Past the flannel plains and blacktop graphs and skylines of canted rust, and past the tobacco-brown river overhung with weeping trees and coins of sunlight through them on the water downriver, to the place beyond the windbreak, where untilled fields simmer shrilly in the A.M. heat: shattercane, lamb’s-quarter, cutgrass, sawbrier, nutgrass, jimsonweed, wild mint, dandelion, foxtail, muscadine, spinecabbage, goldenrod, creeping charlie, butter-print, nightshade, ragweed, wild oat, vetch, butcher grass, invaginate volunteer beans, all heads gently nodding in a morning breeze like a mother’s soft hand on your cheek. An arrow of starlings fired from the windbreak’s thatch. The glitter of dew that stays where it is and steams all day. A sunflower, four more, one bowed, and horses in the distance standing rigid and still as toys. All nodding. Electric sounds of insects at their business. Ale-colored sunshine and pale sky and whorls of cirrus so high they cast no shadow. Insects all business all the time. Quartz and chert and schist and chondrite iron scabs in granite. Very old land. Look around you. The horizon trembling, shapeless. We are all of us brothers.
Some crows come overhead then, three or four, not a murder, on the wing, silent with intent, corn-bound for the pasture’s wire beyond which one horse smells at the other’s behind, the lead horse’s tail obligingly lifted. Your shoes’ brand incised in the dew. An alfalfa breeze. Socks’ burrs. Dry scratching inside a culvert. Rusted wire and tilted posts more a symbol of restraint than a fence per se. NO HUNTING. The shush of the interstate off past the windbreak. The pasture’s crows standing at angles, turning up patties to get at the worms underneath, the shapes of the worms incised in the overturned dung and baked by the sun all day until hardened, there to stay, tiny vacant lines in rows and inset curls that do not close because head never quite touches tail. Read these.
David Foster Wallace, The Pale King
About as beautiful as any opening passage could be.
All that exists, or remains, of Duchamp’s stay in Buenos Aires is a readymade. Though of course his whole life was a readymade, which was his way of appeasing fate and at the same time sending out signals of distress.
- Roberto Bolaño, 2666
Lantern slide showing total eclipse of Aug. 31, 1932 taken in Fryeburg Maine by L.A. Parsons of Johns Hopkins University
Jasper has some exciting news! He got a little brofur today! And they absolutely love each other 😁 everyone, meet Emmett!
Our first vet visit. Now he’s almost ready to go outside.
Dear lord, these ears are too much.
KANEKO’S CRIB NOTES, PART XII: MICHAEL
Today, September 29th, is the Feast of St. Michael, otherwise known as Michaelmas, and to mark the occasion we present for your consideration St. Michael’s Victory over the Devil, a sculpture by Sir Jacob Epstein installed near the entrance of the modern Coventry Cathedral in Coventry, England—and Kaneko’s clear inspiration for the martial saint and archangel. Kaneko copies not only the spear and cuirass/skirt combo but also the outstretched, unengaged pose and slicked-back hair which are fairly distinct of Epstein’s modern depiction, differing from classical art where Michael surmounts Satan with the point of his weapon and can possess effeminate hair and features.
For the sake of completeness, also included is the inspiration for Keita Amemiya’s version of Michael from Shin Megami Tensei IV: A Random Pile of Scrap Metal, by noted street artist Jun K. Yard. Clearly influenced by the contorted and twisted shapes in Jun K. Yard’s piece, Amemiya’s Michael is also seemingly vomiting up his own entrails, a direct reference to the source material’s randomly strewn rusted pipes and junk scraps.