Grammar aside, there's something of a common theme here
Wot (the F) makes people vote Republican? - Edge (thanks Chris Locke)
Don't think of a mavrik! (spelling reconditioned for Pal(ad)ins) - Lakeoff
Its Not Just Palin — Its The Message - Joe Trippi (who's having issues with apostrophes.
Plus this talk - via Listics
Allied, passim.
Don't think of a mavrik! (spelling reconditioned for Pal(ad)ins) - Lakeoff
Its Not Just Palin — Its The Message - Joe Trippi (who's having issues with apostrophes.
Plus this talk - via Listics
Allied, passim.
Labels: barack obama, john sydney McCain III, politics, Sarah Palin
posted by Tom Matrullo at Sunday, September 14, 2008
2 Comments:
common theme? hm.
not sure wot your thinkin thomm, but there seems to be much about voice and it's appropriashun, a dance of he stole/she stole.
The Homecoming Decorations Committee caught in the middle of emergency evacuation procedures.
Everything is justified now.
There's no valence, the only core is proprietary, slippery unrooted and self-validating.
See Roman Polanski as a ten year old running parentless and Jewish through the graying Nazi streets, what that was like, cats, dogs, carrion, doing what appeared magically as needing done, prompted by the corporeal demand, and everything bleached of color.
But it wasn't, isn't.
Bright colors. Lots of sunlight bouncing off things, and lots of things.
Palin isn't McCain's choice, McCain doesn't get to choose anything.
Vetted Sarah stands to heel with chin up and spine straight, quivering like a high-bred setter, or like someone with bad paperwork called in and promised lenient silence in return for co-operation.
And what about the "Mc"?
Meaning "son of".
It's all demonic, esp. if we let go, so that subjectively it washes out, white noise of loss constant in background hum. Loss. Eating whatever seems edible. Or a nice salad.
Comfort our salvation. As opposed to the polarity oppositional.
And resentment, irritation, the True Last Things.
The nasty tempers of the Damned.
Being pissed off a common state of the soul entering whatever it is pissed-off souls will enter when the connection severs.
Meantime 5-meal bodies vastly inflated to fit their vehicles, the animal-self made larger and larger by the same chemistry used to enlarge the meat-bearing creatures they we all eat now factories of, and such managers as they can be said to have had turned loose into the Pharmacopia, now our neighbors, now ourselves.
Domestic service of the battery hen and feed-lot steer. Some uniforms would be funny, sort of.
Money was a fiction from the get.
Fiction the only reality to be found.
A promise of rest, a promise of comfort, and some green maybe nice big trees and a gentle sward or two, meadows that's it, opening out from the edge of the forest, and well-behaved wild animals enjoying their freedom to well yeah, to do what everything does, get along the downward and upward path. From zygote to anabasis, and back again.
Rigid monks locked in remote-view prayer-combat, bodies held static in pristine Aegean rooms. Thunderous bead clack.
Timeless almost, committed to that, praying toward the sea like a metaphor of what this all really is, fleas roaring approval from the coarse fibers of their robes, flies going about fly-business on the slim pickings of an ascetic kitchen.
Also draftees coming on in phalanxes of reluctance. And opportunists, always, and feeble ranks of sad sad men. And those other guys, the volunteers of nihilist excitement.
Ectomorphic self-anointed righteous punks of Biblical exegesis, sub-contracted employees of the inevitable dressed in gray gabardine, buying a few things at the big-box hardware store. Nothing major, light bulbs, drywall nails, an extension cord with an on-off switch. Each purchase shadowed in code.
Still, everyone's moving through time and no one even knows what time is.
Finality, thy name is, or if not should be...pig consciousness.
And one step up from that toward what was or could be human, permanently teenage boys wanting someone to pay for their step-father's cold shoulder and the nightmare sounds of maternal orgasm spilling through the wall.
And one step up from that thieves of every imaginable commodity, flashing trinkets and treasure at the edges of the black market of all imaginable things, coin of the realm there now being belief in the appropriate rise of...oh no! Pig consciousness.
Up oink and battle!
Wizards of mnemonic alphabetical spells like anti-bardic pioneers or real-life historical conquistadors claiming everything from horizon to horizon for the crown whoever wears it, and all those susceptible kids in rows in desks freed for the regulated demi-hour at lunch learning the ways they must speak now, outside the family, in the world. How important it became and remains for them to learn that language.
Witches of manipulation and disdain, skanky tight-mouthed intellectual sadists very good at the subliminal sneer, wearing tops like unbuttoned sweaters in exactly the color blue of the C-Span logo, big brooms idling outside the studio like Walpurgis limousines, casting multitudes of little nearly-innocuous spells through the medium of ubiquitous light.
Spells being a theme of this.
Golem's ethnicity, the Ring's place at the heart of the tale, Sauron's gloating adjutant's shoes shined to a fare-thee-well. Maybe are those hooves?
Or Ragnarok, we could work that in, if you're not into LoTR.
At the most very tip of the precipice, brink of the verge, glaring incompleteness frozen sort of, caught and held forever as not-quite able to overcome whatever it was that was in the way.
What it was, the obstacle, is what we sort of are, as potentiating nodes, watching, audience, spectating, crowd, putti, Oz-monkeys, cherubim in the bleachers with hot dogs and paper cups of beer, and it looks like art transcended all this muck so completely it went away and took the best of us with it.
It's all gone machine-like, process, laws of physicality.
No mercy, no remorse, no forgiveness.
No napkins.
Lots of things to eat though, if you're not too picky...
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