopelessly in love
with semi coherence beneath
a blanket of liquor and worn out
fingerprints of dying
leaving a semisonic clatter
of gysum-coloured tablets to ponder.

*****

When I tore the bandages away
I expected the new and improved
sequel; the dying breed of brooding
could horde themselves elsewhere.
This was my night off.

I hadn't contemplated hospital lighting
being not one for hospitals
or morbid gazing listening to the soft
sneaker soles of nurses consoling.

I'm not dying, it's him.

That is how I shall comfort myself.

*****

Where else could we be but
this unmistakably blurry misery,
these half-shrung dreams hung
like tattered underwear
on a clothes line strung
from the middle of nowhere
to eternity?

When I bust out of this death palace
it'll be through the double-bolted doors,
a mad dash into the recess playground
to play with matches, put dirty objects
into my mouth, drink to success,
toast the years spent bending the shape
of this body that they say is but a
shell of the soul to be cast away
like dreams because in essence
it is the dreams that are dying
not the man himself.

*****

The business of writing the sequel
is that of a fry cook - toss together
yesterday's specials and add a little
coriander and garlic to taste,
don't waste a minute concocting new
spaces that will get filled with
someone else's blanket advertising:
This is no one else's world
once the lights are dimmed
and we begin to fear the loss
of electricity.

This moment is a magnet attracting
every sense of the world. We will go
hand in hand into a sea of indistinction
until we emerge, wet and delicious
with the taste of selfishness
in our mouths.

Our lines will always be the same:
She says, he says, or vice versa.
Our lives will always be the same:
they will always end in dying.

So what to make of ourselves
so made up to look like others?

This one says he can fly, another
stands mute so the others can speak.
Well, I've got news kid, the others
can speak regardless
and they will speak without regard
for you standing mute
and they won't stop
whether or not you're here to hear them.

******

My sequel will begin with a fade in:
a man holding an unbroken chain of men
some of whom are blessed,
some of whom are merely heathens.

The voice over that you are hearing
is that of a man who is dead,
long gone, affixed in the head
by years of recording lines such as these.

I live. You live. He/she/it lives.
We live. You plural live. They live.

Happily ever after is impossible
unless the ever after is going to happen
happily and sooner than you think
because very few came for the first showing
and even less to the sequel.
This life's reel spinning again and again
in the empty movie house
showing no one what nothing is.

via steven kasher gallery

A Woman Young And Old

If I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.
What if I look upon a man
As though upon my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I'd have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.

--WB Yeats

There will be no cage over the Thames, as it turns out.

This is the last of my series this evening, the emptying of the bottles into the gullet ritual.

I will tell you one thing I've been keeping secret to myself now that I've run out of tricks.

I suppose some of you might remember my recounting of a girl and my being in love with her and her being selfish enough to fall off a balcony and dying. Frankly, even to this day, it's the source of all my cynical life but practically it's no excuse and I recognise that.

In any event, two weeks ago, I dreamt about her for the first time in ten years maybe. I dreamt about her so deeply that when I woke up she was there. Not there nor here of course, but in my fucking head, the same one I'd emptied specifically not to have such dreams or thoughts again.

So on a whim, I thought I'd google her. They didn't even have such a verb when she died.

Her name is not a common name. Why I googled her name anyway, knowing she is dead I dunno. The fucking dream was in my head and frankly, it's one of those repressed things that if one little bit comes out, the lid blows off. So I googled her name.

And I found a match.

Now I'm a rational man. I believe someone is dead, someone is dead and that's it, you can't even really google them back into existence.

But I did find a match and it was in the appropriate country and it is an uncommon name.

So what the FUCK do I think?

I know it's not possible. I know it of course, like any rational person.

Maybe it's that belief.

So google search finds the name which can't be and naturally what I have to do is find a number to connect it to. (Believe me, I tried the simple way, find an email, didn't exist, how easy to ask such question via email but no, there was none and so I searched)

I found a telephone number.

And imagine me, I'm a pretty stoic muthafuckah, really. Not much breaks my walls but man, when I saw there was a telephone number of this person with a name that isn't usual, all sorts of crazy shit I imagined. And that crazy shit was hope beyond reason, belief with no reason.

I really WANTED to believe.

And man, on the tail of that dream I'd had, I thought fuck anything's possible, isn't it? Dead people being alive, why not. It isn't the most incredible story I've ever read.

And so I rang the number the first night and got ringing and nothing more. Feckin ell, imagine the impatience!

Following night I rang again.

An auld woman answered and I knew it wasn't her but I thought maybe it was her mother and so I asked, ridiculously, is _____ there?

I am her, she said.

And she was. Another human with the same name in the same country.

And I was fucking gutted. Fucking gutted.

(and here is where I imagine myself almost being human in that I didn't just hang up, I carried on)

I talked to her, about her life. She's a neurological doctore, helpijng children with neurological handicaps. She was married, husband dead, three grandchildren, one daughter. Every word bled me. Reality, not reality. I told her about the person I'd been seeking, she made appropriate sympathies and I hung up after we'd had our spontaneous and unexpected chat, this woman with the same name of the woman I once loved who died.

And when I put down the phone, that was it. My last chance. I'd had one more thought of hope and it was beautifully beaten down but it was my last chance and there are no more after this not even if I dream of her again I won't be fooled.

But I was magically fooled by that need to believe just that once.

And I wish I could say I'm unshackled by it in a way I thought I was unshackled by it when she first died but I'm not. It will continue to haunt me over and over and I will have to recognise that for all my alleged intelligence, she will never live again, I will be happy in small moments and walk mostly in valleys and that will be the underlying current of my existence.

Best Little Whorehouse in Pompeii



The frescoes are like a list of offerings -- with a sexual position to satisfy everyone's preferences. Now, after a year-long restoration, the brothel in the ancient city of Pompeii is once again open for visitors.

Herr Weber

woord van de dag:

It was this edulcorated transatlantic version that was re-imported into the fledgling Federal Republic as a ‘good’ German, tainted neither by Nazi collaboration nor Marxist sympathies.

from New Left Review Peter Thomas on Being Max Weber

Verb 1. edulcorate - make sweeter in taste
dulcify, dulcorate, sweeten
honey - sweeten with honey
saccharify, sugar - sweeten with sugar; "sugar your tea"
candy, sugarcoat, glaze - coat with something sweet, such as a hard sugar glaze
mull - heat with sugar and spices to make a hot drink; "mulled cider"
change taste - alter the flavor of



*****

Drunkenness At Work

from a book I've been reading called Birmingham: The First Manufacturing Town In the World by Eric Hopkins, quoting Matthew Boulton, Brummy Big Wig in the 18th century:

"...our workmen in the plated way have very few of them been at work this week past having been drunkall thewhile, and it was not in our power to persuade them to set to work again while they had any money left, a vexatious circumstance we are frequently subjected to when we have the greatest need of their dilligence."

A week later, Boulton had to confess to a customer that he had been unable to fulfil orders

"owing to the insolence and drunkenness of our workmen".

Cheers to the working class of the 18th century who no doubt grew tired at times of exploitation, low wages and crap work environments.

*****The New Working Class*****

"The poor of today watch television for half the day. These days, television producers even refer to what they call "Underclass TV." The new proletariat eats a lot of fatty foods and he enjoys smoking and drinking -- a lot. About 8 percent of Germans consume 40 percent of all the alcohol sold in the country. While he may be a family man, his families are often broken. And on Election Day, he casts a protest vote for the extreme left or right wing party, sometimes switching quickly from one to the other.

But the main thing that sets the modern poor apart from the industrial age pauper is a sheer lack of interest in education. Today's proletariat has little education and no interest in obtaining more. Back in the early days of industrialization, the poor joined worker associations that often doubled as educational associations. The modern member of the underclass, by contrast, has completely shunned personal betterment."

from Der Spiegel: WHITE TRASH, FAST FOOD - How Globalization Is Creating a New European Underclass

Halloween



I'm feline tonight.

My back is gonna arch,
I'm gonna be black
and crossing paths.

when I'm on the phone
with my two heterosexual parents
I will ask them
who will die first
you or me?

when a gang of kids
loitering at the corner
intimidate the auld fuck
dottering to conclusion
I will not interject social consciousness.

I will throw a bottle
in the other direction
and the noise from afar
will cause them to scatter.

I will be Hitler tonight.
Not to kill Jews
or to apologise
but to incite idiots
to shave their heads
and have orgasms
beating people to death
for not being them.

My eyes are going to open
because even in total darkness
I can't walk with my eyes closed.

I will be Jesus tonight
and feed people with
bread and wine and
they'll believe anything.

Tonight will be the night
anything will happen.
On the pavement,
my head will rest, split open
and all the little thoughts
I might have had
will go unspoken.

Livre du Jour



Letter Written by R.D. Yelverton in Support of George Edalji

"I observe that in the cases of injuries since the conviction of Mr Edlaji, every injury is said by the Police to be accidental and attributable to barbed wire or some concealed danger. It is, I repeat, grossly unjust that evidence as above was not given the previous occasion, involving such grave consequences that a gentleman was sent to seven years penal servitude."

And the fictionalised version of the George Edalji case can be found via Arthur and George, written by Julian Barnes

*****

Samurai Song

When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.

When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.

When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.

When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.

When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.

When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.

Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.

*****

Bread

America, 2004:

People with bachelor's degrees earned an average of $51,554 in 2004, while those with high school diplomas earned $28,645, according to the U.S. Census Bureau figures released on Thursday.

Those with postgraduate degrees fared best, earning on average $78,093, according to the census statistics.

The Price of Bread: Poverty, Purchasing Power, and The Victorian Laborer's Standard of Living

By 1865 the purchasing power of even a skilled town laborer working his trade had fallen to a level of less than twice that of the Speenhamland allowance, putting the great bulk of independent town laborers barely above subsistence. Booth estimated that around the turn of the century 31 percent of the population of London was living in poverty. This estimate was confirmed by the studies of Rowntree in the City of York, where he found the proportion of the inhabitants in poverty (that is, below subsistence) was 28 percent

*****

An old man

At the back of the noisy café
bent over a table sits an old man;
a newspaper in front of him, without company.

And in the scorn of his miserable old age
he ponders how little he enjoyed the years
when he had strength, and the power of the word, and good looks.

He knows he has aged much; he feels it, he sees it.
And yet the time he was young seems
like yesterday. How short a time, how short a time.

And he ponders how Prudence deceived him;
and how he always trusted her -- what a folly! --
that liar who said: "Tomorrow. There is ample time."

He remembers the impulses he curbed; and how much
joy he sacrificed. Every lost chance
now mocks his senseless wisdom.

...But from so much thinking and remembering
the old man gets dizzy. And falls asleep
bent over the café table.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1897)

*****

Het woord van der dag

demesne:

In English Common Law the term ancient demesne, sometimes shortened to demesne, referred to those lands that were held by the crown at the time of the Domesday Book. The term demesne also referred to the demesne of the crown, or royal demesne, which consisted of those lands reserved for the crown at the time of the original distribution of landed property. The royal demesne could be increased, for example, as a result of forfeiture. Demesne lands were managed by stewards of the crown and were not given out in fief. During the reign of George III, Parliament appropriated the royal demesne, in exchange for a fixed annual sum, called the Civil List.

The Dying Words Of My Last Friend

Here it is, liberation!

He's got tubes coming out
of every orafice
and he can't talk
because he's too busy gasping.

And I think, here it is, death -
my chance to witness

And his soul doesn't come out.
He just lies there, dead.

Man, I beat his chest.
Where is that fucking soul?

I scream man where is that fucking soul
so fucking loud the nurses come in
and take hold of me
and caress my head
and I'm like man, why are you caressing me?
I'm not dead.

The windows are sealed.
His soul could not have escaped.

And I break away from the nurses
and beat his chest again
WHERE is your fucking soul?

Because I know this man was someone
not the man I sat with
in cafés drinking absinthe with,
nor cigarette after cigarette,
shared dying with.

And slowly I clock it.

No more conversations
about nothing, no more
drinking without purpose,
no more talking about women
and dying
no more no more
no fucking more.

And then I don't beat his chest
anymore asking for his soul,
I touch his dead skin, clammy.
And I'm sick because it's the skin
of a dead man.

What is this shit in front of me?
Where is my brother, where
is my friend?

I can't howl like a primative
because it was friend,
he was my friend
dead, he is my friend
still,
he is dead
he was my friend
and his last words
were the last I will ever hear from him.

No Audience


Underneath it all, under the covers, under the cover of sky, under the influence, undercover, underman, under the sun.

It's a room full of people feeling nothing.

Veins, dried up like canyon roads in the hills, handicapped they cripple around in small circles circulating with very tight parametres sipping cocktails with parasols swaying words they never heard of.

A roomful of human errors. Flubbed fly balls, booted grounders in a society sandlot sinking. They profess no mistakes, admit no errors. These kids are flawless. Their eyes don't blink.

And when they all go home sleeping together, their post coital figures fade, sun light returns, no one can find their sunglasses and nobody can be cool.

I flip a coin.

Not randomly. I want this one to count.

I flip a coin and just as it's about to land in my palm someone laughs and pushes someone in front of them forward which happened to be my back and then I slipped, disc and all, the coin fell to the hardwood floor, bounced back up a time or two and then slept, heads up.

Everyone stopped moving, everyone stopped talking. You could hear the neighbour's tv. A dog was barking three blocks north.

I picked up the coin because the coin was worth something. A broken tooth, a jar of marmite, cross eyes, everyone wondering about this coin and the hand that collected it and the body connected to it that stood up, straightened out and made moves to leave.

Thank you, I said. I'll be doing this again tomorrow night.

Raising The Ghost Of Flowers



As your petals fell, one by one,
disenchanted
tumbling off on their own as though to prove
fear that feeds must feed upon itself and feed alone,
you thought your glory moment
should be preserved,
blossoming for all the world to see,
while all the world, you see,
was busy blossoming on its own.

Not even your misfortune,
calibrated by the seasons,
could be said to have sprouted
from deeds undone alone
or weeds that sprung from fallow desire -
and the trust misplaced in renewing memories
was yet another of disappointment's dormant species:

This cycle turns inexhaustibly,
time wears down in an ineffable accumulation
affording little of destiny's promised light.

You watch the distance as though it will return,
unlected by memory's selectiveness
that plucks its heroes from the anonymity of soil,
passing off as dust even those that served
the layer that was next in line below
as though it would never rise above.

Yet again and again
with the same prospects of eventual vacancy,
drained of purpose, the inability for progress
rendering time's account meaningless,
You rose
above the dread of empty living,
knowing that such suffered cycles
cannot be lived again without the hope
of many springs to feed belief's unsteady blaze.

Evnetually there comes a penance due,
peeling back the layers
to reveal the blossom of the fool,
for your impatient ticking, thinking
you could mourn yourself alone,
a self-inflated black and blue.
Beneath an autumn vault of heaven stained
with tongues of fire,
you screamed for generations
as words pollinated in the runway of the mouth,
disapproved, never airborne, leaving no debris,
the passenger of sentences
who died without knowing
they were never uttered.

Yes, innocence paid for this empty now.

Better to have never arched for sunlight's promissory beacon
or bent yourself in vain to flourish
in the earth of sorrow's gardens.
Fruition is not the only measure,
but an indication of how much time is left.

Mitigate your loss without efflorescence -
rebel from misery impatiently
so that your seedlings are not in vain;
perspectives you adopt in fits of generosity;
nutrients to fortify the loam
you seek to build upon.

And if the sun you crave
in dashing blindly off to dream
provides no cheery elegiac,
perhaps the eyes require a change of scenery -

wherein the foliage returns,
caught forever fossilised
in its most self-relevatory moment.

Vacancies

we were and we weren't
standing or stumbling,
tickled pink
just not to be red, white or blue.

and I found you
in the pages of the local paper
advertising vacancies and
looking for help.

So, your kids don't know their dad.
So, your kids suck your time away.
So, your life is that fish brought
from the water on a hook
to the nook between two bits of limestone
to writhe incomprehensibly
whilst they think of you on the spit.

and I found you
underneath the morning clothes
in between the suffocating and
and in the hollows of
unspeakable beginnings

Those

minutes

were

grand.

So, your kids don't know their dad.
So, your kids suck your time away.
So, your life is that fish brought
from the water on a hook
to the nook between two bits of limestone
to writhe incomprehensibly
whilst they think of you on the spit.

Those

minutes

were

grand

Tomatino Festival!



Deelnemers aan het Tomatina-festival in het Spaanse plaatsje Buñol gooien woensdag tomaten naar elkaar. Ongeveer 40 duizend Spanjaarden hebben zich verzameld op de laatste woensdag van augustus voor het jaarlijkse tomatenfestival, waar ongeveer 100 duizend kilo tomaten naar elkaar wordt gegooid.

EN:

Sentimental



The light has traveled unthinkable thousands of miles to be
condensed, recharged, and poured off the white white pages
of an open Bible the country parson holds in front of this couple
in a field, in July, in the sap and the flyswirl of July
in upper Wisconsin, where their vows buzz in a ring in the air
like the flies, and are as sweet as the sap, in these rich and ritual minutes.
Is it sentimental? Oops. And out of that Bible the light continues
to rush as if from a faucet. There will be a piecrust cooling
out of its own few x’ed-out cuts. And will it make us run
for the picklier taste of irony rolled around protectively on our tongues
like a grab of Greek olives? My students and I discuss this
slippery phenomenon. Does “context” matter? Does
“earned” count? If a balled-up fidget of snakes
in the underbrush dies in a freeze is it sentimental? No,
yes, maybe. What if a litter of cocker spaniels? What
if we called them “puppydogs” in the same poem in that same hard,
hammering winter? When my father was buried,
the gray snow in the cemetery was sheet tin. If I said
that? Yes, no, what does “tone” or “history” do
to the Hollywood hack violinists who patiently wait to play
the taut nerves of the closest human body until from that
lush cue alone, the eyes swell moistly, and the griefs
we warehouse daily take advantage of this thinning
of our systems, then the first sloppy gushes begin . . .
Is that “wrong”? Did I tell you the breaths
of the gravediggers puffed out like factorysmoke
as they bent and straightened, bent and straightened,
mechanically? Are wise old (toothless) Black blues singers
sentimental?—“gran’ma”? “country cookin’”? But
they have their validity, don't they, yes? their
sweat-in-the-creases, picking up the lighting
in a fine-lined mesh of what it means to have gone through time
alive a little bit on this planet. Hands shoot up . . . opinions . . .
questions . . . What if the sun wept? the moon? Why, in the face
of those open faces, are we so squeamish? Call out
the crippled girl and her only friend the up-for-sale foal,
and let her tootle her woeful pennywhistle musics.
What if some chichi streetwise junkass from the demimonde
gave forth with the story of orphans forced through howling storm
to the workhouse, letting it swing between the icy-blue
quotation marks of cynicism—then? What if
I wept? What if I simply put the page down,
rocked my head in my own folded elbows, forgot
the rest of it all, and wept? What if I stepped into
the light of that page, a burnished and uncompromising
light, and walked back up to his stone a final time,
just that, no drama, and it was so cold,
and the air was so brittle, metal buckled
out song like a bandsaw, and there, from inside me,
where they’d been lost in shame and sophistry
all these years now, every last one of my childhood’s
heartwormed puppydogs found its natural voice.

Albert Goldbarth. Across the Layers: Poems Old and New (University of Georgia Press, 1993).

Tom And Jerry Smoked Out



Now here's a PC news item that makes sense.

A cartoon depicting a cigar-smoking cat will now be censored to eliminate scenes in which the cat is smoking.

A spokesperson for Turner Europe has stated that they will be reviewing the entire catalog of 1,500 Hanna-Barbera cartoons with the possible result of removing scenes that glamorize smoking. The effort was launched in response to a complaint to British media regulator Ofcom from a viewer who stated that smoking scenes in the Tom and Jerry cartoons "Texas Tom" and "Tennis Chumps" "were not appropriate in a cartoon aimed at children." A statement from Ofcom stated, "The licensee has ... proposed editing any scenes or references in the series where smoking appeared to be condoned, acceptable, glamorized or where it might encourage imitation."

Nevermind that Tom & Jerry are historically the most violent cat and mouse game in town, it's the bloody smoking that's driving the kids mad.

To review: smoking cat bad, mouse and cat with guns, ok for kids.



Fucking idiots.