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It has always been my experience that any time there is a GOOD thing,
something sweet and simple and good, someone always comes along - usually someone from big business or bureacracy - and says Hey! Let's IMPROVE this!
And you know what?
They nearly always F*CK IT UP.

Well, thanks, Blogger, my first go-around on the "new, improved" Blogger tonight consumed two hours of my time in a hell's mouth of cul de sacs and complications and inpenetrable system knots.

It won't publish - it will publish - it won't - it takes hours and hours to go nowhere - it makes no consistent sense - and this is EXACTLY what happened when I tried to start a seperate blog for longer things which I GAVE UP in a flurry of foul curses because it was so irritating and complicated and back and forth and the exact opposite of the ease and choice afforded by the original Blogger palette.

So I pray this isn't the (cursing, hyperventilating, fuck this) shape of hours to come with these "improvements" that let us note NO ONE ASKED FOR.

Try. Fail. Fail better.
Try again.

9 Messidor // free fall . . .


walter benjamin lays out the tarot cards on the library table before him and one of the cards reminds him of a whore who serviced him once in a backstreet in marseilles he sees her bend in a series of Muybridge frames a jerky stop-go motion / / / he starts to unzipper his trousers but his eye is caught by the scarlet glint of her dress what are those sequins? they look like individual drops of blood on slides that ctach the moons light and in her hair a clip it is a mermaid the moons claw in the obligatory basin of water by the bed she is a siren he is a ulysses of waiting of this melancholy hour of small things a ulysess of stirred dust and the other side of official stamps and at times like this entering the woman her moon full rump he cannot but think of all the other beings on earth at this precise instant also fucking back forth back forth fort da fort da ah oui faire l'amour faire l’amour tu est tres what is it Georges B says our fucking is a piston which keeps the earth turning well maybe the moon is a collective hallucination a mirror of all the upturned eyes at the moment of furthest deepest highest crisis in rooms ah like this oh rooms like postage stamps franked to go … OH NOwhere.
Sweet anonymous I-lost nowhere.
Nowhere but in and back out again.
Le petit morte indeed.

{* inspired by the thought that the actual historical experience of being Walter Benjamin was let us not forget as much to do with backstreet sex and veiled afternoons of drug states and shivery day returns into the mystic as the uptight solitary text-only creature he is sometimes now somehow portrayed as in endless hackademic revisions ...

- ---- +

2003 – STDs
18th C; Boswell: “that distemper with which Venus, when cross, takes it into her head to plague her votaries.”
Synthesis: DVPVs. [?]


“During his first three years at the University when he was studying languages, Boswell was evidently happy and progressed very well. However, in the autumn of 1756, when he started to study metaphysics, he fell victim to what he later described as a “terrible hypocondria”.

{My italics. · frm Boswell's Edinburgh Journals 1767 - 1786 · Hugh M. Milne [Mercat Press 2003]

posted by Ian 6/27/2003 09:10:00 PM

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