A Black Letter is not equal to a Buffalo

A newer more robust verison of the canonical model (Kripke Semantics) can be seen here.

 

If ever there was a stronger (stranger ?) argument for literacy, I haven’t had the opportunity to smite it with a giant, bristly mop.

UPDATE!: I am going here in December. If you would like come with me please write to me.
I am not precious about travel partners but would prefer it if you weren’t a latent cannibal with an affinity for axes, crack pipes and/or country music. Ardent followers of gangsta rap/satanism are also not encouraged though I might consider bending the rules if you can cook. (Preferably something other than me)

FURTHER UDPATES!!

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,

To which they said – “O Malu Malu Malu”

The type of blonde I could have been dreaming about

Looking out the window, I felt the crisp subterfuge of melancholy covering my senses. A dull calm had spread over the cityscape. Branches tittered in a bunch, the air laden with possibility of rains. Cuddling couples had resumed their late night strolls and I had resumed my pelting of cuddling couples on late night strolls with rotten pineapple slices.

In other words, the universe seemed to have regained its composure and seemed suitably behaved.

Suddenly the light on my cell phone flickered announcing the arrival of a text message. I halted the fruit-flinging to check the contents of this message.

“Want to talk to the hot blonde you were thinking about last night? Call at 52222. Rs 6 per minute. All types of hots and blondes. Also other types. CALL NOW!”

So, I typed – with acute vigor and diligence-  the first four lines of  Rilke’s Spaziergang and sent it to that number. No types of blondes or “other types” have called back but I haven’t yet let go of the train of Hope’s dusty gown.

the skeletons have come to roost

Pablo Escobar started his criminal career by stealing tombstones from the local graveyard and selling it to local villages. Al Capone’s mother was a seamstress. Werner Herzog was a welder before he started his career as a target for “insignificant” bullets. Julia Child was possibly a government spy.

My grand dad was a suspected Marxist and a national level Malkhamb player. I am a renowned florticulturist with a penchant for glue-sniffing.

We all have these skeletons in the closet. Nothing is what it seems.

Franz Wright’s Dark Glamour

Sincerity can get him into trouble. “Pediatric Suicide,” invective and poem-as-witness to a girl’s death, is constructed of sentences like “Being who you are is not a disorder” and “Putting your head down and crying your way through elementary school is not a mental illness, on the contrary.” Energy is the poem’s best quality. Wright lambastes a “subdoormat psychiatrist” who prescribes the child too many drugs.
The poem ends, “She was unhappy just as I was only not as lucky” — almost glib in its bitterness. Is the tragedy, then, the poet-speaker’s or the child’s? Is she just another “fine human / hamster”?

Yeah, so like, I am alive. Sort of.
And my head feels like this.

God, what is the meaning of

this minute,
tell me, I ask you.
I have already been here
forever, he replies,
and think I’m going to stay

I am listening to Nouvelle Vague – Give me the words and Nitin Sawhney – Sunset. 

And the city is sucking my blood dry, so much so that I have pure vitriol and bile coursing in my veins now.