Well, what I do know is that revisiting my occasional obsession with the minutae of American politics is not a good or healthy thing, so I'm banishing all things inside the beltway from the Parlour. At least for the moment.
Oh, and by the way, I wonder what our thoughts might be about recent events in the Land of Z?
Enquiring minds have been enquiring about the Intergalactica. And the blatantly wide-eyed about behind the scenes goings-on. As for me, I now have a byzantine chart tacked above my computer so I can be certain all words are assigned their proper provenance.
But there are other words, always and everywhere, and these are calling out:
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
[One more translation has been added to the Library. It has to do with an incident that's being reported widely in the Mexican press, and the local JBG wanted to simply set the record straight.]
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Una nota
Just a quick note to let everyone know that 3 new translations have been placed in our Library.
Two from the EZLN - one creating a new website for their participation in the Other Campaign and the other with information for internationals. I've also done the letter sent by the FZLN to the EZLN concerning the handover.
Enjoy and more later. Promise.
Two from the EZLN - one creating a new website for their participation in the Other Campaign and the other with information for internationals. I've also done the letter sent by the FZLN to the EZLN concerning the handover.
Enjoy and more later. Promise.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Open House
Yo and hola, salonistas.
As I noted in a Comment earlier today, we may wish to take a look at the latest addition to our Library. As a bit of a postscript, the Frente site was immediately pulled, except for the communique and their response. And RR is down and obviously under construction.
It would appear there might not, therefore, be anywhere to openly discuss events.
Yo! Basta perhaps?
And, by the way, invitations are not required for entrance to any of our little rooms.
As I noted in a Comment earlier today, we may wish to take a look at the latest addition to our Library. As a bit of a postscript, the Frente site was immediately pulled, except for the communique and their response. And RR is down and obviously under construction.
It would appear there might not, therefore, be anywhere to openly discuss events.
Yo! Basta perhaps?
And, by the way, invitations are not required for entrance to any of our little rooms.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Reconstruction
[As we know, all our EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library.]
Such a bore here today. Special elections, and there’s nothing special about them, although one has to be ever so slightly pleased with Virginia, especially Virginia, and New Jersey.
The only real amusement came from the Republicans – truly the stuff of vaudeville – and their premature ejaculatory declaration that they were going to launch an investigation into that Leak to the Post about those CIA black gulags.
Then all Congressional hell broke loose. Once again. Signatures were postponed, Frists’ disappeared, and all because Mr. Lott drawled that hell yes, one of his own had clearly done the dirty deed. Given that all that information had been provided and discussed at an all-Republican confab – with Mr. Cheney as special guest -just before the Leak happened.
And all because once upon a time Mr. Lott paid an alcohol-fuelled good old boy homage to a mummified former icon of Southern Goth. And was then quickly stabbed in the back by his own pack of living dead.
Honestly, how Byzantine and surreal has this corner of the Universe become when Monsieur Lott now presents himself as a gentleman with whom I would not mind sharing the odd pint or six?
And, if I could, it would be at the Velvet Elvis in Savannah, one of those almost perfectly crafted southern dives. Live acts every night, a vast array of musical genre, appealing to every subset of riff-raff in town. Swing [lots, sigh, with all the girls in their most fetching Rosie the Riveter costumes], faux-chicano ska, anything a girl might want. I always showed up on Tuesdays for the Bud-driven hard-core.
The barman was from Dublin, the owner from Bath, and they even had a “VIP room” - the attic cum storage loft. No lighting that I ever noticed, filled to the literal rafters with cobwebs and boxes, but the perfect place for sampling semi-illegal substances or the odd snog.
Such a bore here today. Special elections, and there’s nothing special about them, although one has to be ever so slightly pleased with Virginia, especially Virginia, and New Jersey.
The only real amusement came from the Republicans – truly the stuff of vaudeville – and their premature ejaculatory declaration that they were going to launch an investigation into that Leak to the Post about those CIA black gulags.
Then all Congressional hell broke loose. Once again. Signatures were postponed, Frists’ disappeared, and all because Mr. Lott drawled that hell yes, one of his own had clearly done the dirty deed. Given that all that information had been provided and discussed at an all-Republican confab – with Mr. Cheney as special guest -just before the Leak happened.
And all because once upon a time Mr. Lott paid an alcohol-fuelled good old boy homage to a mummified former icon of Southern Goth. And was then quickly stabbed in the back by his own pack of living dead.
Honestly, how Byzantine and surreal has this corner of the Universe become when Monsieur Lott now presents himself as a gentleman with whom I would not mind sharing the odd pint or six?
And, if I could, it would be at the Velvet Elvis in Savannah, one of those almost perfectly crafted southern dives. Live acts every night, a vast array of musical genre, appealing to every subset of riff-raff in town. Swing [lots, sigh, with all the girls in their most fetching Rosie the Riveter costumes], faux-chicano ska, anything a girl might want. I always showed up on Tuesdays for the Bud-driven hard-core.
The barman was from Dublin, the owner from Bath, and they even had a “VIP room” - the attic cum storage loft. No lighting that I ever noticed, filled to the literal rafters with cobwebs and boxes, but the perfect place for sampling semi-illegal substances or the odd snog.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Trysts
[All the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library, and, yes, once again I’ve been a very, very bad girl, but Blogger is still not letting me upload pictures, and I'm feeling a tad petulant.]
Regardless of what else I’ve been up to, I’ve been thinking a lot about flamenco lately, which makes even less sense than most of the rest of what I’ve been up to.
Not about those marvelous skirts, terrific makeup or smoldering eyes, but about the other part, the unseen, undecipherable part.
About duende, of course.
Other than Lorca, very few people have ever been silly enough to take pen to paper on the subject, and that is a good thing.
We know it coexists with dark and death, refashions old forms, captures one’s body. Yes. But if you’re lucky, and you know it’s not just about flamenco, then your body waits for it the way it waits for a lover.
A whisper, a blinking through hair falling into eye, foot scuffing.
Shadow and wind, mixed into one.
Regardless of what else I’ve been up to, I’ve been thinking a lot about flamenco lately, which makes even less sense than most of the rest of what I’ve been up to.
Not about those marvelous skirts, terrific makeup or smoldering eyes, but about the other part, the unseen, undecipherable part.
About duende, of course.
Other than Lorca, very few people have ever been silly enough to take pen to paper on the subject, and that is a good thing.
We know it coexists with dark and death, refashions old forms, captures one’s body. Yes. But if you’re lucky, and you know it’s not just about flamenco, then your body waits for it the way it waits for a lover.
A whisper, a blinking through hair falling into eye, foot scuffing.
Shadow and wind, mixed into one.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Bemusement
[If you’re seeking the EZLN, zapatista or Other Campaign translations, they are to be found in our Library.]
Needless to say, I’m delighted that so many of our salonistas seem to share my passion for needlework and baseball.
And, referencing one of the comments, I really don’t have anything against boys with embroidery hoops. But I must admit that I prefer them holding a skein of yarn while I’m winding it, looking slightly befuddled, bored and bemused. Plotting some sort of sordid way out, which would, of course, include me.
There.
I know, how very Austen, but, then again, why the hell do you think the ladies enjoy her so much? That’s certainly one of the reasons. The flirting and plotting in the parlour over needlework.
As right now, for example, even though I’m working on two tiny little confections for two tiny new ones, since no one is holding the skein, there’s little flirting or plotting to be had.
Needless to say, I’m delighted that so many of our salonistas seem to share my passion for needlework and baseball.
And, referencing one of the comments, I really don’t have anything against boys with embroidery hoops. But I must admit that I prefer them holding a skein of yarn while I’m winding it, looking slightly befuddled, bored and bemused. Plotting some sort of sordid way out, which would, of course, include me.
There.
I know, how very Austen, but, then again, why the hell do you think the ladies enjoy her so much? That’s certainly one of the reasons. The flirting and plotting in the parlour over needlework.
As right now, for example, even though I’m working on two tiny little confections for two tiny new ones, since no one is holding the skein, there’s little flirting or plotting to be had.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Three of the 4 B's
[All the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are sitting in our Library.]
Yes, I’ve been horrid, I know.
And once again I shan’t bore anyone with any tedious details other than the bloody migraine which laid waste to my entire Tuesday.
I had been working on ofrendas for Día de los Muertos, something I’d never done before, and it turned out to be a surprisingly illuminating experience. As soon as I re-master the art of collage making in Picassa, I’ll post them.
Now, off to the profoundly important topic/s of needlework and baseball, and, no, they’re hardly incompatible. Not only have I spent many an evening happily engaged in both [fingers engaged in one, eyes on the other], but they delight in such similar fashions.
I’ve always been reticent to speak my heart about baseball for fear of sounding like one of those disgruntled, sentimental older gentlemen, waxing nostalgic for some sort of glory days. Suffice, perhaps, that much of what I’ve loved about this sport [though I’ve always considered it an art] no longer exists. Except, as some of us know, in the minors.
Outside, on illegal Spring afternoons [whilst perfecting the art of forging school notes] or long perfect Summer nights [perfecting the ability to hold one’s lager]. Sometimes meticulously plotting the plays, other times surrendering to festive chaos or fierce contest, but always knowing that I’d stepped into an alternative dimension. It was exactly the place where I learned that other, much more resonant, worlds, did indeed exist and could, therefore, be created.
Now I know this particular place no longer exists [except in Triple A], but it did and therefore can. Nor, most unfortunately, do the Boys. The lanky, impassioned, naïve and often deeply eccentric ones. I disappeared for a while into another world, and when I came back they had all turned into No Neck Williams [or football players, for those of you who don’t recognize the reference]. Massive, unattractive dump truck sorts of boys. And it wasn’t until the last few years that I realized this transformation had been the direct consequence of the corporate, profit-driven, media/owners/stadium conglomerates, pumping them full of steroids, turning the game into a fool’s paradise of heavy hitting apes.
Yes, among the many tragedies visited on the world by savage capitalism, it has also destroyed an entire genre of fanciable boy.
As I said, it’s very hard to opine on the subject without sounding whingy and delicate.
And the game, itself, madre de dios. George Carlin understood some of it. Its far boundaries weren’t proscribed. A ball would fly as far as one boy could hit it; a game would go on as long as 18 boys could last. An infinity of possibility.
Perfection was everywhere, but it coexisted with struggle, promise and heartbreak, with plenty of room for farce, vaudeville and flirtations in the bleachers. All manner and level of relationship were of equal import: team, pair [battery, double-play combo], individual [the glories of stats, but the measuring of RBIs and ERAs had as much to do with player against self as it did with the record books].
The boys entertained us, each other, but, most of all, themselves. And we were enchanted, mesmerized, seduced endlessly by, and like, the game.
And, as for how one might see baseball as metaphor for campaign, I’ll leave that up to anyone with a fertile imagination and a few free moments.
Yes, I’ve been horrid, I know.
And once again I shan’t bore anyone with any tedious details other than the bloody migraine which laid waste to my entire Tuesday.
I had been working on ofrendas for Día de los Muertos, something I’d never done before, and it turned out to be a surprisingly illuminating experience. As soon as I re-master the art of collage making in Picassa, I’ll post them.
Now, off to the profoundly important topic/s of needlework and baseball, and, no, they’re hardly incompatible. Not only have I spent many an evening happily engaged in both [fingers engaged in one, eyes on the other], but they delight in such similar fashions.
I’ve always been reticent to speak my heart about baseball for fear of sounding like one of those disgruntled, sentimental older gentlemen, waxing nostalgic for some sort of glory days. Suffice, perhaps, that much of what I’ve loved about this sport [though I’ve always considered it an art] no longer exists. Except, as some of us know, in the minors.
Outside, on illegal Spring afternoons [whilst perfecting the art of forging school notes] or long perfect Summer nights [perfecting the ability to hold one’s lager]. Sometimes meticulously plotting the plays, other times surrendering to festive chaos or fierce contest, but always knowing that I’d stepped into an alternative dimension. It was exactly the place where I learned that other, much more resonant, worlds, did indeed exist and could, therefore, be created.
Now I know this particular place no longer exists [except in Triple A], but it did and therefore can. Nor, most unfortunately, do the Boys. The lanky, impassioned, naïve and often deeply eccentric ones. I disappeared for a while into another world, and when I came back they had all turned into No Neck Williams [or football players, for those of you who don’t recognize the reference]. Massive, unattractive dump truck sorts of boys. And it wasn’t until the last few years that I realized this transformation had been the direct consequence of the corporate, profit-driven, media/owners/stadium conglomerates, pumping them full of steroids, turning the game into a fool’s paradise of heavy hitting apes.
Yes, among the many tragedies visited on the world by savage capitalism, it has also destroyed an entire genre of fanciable boy.
As I said, it’s very hard to opine on the subject without sounding whingy and delicate.
And the game, itself, madre de dios. George Carlin understood some of it. Its far boundaries weren’t proscribed. A ball would fly as far as one boy could hit it; a game would go on as long as 18 boys could last. An infinity of possibility.
Perfection was everywhere, but it coexisted with struggle, promise and heartbreak, with plenty of room for farce, vaudeville and flirtations in the bleachers. All manner and level of relationship were of equal import: team, pair [battery, double-play combo], individual [the glories of stats, but the measuring of RBIs and ERAs had as much to do with player against self as it did with the record books].
The boys entertained us, each other, but, most of all, themselves. And we were enchanted, mesmerized, seduced endlessly by, and like, the game.
And, as for how one might see baseball as metaphor for campaign, I’ll leave that up to anyone with a fertile imagination and a few free moments.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
