We're Leaving into This Terrible Dim (starting now)

notes from underground

Yes-man bootlicker brown-noser toady lickspittle flatterer flunky lackey spaniel doormat stooge cringer suck suck-up - From the Insouciant Songs of Brooding also From the Heavy Heavy Chair

I'm awake now, says he. Then he says, I'm still tired but at least I'm awake now. I'll admit it. I'm not ready to stop being angry just yet, He says. I just can't believe that we as a nation have decided that Donald Trump is the citizen among us that most embodies the qualities of this, our only republic. That he's going to be compassionate and strong in the face of adversity. That it can be said of him that he possesses high standards and an unwavering moral compass. That he is a fair minded man worthy of the challenges that these times dictate rather than be confused for a dictator just in time to avoid the challenges faced by his predecessors. I can't believe that as a nation we have decided that when, in the next four years we experience the pain of another mass shooting, the destruction of something that we hold sacred, or the bitter loss of a much needed job that we will be able to turn to this man for compassion. Donald Trump is the man that we've chosen to guide us. Let's let this sink right in.

We as a nation tallied our votes and this morning it's apparent that Donald Trump has been deemed the most American among us. I'll not speak of the man's many vaults because let's face it, those are now ours too. We decided absolve him of those burdens last night too.

This is a sad day and I am angry and tired still. It's been a lark, a gaze at the meadow and we'll swing out for an ol' rump with the trump and the others what starts eh?

Fuck you, fuck you gladly, Mr plate. I have your whole frown, Says the Dish.

The way in which the people see themselves in their government representatives and appointed officials is fucking chilling. I'd like to think that the system is gamed that the votes are rigged or the jury's been tampered with but even if this were so it could only explain bits and pieces of an entire dynamic tapestry of wrong headed inhumane and indignant treatment of our neighbors and ultimately ourselves. We put all of these shits in the pants that they wear. It's our own fear and mistrust that they walk around in daily. Pandering turd herders gathering bigger turds to wear all of our tight turd laundry around. Like turds these are also pastiches, only with carrion and old vegetables like apologists and sycophants whose bread is not real labor, it is the flesh of us. They're breaking into tiny salable pieces every shred of our lingering humanity, every bit that we could hope to possess. They're leveraging the full weight of the law to impregnate the market of these experiences so that these can be sold back to us.

We're buying our own hatred and misogyny after it's tarted up like nostalgia and redemption. This is the filth that we're dumping into the well of our souls while the turd herders shrink back into a million clever anuses. There'll be no additional value in the mirror of our eyeballs afterwards. We're the darkness in our very own eyes from now on and for every morning. So fuck us and fuck us sadly, He says.

The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

dashed wet and grim Oh now, Reagan of steel glitter in pants with which to shake them on down. Oh now, I shit you not for these are the things. Yes in any order you should choose these are the things to please please me, Oh Yeah. - Unmarked letter signed, A to A They'll say to me that it's safe to say so much for ubiquity, for disenfranchisement, and the terrorism of privilege. They'll say to me, With all of the effects from these profoundly toxic effects, is the project of our shared humanity effectively being dismantled. Are these the idle thoughts and sad tidings of despots and the tyrant kings inside of their comfortable towers of raised muck. As I've said before, They're not so far gone as to be gone for the good of all. This is plain to be seen in a world of bent backs and gross hyperbole. I'll sit in any unused doorway. I'll be beside myself while every door is locked. I'll dream of the halls and listen as the curtains, the drinking, an...

Piles of leaves: Letters Campaign

Suddenly old but feeling perfect, my wet underwear is on the the floor. It's gathered round my ankle. Myko laughs, just as wet and full of piss as ever. The violence of our togethering already feels like more than something. I reach out, taking the back of her neck with my hand. She's stepping in as I lean over to write; Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine, You are more than a place to me. More than walls and simple chimes, but I'll write to you anyway. This you'll know as you read my words. From here beside the lark's buttered breast, from under the heavy lids and the bright side kettle where we'll hum. We'll hum together, Bunny. Dickens be damned, we're now brightly doomed. Soon enough we'll see, the forest within the trees. To you, Tigre PS. are more or only this bed, maybe the floor too. We spend the day in, ordering takeout and hiding under the sheets. I get up and pee while Katt is talking about Milton. Her mouth's open, it's as rou...

Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...

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