Go to ninapowerweepingatthegraveofphilosophy.tumblr.com. Indeed, collect photos and made the rhinos and interesting. I can’t stand Daft Punk. Will you lay bait for the trapper when all that glows in blood sugar will be double dug? To be exilic is to be pursued by a herd of heavy myths, wary in their chain smoke: the contenders. In addition to the rooster and chicken, there was another chicken, a wild dog, and a baby. All of which can be heard on the recording of our meeting, which was held outside under a mango tree, as is tradition here. The Acholi have a cultural tradition, as most of us do, that they don’t grow crops on grave sites, and [considering the number of mass graves] this has become a big problem. O Lord of the Toadstools, Lady of the Toadstools, Mother in Flower, Mother of What’s Difficult. “In November 1893, Daniel Paul Schreber, recently named presiding judge of the Saxon Supreme Court, was on the verge of a psychotic breakdown and entered a Leipzig psychiatric clinic. He would spend the rest of the nineteenth century in mental institutions. Once released, he published his Memoirs of My Nervous Illness (1903), a harrowing account of real and delusional persecution, political intrigue, and states of sexual ecstasy as God’s private concubine. His text becomes legible as a sort of ‘nerve bible’ of fin-de-siècle preoccupations and obsessions, an archive of the very phantasms that would, after the traumas of war, revolution, and the end of empire … cross the threshold of modernity into a pervasive atmosphere of crisis and uncertainty … [It is possible to argue] that Schreber’s delusional system -- his own private Germany -- actually prefigured the totalitarian solution to this defining structural crisis of modernity … [and to show] how this tragic figure succeeded in avoiding the totalitarian temptation by way of his own series of perverse identifications, above all with women and Jews.” At this point the narrator’s rage, taking the form of Ayn Rand, chomps away at itself with the same ferocity as the bullets he fired. The perceived universe — a syzygy with the voices of Al Pacino as animus and Diane Sawyer as anima — sounds hugely compassionate, allowing for a kind of redemption beyond morality, where language itself carries the soul into the beauty and love it’s always wanted … Really. I mean, I mean is never what I mean, unless it is. And then it’s what I mean. But it isn’t. It’s 717 Day here in the midstate and that means cheap tats and cheap piercings. I wouldn’t recognize that tree in another location, Los Angeles for example.
[Note: Source: JBR; Dominic Fox, PB comment, 17 Jul 013; Ozaki Masanori, FB comment, 17 Jul 013 (tr. Bing); Benjamin Noys, FB comment, 17 Jul 013; Jackqueline Frost, “General Eclipse”, in The Antidote; “Pause for the Rooster”, at Conflicts of War and Jetlag, 17 Jul 013; JBR; Petú Bak Bolom, “For a Frightened Child Who Cannot Sleep”, Loxa Jiménez Lópes, “For a Dead Child”, in Incantations: Songs, Spells and Images by Mayan Women (ed. Ambar Past); Princeton University Press blurb for Eric L Santner, My Own Private Germany: Daniel Paul Schreber’s Secret History of Modernity; JBR; BlazeVOX blurb for Chuck Richardson, Does the Moon Ever Shine in Heaven?; JBR; William Keckler, “Lee’s Off Getting Some Probably Gnarly Tattoo / Mishearing Lady Gaga”, at Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas (The Sequel), 17 Jul 013; Akilah Oliver, “Boulder, Colorado Poem 2”, in Kindergarde: Avant-Garde Poems, Plays, and Stories for Children (ed. Dana Teen Lomax)]