The Blackbirds of April
From every post and stalk the blackbirds flash
their epaulets and play commander,
play inspector of the Spring
like Washington, his hair still dark,
surveyed the upstart nation.
The redbud swells and they peruse it.
Edges of the field they mark
and split-rail fences stand them vantage
when the sweet vermilion sweeps the berries
and they note it.
Fine inky sirs and inky madams, I enlist.
Your regiment of clerks and nascent diplomats
are every one required
to quill each slightest peep
of pearleaf through the bud
and I enlist.
Freedom to cuss like an adult
From this post on Josh’s blog, (which I recommend) —
Cruising Down the Coast of the High Barbaree: A Major Argument Against God
I found my way to this blog –
from which I draw the conclusion that lots of kids who grow up in the church leave the church because they never got to cuss and they need to use the “f” word. Ok, we get it, you hate church people and you feel so FREE and everything since you decided to say “effin” every 5 seconds and not worry that Dad would smack you.
Watercolor: The morning of banana forest (Partial)
The morning of banana forest(Partial)
Originally uploaded by zhoutianya
This artist has some magnificant watercolors posted on Flickr. Follow his user name to see many more.
A postcard to Edith Scheaffer who needs to suffer for the good of the Kingdom
Blogger Josh espouses the controversial notion that “being true to yourself” does not trump all other ends. Particularly scandalous is his assertion that your dying mother’s feelings ought in some way be allowed to modify your therapy.
Josh’s correspondents remind him that he hasn’t read the therapy in question, so he does not have the right to opine on the one-sentence principles that are being articulated in support of it.
Well, here’s the link:
Cruising Down the Coast of the High Barbaree: Authenticity, And No, This Post Isn’t About You.
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We further learn from the Frank Scheaffer kerfuffle:
Autobiography is a genre which is immune from common etiquette and morality, much like the soil of a foreign embassy is immune from the host country’s laws. This gives the writer the room he needs to accomplish the highest moral end, which is to disgorge his thoughts and feelings. This special indulgence is important to the artiste, because normally he is thwarted by the vulgarians.
Now , seriously, if you speak up at dinner with strangers, saying that your dear father’s public reputation was founded on hypocrisy, a painful silence ensues as everyone realizes they’re about to spend the evening with a schmuck. But let him say the exact same thing in print to 5 million strangers instead of 5, and for money, and what was boorish at dinner becomes art on the page. So the tinkling of the bell — the autobiographical bell — transubstantiates gossip into heroism.
Related to all this is the axiom that ACCURACY is not an acceptable question to ask of art. In this axiom, if you say your father was a charlatan, it is not important whether that statement is accurate or not. ” In fact, to even ask the question reveals that you are not anointed by the daemon. My father’s life-long friends and his other children , who have the cheek to suggest my objectivity is distorted by my own character, should just shut up and stop picking on us artists. I’m a WRITER, dammit.”
This is an episode of ashcan authenticity, : that account of the facts most likely to puncture all apparent sanctity is the preferred account, since we know sanctification is a scam. If someone should ever have the audacity to say “no, he was actually the same at home as he was in the public eye” that person is clearly deluded or lying.
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