Tuesday, 4 September 2018

Belabor Day is Twenty-Twenty

So does this mean that the nominees for the next US Presidential Election are Nike, Inc. and the Fraternal Order of Police? If the shoe stitching operation comes marching back home again because it's cheaper to pay dirt poor Americans than it is Hondurans or Chinese will the company respond to Red, White & Blue cops beating & tasing workers with the wherewithal to strike for better wages or working conditions with promises to Just Do It Better?

Monday, 3 September 2018

Der Parkbank Pinkler: Teillos



„Geschäftsidee: sich präsentieren als ein großzügiger und alternativ-bewusster Betreuer mit peinlich schablonenhaften Werbebranche Begriffen wie „bezahlbarer Luxus“ und „echte Gesellschaft“ und agieren wie typisch ausbeuterische Eigentümer, dessen Mieter/innen mit Blick auf das größtmögliche Gewinnmotiv einsargen.“

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∅.


Saturday, 1 September 2018

On Aphorisms

"Art is the little cathedral in the big abattoir."

—Pastor Prime St Augustine
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Word. I hasten to point out I remind diary readers of mine own kōan cookie collection that regenerates another as if anew each time one clicks upon either the black & white dash just below the kōan cookie at the top of the page, or the image all the way down at the bottom. Wait a minute. Are they kōan cookies or skōans? Does it matter? Ask an Asian. I'm not qualified for any of this.
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Image. September's here again.

Grünbergerstr. 44-48a, Berlin-Friedrichshain - 1954/2018 (hover)

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Music. Photomotion.

Monday, 27 August 2018

By virtue of the ongoing coverage:
Of the Moving of Our Octogenarian

Had I known how prominently this topic'd sustain, I'd have included the following video, edited by me for brevity and so as not to give it all away. It is an excerpt from K8's The Line, the Cross & the Curve (sorry, I canno' bring myself to link to Amazon) that features Lindsay Kemp.


A dvd of Flowers can be purchased here, a much poorer quality viewed here.

Sunday, 26 August 2018

Stranger Moving

A most noteworthy octogenarian has moved
(out or up is anyone's guess
in spite of what they might profess).
The bodies that he did possess are numerous

and moving on...

like we who've heard by way of name
it's something something Bowie Bush –
for those who'd thought they knew his game
it's Ziggy's Spiders he did push.

I will not deign to've seen him move
right up until the end, and still
going from day into evening, and now
peacefully still at night.

Friday, 17 August 2018

Hey Nineteen-Hundreds,

We'll miss you despite those of ours we tend to bury in you.

Respectfully,
davidly

Monday, 13 August 2018

If I had 717 billion dollars, I'd give it to the DoD!

There's never been a shortage of sincerely stunned song lamenting that a breach of threshold has not been enough to lead to the breacher's end or at least the beginning of the end by way of a massively stirred collective mindset that would force a change or storm the castle gates.

The concern moved by the current preoccupation is that very soon an electorate should be engaged. And how! - that is, precisely how the electorate should engage itself, as well as precisely how it should not. This might illuminate the image of masses who would seem perfectly able to rise up and sever the heads of several snakes but cannot otherwise agree on anything.

The question "if not now, when?" is often spun right round into "if not then, why now?" This employs relativism, but that cuts both ways. Nowadays it is often mocked as "whataboutery", which relates a fair observation in general but too oft misses the point that the latter question is as rhetorical as the original lament, and bringing up then compared to now — or someone else's misdeed compared to someone's — does not mean that someone should be spoken free of guilt; it is intended to bring an additional charge that would encompass a greater number of breaches and establish a stricter threshold, lest a precedent be set that continually allows the tendentious crossing of lines.

Given that that pernicious precedent has pretty well been set, long already indeed, wedged de facto & deeply woven into our political nervous system, we have a situation where well-meaning people would like to know where the threshold is, yet are always concerned about the timing of the drawing of a line at some point prior to wondering why a line is not being drawn. Meditate on that a moment and I think you'll find that it applies to either side of this particular style of discussion. Take it back far enough and you could replace the donkey and the elephant with a chicken and an egg, even if you think the egg is most demonstrably wrong.

Is someone right and someone else wrong here? Is there anything new under the Sun? Is it more a question of degree over style or the other way around? Have the frogs in the cauldron failed to acknowledge how blessed they are by those of the kingdom, if not of their class, who wield a superior sense memory that tells them when now is the time to jump?

Well, what an oversimplification that would be! However, rather than abandon the metaphor I'll extend it just a smidge to make it more material to my point of departure: The brilliant — or perhaps only organic — design of rule by division has employed a nice little procedure whereby the ostensible dialing back of the water temperature only allows for a deep breath of relief, not for a group effort to keep bringing down the heat enough to make it survivable for everyone, let alone to turn off the damn stove. And that's just among those of like mind who, twist as the mind might, can never be taken for chickens and are hardly ever only eggs.

Never forget that when the occasion presents itself, which is at a minimum annually, each plays the other on television. And never attribute to stupidity that which is adequately explained by malice of a more machiavellian nature — even if the mockery is more fun. And always follow the money. That's an imperative unfortunately conflated with a philosophy of resignation. Nevertheless, once you follow the money you pretty well know where they stand.

Sunday, 5 August 2018

Scars on 45

For those of you unacquainted with the parlance of

Monday, 30 July 2018

KT=6D!

Archangel wittingly bewitching believing non-believer. Why not not? Wherewithal's what without wanting where we will't.

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In the daily diary form I could ramble such that the text would resemble reams of computer code without line breaks. Most practising diarists, I reckon, organise what they're thinking into a relatively more coherent topical form than that, even if what lands on the page isn't necessarily comprehensive in scope or scale.

For example as regards the previous paragraph's comparison (or maybe to demonstrate that point), just prior to typing it I had undertook the task of taking rubbish down to the bins. After a glance at the shoes on the floor inside my apartment door, I opted for the few steps back into my bedroom where I would find the pair I preferred to wear, which led to seeing that I had yet to grab the keys, followed by the thought that it was good thing I decided on the other shoes, whereupon a second voice in my head rejoined that I'd have probably remembered the keys regardless.

The fact that the voice was in the second person, as the voices of my imagination not infrequently are, became an issue of intermittent preoccupation as I was descending the four flights of stairs to the courtyard and back up again. The significance of this fact is another thing of which I have long taken notice, which is that friends have a tendency to try to talk me out of what I believe to be a meaningful empathetic position. It is an innocent tendency insofar as it usually has to do with encouraging me not to burden myself unnecessarily, and often it is only just that. When this encouragement however forms the argument that someone in the third person need not receive from me what I'd expressed as fair treatment, it dips to the depth of demon in disguise and I sometimes wonder if we people carry in us the constant potential of unwitting polluters of pure intention projected out of unconscious envy or other bedeviling most deeply dastardly.

As regards the second voice, and from a purely practical standpoint, it's better to maintain the belief that I need to remember my keys than it is to assume I always will.
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Hap e-BRTHdae, Comrade 🦁❤️!

Saturday, 28 July 2018

Der Parkbank Pinkler: Rückreise


„Das Leben läuft Krebsgängig.“
—Friedrich Wilhelm SALM Rolfe

.<

Insofern als ich nicht hierzu hätte umhin kommen können, ist es ziemlich bemerkenswert, von meiner Warte aus beunruhigend, dass ich es mehr oder weniger fünfundzwanzig Jahre lang umhinkam. Was mir in dieser Zeitspanne entgangen war, war von mir im Besitz: ein Buch, genauer gesagt, eine Kurzgeschichte, gedrückt inmitten einer Sammlung davon; das Vierteljahrhundert — währen das Buch mit mir zusammen reiste oder im Regal stand, wo auch immer ich ein Bücherregal besaß, in Taschen gesteckt war oder bei Mme Natascha in einer Kiste ihrer Keller, als ich mir noch vorstellen könnte, meine Natascha nach zu holen, sollte ich denn dazu irgendwann mal wieder in der Lage sein — hat nun ein jähes Ende genommen, wennschon im drei steigenden Stücken.

Sunday, 15 July 2018

T. the Terrestrial

Information, evidence, and advice are like paper and water. At some point, some is needed. Maybe just a bit, maybe a lot. For a while they were all saved in their receptacles — folders and sheet metal drawers and plastic bags and bottles — brick buildings and carbon steel cisterns. Unlike info & evidence, the unconscious has always gotten clouded, which is convenient to the collective, whether we know it or not.

They had bought it and screwed it. By the time he had returned he found America again after an unlimited supply of cigarettes but no more lighting bugs. Turns out the mark of the beast is a subscription to the general worldview otherwise understood as conventional, which also just happens to operate under the slogan Convenience, or the opposite of inconvenience right up until the indistinguishably ephemeral transition of time has elapsed when its circumvention becomes next to impossible, well-stocked with the collateral branding of HR-consumers not sporting industrial strength oven mitts over their aprons of lead and tin foil on top.

Every drip of tech was courtesy of Hangout Ltd, who were really just the above-ground conduit section of much deeper logistics, literally, though they were also responsible for marketing, which required the steady infiltration of media big and small.

R&D began under every airport, not just DIA. Neatly enough, the deeper the level of operations the earlier in the process of the theory of three economic sectors, falsely attributed to economists. Fourastié' would have categorised our middle earth as a primitive society, which couldn't be further from the fact that its mining operation is the most sophisticated part of the process, without which you'd still be talking telegraph. Wherever in the underworld this work is done, its workforce outnumbers the corresponding tertiary toilers ten to one. Thank the grey gods for cloning.