Monday, May 4, 2015

Sunday, May 3, 2015

DON'T CANCEL MY GIRL ABC I'LL PUNCH YOU


Obligatory photo of Guy Who Brought a Rifle

Everybody took one. Because we could not fucking believe what we were seeing.


(I think he was actually violating the law because IIRC he's STANDING ON SCHOOL PROPERTY, but uh, for some reason nobody felt like bringing it up with him.)

aftermath - c&p'd from elsewhere

OH I FORGOT ABOUT THE GUY WHO SHOWED UP WITH _A RIFLE_

TO THE MAY DAY PROTESTS

BECAUSE HE WANTED TO TEST THE OPEN CARRY LAWS

NO. REALLY. I DON'T KNOW _WHAT_ HE THOUGHT HE WAS DOING. W.T.F.


Also:

Dude! Bro! Dude! We're at the riots!

You guys are so 2001.

At least this poor innocent dumpster was protected.

Look at his patch. You're the one in riot gear, pal.

Maybe they're filming a sixties movie?

This is surprisingly unsettling when it's not on TV.

The media loved Rifle Guy. Nobody else did.

Bagpipes guy was way more popular. Which is really saying something.

The mayor stares sadly at the ugly art. Which is now even more ugly. Good job, anarchists.

(Did everyone love this fucking ugly sculpture but me? It was UGLY! It's not like they fucking punched a baby for Godsakes.)

I wouldn't say the reporters outnumbered the protesters but there were at least a dozen.

That's MY PARK. I go there like every week. Stop pontificating in my park!

Phoenix Jones gives me the pip but anything that cuts down on AoU box office is OK with me.

Ditto the giant, ugly, horrible $30M Starbucks Disneyland that replaced a perfectly good indie art supplies store. This place is wildly popular. I loathe it more than beets. (If you know me this is REALLY saying something.)

Apparently they used so many flash-bangs the East Precinct HAD TO SEND OUT FOR MORE. Also the two areas BLOCKED off like they were....IDEFK the White House....were the Cap Hill police precinct and the mayor's tony house up north. T took a picture of how the police precinct was barricaded for like three blocks in all directions.

For a closing, there was this classic bit --

MAYOR: I don't know why the protesters didn't go downtown.
COPS: It is our policy to get the protesters away from the tourists and really expensive skyscrapers downtown.


Saturday, May 2, 2015

Friday, May 1, 2015

right before we got there (they were taping over the window as we went in)

yeah we all think the sculpture is ugly but I think the art critics are going a little too far

words I was not expecting to hear myself say this evening

'oh so THAT'S what a flash bang sounds like'

Opened the windows when we got home, suddenly smelled pepper spray. Choppers drowning out every other single noise.

 Actualfax Steve Rogers I live with got upset at two (2) points: when we saw the smashed windows and paint bombs at QFC ("I don't think the capitalist dogs are working here on the night shift for ten dollars an hour") and when a GIANT SWAT TEAM DUDE said "Sir you need to move along now" when he was trying to take a picture of the place where we ALMOST GOT FUCKING KETTLED. I was holding my QFC bag like a shield. I JUST CAME OUT FOR OLIVE OIL AND COFFEE AND I'M HONESTLY FEELING SO ATTACKED RIGHT NOW, I did not say.

https://twitter.com/hashtag/maydaysea?f=realtime&src=hash

#MayDaySea

WELL THAT WAS EXCITING

THERE WERE MAY DAY PROTESTS BUT I WAS OUT OF OLIVE OIL
IT'S JUST DOWN THE BLOCK, I SAID. I REALLY WANT TO COOK THE SOLE TONIGHT, I SAID

SO I WENT TO THE QFC AND NEARLY GOT FUCKING KETTLED ON THE WAY BACK

UP ONE STREET? NOPE. THE OTHER? NO DICE
I SAW LIKE FOUR SWAT TEAMS WITH 12 PEOPLE ON EACH

WENT DOWN ANOTHER STREET, ASKED THIS SIX-THREE OFFICER 'I LIVE HERE, CAN I GO HOME THIS WAY?' 'SURE CAN' HE SAID AND PARTED THE LINE OF COPS WITH RIOT BATONS, SHIELDS, AND HELMETS

W
T
F

There are forty-seven states in the Union, and the Soviet of Washington*




Yeah, I was planning to go to the grocery store....THE QFC APPARENTLY SURROUNDED BY COPS NOW. Been hearing helicopters for a couple of hours, thought it was yet another bank robbery. The downstairs neighbour has apparently decided to cope with the noise by blasting Pearl Jam. //facepalm


*source

Thursday, April 30, 2015

a friend chose this for their last NatPoMo post

In the bar where the living dead drink all day
and a jukebox reminisces in a cracked voice
there is nothing to say. You talk for hours
in agreed motifs, anecdotes shuffled and dealt
from a well-thumbed pack, snapshots. The smoky mirrors
flatter; your ghost buys a round for the parched,
old faces of the past. Never return
to the space where you left time pining till it died.

Outside, the streets tear litter in their thin hands,
a tired wind whistles through the blackened stumps of houses
at a limping dog. God, this is an awful place
says the friend, the alcoholic, whose head is a negative
of itself. You listen and nod, bereaved. Baby,
what you owe to this place is unpayable
in the only currency you have. So drink up. Shut up,
then get them in again. Again. And never go back.


The house where you were one of the brides
has cancer. It prefers to be left alone
nursing its growth and cracks, each groan and creak
accusing as you climb the stairs to the bedroom
and draw your loved body on blurred air
with the simple power of loss. All the lies
told here, and all the cries of love,
suddenly swarm in the room, sting you, disappear.

You shouldn't be here. You follow your shadow
through the house, discover that objects held
in the hands can fill a room with pain.
You lived here only to stand here now
and half-believe that you did. A small moment
of death by a window myopic with rain.
You learn this lesson hard, speechless, slamming
the front door, shaking plaster confetti from your hair.


A taxi implying a hearse takes you slowly,
the long way round, to the station. The driver
looks like death. The places you knew
have changed their names by neon, cheap tricks
in a theme-park with no name. Sly sums of money
wink at you in the cab. At a red light,
you wipe a slick of cold sweat from the glass
for a drenched whore to stare you full in the face.

You pay to get out, pass the Welcome To sign
on the way to the barrier, an emigrant
for the last time. The train sighs
and pulls you away, rewinding the city like a film,
snapping it off at the river. You go for a drink,
released by a journey into nowhere, nowhen,
and all the way home you forget. Forget. Already
the fires and lights come on wherever you live.

- "Never Go Back," Carole Ann Duffy

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

2936 words! this verbal albatross I've been dragging around since January is done! whoo!

NOW I'M GOING TO BED.
620 words in a word war with a friend, 1293 words so far today. The neighbours are having a party! The fat black cat is whining. The husband is turning the air blue over a recalcitrant panorama photograph app. I DON'T CARE I SHALL TYPE ON.

 IT'S STILL NOT OVER! THEY'RE STILL ALL JUST SITTING AROUND THE KITCHEN TABLE JAWING AT EACH OTHER. GAHHHHHH.

THE STORY WILL NEVER END
AND NOBODY WILL PROBABLY EVER READ IT, EITHER (which is no doubt a good thing)

#amwriting, as the kids say these days

689 words so far, and they all suck. Pulling teeth would be more enjoyable. Bah. Time for some tea.


(I'M GOING TO FINISH THIS MOTHERFUCKING STORY TONIGHT IF IT KILLS ME)

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

the original of that awesome Tranströmer poem

Jag spelar Haydn efter en svart dag
och känner en enkel värme i händerna.

Tangenterna vill. Milda hammare slår.
Klangen är grön, livlig och stilla.

Klangen säger att friheten finns
och att någon inte ger kejsaren skatt.

Jag kör ner händerna i mina haydnfickor
och härmar en som ser lugnt på världen.

Jag hissar haydnflaggan – det betyder:
”Vi ger oss inte. Men vill fred.”

Musiken är ett glashus på sluttningen
där stenarna flyger, stenarna rullar.

Och stenarna rullar tvärs igenom
men varje ruta förblir hel.


( -- HAYDNFICKOR, that's even fucking better than "Haydnpockets.")

Monday, April 27, 2015

Come and drink and thirst no more

Emmylou Harris - "All My Tears (live)"

That woman's voice could make Voltaire get religion.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

FUCK!

I FORGOT TO TAKE MY MEDZ!

_AGAIN_

HOW THE FUCK DOES THIS HAPPEN WITH:

1) A PILL-A-DAY CONTAINER
2) A REMINDER IN MY GMAIL (EVERY DAY)
3) A REMINDER ON T'S PHONE (EVERY DAY)

WTFFFFFFFFFF, BRAIN, HELP ME OUT JUST A FUCKING LITTLE BIT HERE, I TAKE THESE FOR YOU

Saturday, April 25, 2015

I'M REALLY EXCITED ABOUT GETTING THIS



.....what do you want from me, I'm a fucking shut-in

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

NatPoMo poem from a friend

"The Lottery Prayer"

Another winter morning,
another day I am not a millionaire.
The Lord of Chance is my shepherd.
He makes me want. He tells me I must play
to win. He leadeth me down a path
toward early retirement.
I follow religiously.
Yea, though I drive through
the valley in a shadow of debt
to buy my tickets, I am still left wanting.
My friends and family comfort me.
They prepare a meal for me each week
to supplement the hole the lottery leaves
in my grocery budget.
I play their birthdays, ages,
wedding and divorce dates.
I play shoe, dress, waist, and bra sizes.
I play the days in a month,
the months in a year,
the year my car was built.
I play the numbers printed inside
fortune cookies, if the fortune is good.

Oh, Lord of Chance, drop
some Ping-Pong balls my way.
Help me become the generous man
I am meant to be. Help me build
the non-profit foundation dedicated
to supporting abused, homeless, hungry,
handicapped, mentally, emotionally
and imaginatively challenged literary artists—
that is my destiny. Help me build a library
branch (to later be named in my honor).
What do I need to do, Lord? I've already
given up smoking and drinking, sacrificed
my beloved Mustang. I can't give up
my wife; she buys half the tickets.
I can't give up my first born;
he's expecting a piece of the prize.
Anything else is fair game.

- M. Scott Douglass

from "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," Walt Whitman

It avails not, neither time or place—distance avails not;
I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so  many generations hence;  
I project myself—also I return—I am with you, and know how it is.  
 
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt;  
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd;  
Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh’d;
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was hurried;  
Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stem’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d.
 
I too many and many a time cross’d the river, the sun half an hour high;  
I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls—I saw them high in the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies,  
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow,
I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south.  
 
I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,  
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,  
Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light around the shape of my head in the sun-lit water,  
Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and southwestward,
Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,  
Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,  
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,  
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops—saw the ships at anchor,  
The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,
The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,  
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses,  
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,  
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,  
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening,
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by the docks,  
On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each side by the barges—the hay-boat, the belated lighter,  
On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night,  
Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets.  
 
These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you;
I project myself a moment to tell you—also I return.  
 
I loved well those cities;  
I loved well the stately and rapid river;  
The men and women I saw were all near to me;  
Others the same—others who look back on me, because I look’d forward to them;
(The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.)  
 
What is it, then, between us?  
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?  
 
Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not.  

NOW _THIS_ WEATHER IS WHY I MOVED HERE GODDAMMIT


Monday, April 20, 2015

The Octopus: A Story of California

....in December 2013 (the National Reconnaissance Office) launched a spy satellite on a rocket painted with an image of a world-straddling octopus and the words "Nothing Is Beyond Our Reach." The ODNI, the office that oversees the entire U.S. intelligence community, was so proud of this event that it even tweeted photos of the rocket and a separate one of the logo, which also served as a mission patch....No wonder, then, that the NSA and Silicon Valley have made such good partners....the NSA even refers to government agencies requesting data and analysis from it as "customers."

- Terms of Service


(Yeah, I'm still reading this. Yeah, it turned into something of a slog -- not that it's badly-written or anything, in fact, quite the opposite -- it's just really fucking depressing, and sort of like reading about climate change: this is just the way the world is now, and it's totally fucked, and the moment at which any effective change could have started has long since passed and the only thing that would get us off this track is....what? I don't know. It seems so far beyond any one person.)

Sunday, April 19, 2015

what I'm reading (STILL)

Critics claim that advertising is essential to the digital economy. It's what makes so many Web sites and services free. This may be true, but consumers have no responsibility to help support a broken, if widely used, business model. Whatever implied social contract existed between advertisers and users has been torn up by the industry. Never before has so much information been collected, so much commercial surveillance performed, on such a broad cross-section of consumers, with all of it digitized and freely traded among data brokers. As the current ardor for Big Data shows, information harvesting can be an essentially endless process, with the only limits being technological.

- Terms of Service



That's one more kid that'll never go to school Never get to fall in love Never get to be cool

portrait of the artist as a young Kurt



via

Thursday, April 16, 2015

....surveillance has become a cultural value deeply tied to our appetite for voyeurism, self-display, the public performance of identity, and confirmation of our own existences in the form of micro-affirmations from a disembodied audience.

Terms of Service: Social Media and the Price of Constant Connection, Jacob Silverman