Sundae am nasty

Dear diary reader, I don’t do this often so pay close attention and click & read the bulbous letter’d & linked:

Blegg Dock Read is reasonably responsible for thishere entry in ways worthy of bullets in numerical form. How many?

I’ll tell you in some particular order   (+1 for each &):
  1)  prose & poetry
  2)  gazing up@n other peep’s biznis
  3)  music & musing on the radio
  4)  th@t other sense of attention deficit

Had he not writ the above bulbously letterd & linkd poem prior to his trip into Swans, that is to say, even if it were not worthy of being framed & hanged, he is the best in every single case without exception whenever somebody else is not, which is approximately daily, which I am definitely not. Summary judgment: Pop is better than I.

Apropos poesie & prosa, this brilliantly expressed centenary wish is friendly-foreign to the primary language of this non-daily product by one of the multi-talented multitude of K8s I know, I know.

Plenty o’ Payne can be found on any given Sunday & from one to the next. I choose this one because it is off the beaten grid, maybe right up my alley. Say it, Merry Kins: äh-loo-min-ee-oom!

Lend a helping head with the straw entwined in darkness’ radicalism.

Just in, this reminds me of something I said thrice if I said it once: All are critical of supply-side economics except for the trickling that starts with themselves. This reminder that there’re ninety-nine percent humans hungering beyond beneath some trite t-shirt attired slogan of the same – though I’m not one hundred percent not sure it was planned in the Lamps and Wire as such – reminds me further of the power of the pyramid. Meditate on that.

& listen to this:



The only people who talk about a story taking on a life of its own are paid to distribute stories. If it really writes itself, why frame & forward it? Can something that’s been framed & forwarded be said to have written itself?

The word ‘sensationalize’ has an origin. Many a journalist ‘d be quick to point out that media critics are journalists too – the critic who ported that manteau (ized that sensational), part of the media. What better way to further the idea that yet another field regulates itself quite well, thank you – the ecological marketplace of humankind keeping itself in check. Selbstbedienung. The story serves itself.

What if a morning broke and a god-gazillion journos decided they had nothing more to say? Would the world be quickly uninformed? Would we be any more or less equipped or likely to start or stop action in War-istan or keep United Vegetable from slaughtering the farmers in Equivia and harvesting their bones for the next stage of the hybrid project?

Would the European or American public suddenly end up having no idea what is going on in Ukryria?

It is said that consumers in the digital media age receive poor quality product relative to their twentieth century print counterparts because they choose not to pay for their content. I have yet to see a study that proves that the public is less knowledgeable as to what is going on around them, more ignorant about what’s happening in the world, or more misinformed today than twenty to fifty years ago – and it’s not due to a lack of research. The larger the sample size, the more there is to be ignorant about, and verifying other’s stupidity only misdirects attention from one’s own, and when the people asking the questions and gathering & analyzing the data are not the least ignorant among us, then the entire enterprise is comprised of photographs of stinky garbage.

A society brought up on the belief that there is both good and bad information and that you can tell the difference by listening to the good informers is a society sure to be reared on bad information. But don’t take my word for it. Look at the data and make up your own mind.


There are two kinds of junk science. There’s the science that isn’t science, but is presented as such despite a disregard for the rigorous standards set forth by Henry A. Science in 1582. Then there’s the study of junk.


I see a dozen different newspapers on display just inside the entry to the bakery café in which I sit. The side and front of the rack face me, more or less. I can’t make out the papers’ print other than the mastheads, each with its own fancy font, some no doubt named for the paper itself. The Süddeutsche Zeitung has a profile shot of the German chancellor standing opposite someone in what appears could be a negotiated pose made to look like an authentic moment of diplomacy, not that there’s a difference. Two rows up at the top is the Berliner Morgenpost with an infographic peeking out from behind the title of the Frankfurter Allgemeine just below it.

These are all placed vertically on side display, and I can see the backs of the competition on the far side of this skeletal rack. Between these two side displays lie the boulevards at about a forty-degree incline, the uppermost being a shallow stack of the Bild, which I can only make out from its red & black schema, below which sits the B.Z., basically vying for the same readership as the Bild, latter casting its shadow upon former, literally. As I put this pen to paper, this shade is obscured ostensibly further by the three-quarter eclipse of the sun, an event I wouldn’t have known about had it not been reported upon, early & often. I can’t recognize it regardless; it’s as clear and bright as any first morning of spring.

At any rate, it doesn’t matter. The moon can’t hide the sun, the profit from both the Bild and B.Z. goes into the same pockets, and the readership of all those other papers are sure they’re better informed.


Die Wörter infizieren und ignorieren, verwischen und verschlimmern, beschämen und verfälschen, und verkrüppeln, und verdüstern, und verfinstern nur. Aus dem Mund und auf dem Papier, missbrauchen sie durch ihre Missbraucher.

Thomas Bernhard


Ernst Forced to Stare at the Eclipse w/out Blinking,  Berlin-Prenzl’berg – 2015

barely related Sundae link:
Schechter geht nicht mehr: RIP for Danny Schechter

Life is a Metaphor

The very act of defining something results to some degree in misnaming it. For every thing that has a word, we have created a description more or less apt. This doesn’t mean we cannot strive for greater precision of understanding, but the current nature of diversity of life as we know it, with its many opinions and ideologies, precludes unity of terminology.

As an atheist, I have no problem entertaining the suggestion that biological forms might return to some universal life force upon death. Another atheist might scoff at this, calling it “woo”. I would too, were it not for the distinction that this ubiquitous energy, as it were, is infinite in both time and space, not some localized paradise with an authority figure on a throne. Furthermore, I would posit that the hard sciences are infinitely incapable of doing anything other than what philosophy has done vis a vis giving meaning this thing we call “life”. Sure, science defines life just fine, but one constant that remains is the ironical wall we hit when our consciousness tries to grasp the infinite.

Interestingly, you hear more and more these days from scientists and pseudoscientists alike that time is a construct, an illusion. “And so is space” is increasingly common. Far from confirming anything other than what we are not, such ideas do manage to add to the evidence that all this existence will ever be to those of us experiencing it is a search for a better analogy.

We got all these words that prove inadequate to the task, and symbols that are no better as soon as we find ourselves using words to describe their profundity, so we use the science of geometry for our edification. Take, for example, the use of quadrants to contextualize the extent to which things are this and/or that. At least those are, from a visual perspective, multi-dimensional. A source of great folly, in my opinion, as it relates to our understanding of the sociopolitical spectrum of left and right is its one-dimensional nature. Pun intended.

Metaphors. It’s all we got, and I would argue, all we will ever have. The best and brightest humans of science and philosophy have shown people how to get a glimpse of what is beyond, but as anyone who has engaged in daily glimpsing can tell you, the struggle to understand, to apply universal meaning, will always be an exercise in the creation of better analogies in order to spread the good news.

To wit: the Holy Bible, the Koran, the Torah, the Upanishads (these are all words with a “the” this time): Fables. And written into them are a warning to the wise: that the “words” will be misused for the sake of power. Some might call those weasel words, that is, a built-in excuse by the authors. Maybe. But the point remains that they are allegorical teachings that, when you factor in ethno-lingual misinterpretations, have the potential to render the lessons too clustered to prevent their universal study from becoming primarily an indoctrination into the absurd. They remain great tools for power and control, however.


Too many words?
How is it that technically superior musicians can make crappy records while their inferior colleagues create discs of the sublime? Less is sometimes more. But not always. The technical master is prepared to deliver the right notes, but is he or she able to ignore the wrong ones, not to cluster their creations with all the things they cannot unsee and unhear, all the things they cannot unlearn? Balance. There are plenty of “musicians” of no particular talent or learning who also happen to make shitty records. Regarding the number of notes, I’d say that the most profound music will by default be the kind that knows when it suffices. Relatively speaking, less is always more.

If you’re struggling with the semantics of your verbal creations, I advise you to mess with the syntax. The most common answer to a “What is…” question is “It is…”  Even at its most vague or indirect. “Life is what you make it”, for example, or “Life is what you think it is.”

Shuffling things around a bit, we might come up with “Living is dying of the disease called ’life’.”   In other words, we are always living, we are always dying, we are always becoming that which we are, and headed to the place where we are not. Eternal recurrence is not just a river in South Dakota. Life is a metaphor.