Hwaeter! There's a Fly in my Slop...

I came athwart the mighty shack of Earldran Ethanol, weary of shield, wiggly of bone, wagging for a pinch of ale and wench. My men and I, all good sons of the Goonmark, had fared long over fen and haggis to reach Glargenblargh within a fortnight. The sea wore out our boots; the road was beset by whale and wave. We were spared the toll of heavy hours by travelling lightly during the day. At night, we back-tracked for our things, and by next morn we'd be jowl deep in forest and bramble with only the Star of Odin to guide the oarsmen. Sailing long tracts by short-boat, and short tracts by long-boat, we finally caught sight of the kingly gables of Ethanol. Yet these troubles must had been endured, for our message was trifling and time, that harlot, was lengthy.

"Well met, sons of the Goon!" Ethanol bellowed as he received us in his bountiful barnyard. We made the traditional obeisances in the manner of the Old Kings, for in those days we were yet of the heathen religion; first, we sucked the braided tips of his oakish, fat-stained beard, and then, as per the rites of our forefathers, we battered his wife and daughters with a lordly ham. Our lord nodded his approval. He gifted us each with a ring made from the finest boar snout. Great indeed was the bounty of the Old Kings! We then feasted on delicacies, ate crow, and gnawed bonefish bones to our heart's content. The ale flowed like the tears of Wusswussi, god of whining, and the shield-maidens were as lobsters fresh boiled with ready fleshmeat to be plucked from their beckoning shells.

After the mealtime was doneby, and the tables overturned and set aflame, our Lord turned to question us on the dealings of the Goonfolk. "What news of the Goonmark?" he asked, and we gave him the news of our good King Grizzly Droppingsson, how he came to marry the Irish princess Shamrock McDonotoch, whom we hight Shamrock Partypooper, and how she brought with her to our debaucherous halls the new God of the Eastern Crybabies, hight Christos, and how our Lord would fain discuss the conversion of our peoples. And Ethenol sat Grimly -- his own dog, Grimly, who was much wont to chase his own tail, like unto Jörmungandr, the worm who encircleth the seas, and thereby marr the seriousness of the Lordspeech with foolery.

'Twas then that the King's berserk, Vain the Eyestrained, stood forth and laughed heartily. Vain had the laugh of a man who killeth in joy, the laugh whom countless men heard just before cleft in twain, and which they still heard ringing above in the halls of Valhalla or below in the cavernous House of Hella, that long, whispy, cackling laugh of disdain that only Vain could laugh. He laughed thus for 12 minutes, as the crow flies. And long thereafter he slowed down to a chortle, and wiped away a bear-like tear, and breathed, and thereat began to laugh anew. Awkwardly we shifted in our seats of goodly treestump. But Vain did yet continue his lordly guffaw. And truly he keeled over, and on his knees he laughed and laughed as if under the tickling of a frost giant. Beating the ground in hilarity, of which we knew not, he shattered the fine stones of the King's hall. And at last, his head did burst like a frosty old wineskin, and he laughed all the while, and we heard no more thereafter from Vain the Eyestrained.

After the mess of Vain was cleared aside, Ethanol bade us take to the rugs and the restful rapine of sleep, and promised to discuss our Lord's business in the morning. And we lay down to the comfort only the offal-hay of King's Hall could offer. I was just drifting off to the realm of the dream-hogs, when I felt a sudden chill in my rug, that neither could be wench nor horseflesh, but must needs be some foul weird afoot. And quite rudely did the doors of Ethanol's shack fly open. There stood a shadow-demon four times the size of a full grown Axe-Wielder, and with no normal proportions, but with legs bent as a toad's and arms like Mjolnir, hammer of Thor. And the thing did dash into the hall, and plucked up a companion from beside me, hight Thyr the Succulent, and did devour him most grossly. The King's voiced wavered from his room, quite uncalled for: "What noise?" he said, although none had asked the question. "I hear no noise. 'Tis merely a hog caught fire. Go back to sleep, Gooncubs all." The high pitch of his voice did little to boost my courage, but I merely shrugged and went back to sleep, watching through half-open eyes the fiery hog lick its fingers and burp.

The next morning, Ethanol called us forth to the Thing... I can't quite remember what it was called exactly. He said that he too had been in speech with the priests of the new religion, and had in fact bought one from a Croat, complete with cage and running-wheel. He had the fellow, hight Padre O'Dorkle, led before the lot of us. And he exhorted us all to join his God, for the Judgement day was coming. And our Seidr, old Grinhilda, said that we too had a day of Judgement, and that the sky would rend in twain, the Wolf would devour the Sun, and the gods would do deathsome battle with the giants and the forces of hell, destroying all things in a twilight of fury. And we all rocked out, for this was the best part of the song. But Padre O'Dorke was not stirred, and demanded a test, whereby we might see which god would triumph. And verily he beat us all in arm-wrestling, though he was puny, and he thanked "Jaysus Joseph un' Mary Lord T'underin'" for the victory. And we were all persuaded thereat, and donned his cross of peace and love. Whereafter we made it our solemn duty to burn, pillage, and rape wheresoever our new Lord's message was not received.

Amen, and Hail Satan.

-Testament Writ by Gigli Daughtersson, First of his Kin to Read and Write, and To Take upon Himself the Way of the Cross and the Jewish Comedian.

The Big Rock Candy Theorem

Recent minute blips in the cardiograph of the European markets has the public slowly but surely cocking eyebrows towards economists AS IF they know not what they did, will do, are doing. I must ask the public to be patient. Relax. Have a wheat beer. Take a wide Bertha (or a wide Martha if that's all you got). I learned to take an expansive, patient view of the world during my brief ten-year sojourn in the Swiss Alps.

I was taking the cure at Berghof Schrudrifer Sanatorium for my pathologic gummy addiction (to this day I can't see a swedish berry without salivating like a dog in a jerky factory). Ah, the sweet regulatory life of a patient at the Berghof! Time condensed and expanded in a way you "valley folk" could never understand. Between the five identical and precise meal-times, where we were served everyday with Happy Meals and Fresca, to the long stretches of the "rest cure", where, bundled up in our yak-skin sacks we sat hours on our balconies in all weather, snow or rain, howling at the moon and taking stock of the universe - who among you groundhogs could grasp it?

In short, it was blisteringly boring. But how marvelously so! Still, not all time was solitude. Besides brief conversation at the troughs during meal-times, I also managed to do some Berg steigen, mountainous hiking, although nothing too strenuous for my weakened, gummy-riddled frame. It was during these walks that I met Herr Tortellinni. Clad in a worn but tasteful pea-coat and neon-green neck-kerchief, Herr Tortellinni would harangue me on my mental fructifications and leave with me with plenty of valuable insight to maul over and forget on my own time.

He was a great homo humanus, a passable homo dodgeballicus, and a cringingly greedy homo stealsnapkinicus. He was also a maternal great-grandson of the famed economist Sismondi. His father had been a professional "Connect Four" player who struggled to bring national unity to his home country of Parmesania. Uniting the intellect and fervour of his famed progenitors, Tortellinni served the cause of his country and western civilization as a whole, writing a fifteen volume reference work, The History of Constipation in Literature. "What is all of Greek Tragedy," he would say, "but the mighty constipations of gods and men?"

It was Tortellinni who taught me the true meaning of Economics during one of his humanistic barking sessions -- sine pecunia, of course. I had brought up the subject with reference to the recent universal collapse of markets, sanity, and stability "down below". I went on further to call Economists, bankers, and market-traders alike "greedy sons-of-whores-and-whoremongering donkey eaters." Tortellinni smiled, played with his mustachio in that subtle, Snidely Whiplashesque manner he had, and proceed to correct my peverted opinions with the following lecture:

"Sapperlot, my young Informationist! I do not think you quite grasp the idea of Economics. It was Plato who said Philosophy begins in wonder; he might just as well have said that Economics ends in it. Indeed, one can hardly censure Economists for the unfruitful studies they undertake. At least a Philosopher or a professor of English would have no grounds. Economists are not astrologists. It might very well be that they study the ups and downs of market forces, currencies, and that impenetrable river of numbers and decimals with the same relish that a Classicist laps up from a passage of Homer describing the wine-dark sea. As soon as the critic can tell me the theme of the next great novel before it is yet written, then and only then will I look toward the Economist with regards to the future."

It was a striking thought, I thought, as I struck my thunker on an unseen outcrop of mountain.

"But," I continued, for my sentence was hardly begun, "what then are these Economists good for, Herr Tortellinni?"

He smiled and nodded. "You are playing in dangerous, Bourgeois, urine soaked pool waters, my young Informationist. Asking what a thing is 'good for' is tantamount to intellectual Goonism. However, I will accept your teleological goal-post for the present argument. Let us consider the term from the Poetics that Aristotle uses to define the end of tragedy. The term is katharsis, which might be translated as relief, expulsion, or, in my personal view, the sacred bowel movement of the conscience. It is the feeling that rushes over one after the tragedy, the feeling of joy and release that accompanies the abstracted vision of terror onstage. It affects the whole audience, as if they were figuratively (or in some elderly cases, actually) just waking up from a dyspeptic nap.

"Now you ask me, what are the predictions of Economists good for? I point to Tiresias, to Cassandra, to the prophets of the Old Testament, who underscore the tragic moment by revealing it beforehand. They are our modern capitalistic mystics. It is their place to point at the ghastly, meaningless numbers of the stock ticker, to babble incoherent verses like the Delphic oracle. Above all else they serve to garnish the absolute catastrophe of mankind with a bit of foreshadowed seasoning."

I mentioned casually that as far as the stock ticker on TV goes, I had never learned to discern its meaning. I always read the numbers out like a Bingo man much to the general mirth of the Berghof rumpus room. Some jokes never get old. Tortelinni smiled his wolfish smile. We seperated for lunch, where our Happy Meals and toys were waiting with Swiss precision at our designated seats.

The Shadow over Goonsmouth

子曰、飽食終日、無所用心、難矣哉、不有博弈者乎、為之猶賢 乎已。

'The Master said, 'Hard is it to deal with him, who will stuff himself with food the whole day, without applying his mind to anything good! Are there not gamesters and chess players? To be one of these would still be better than doing nothing at all.'

-Analects, 17.22

Deep in the wooded depths of the Ottawa Valley lies a certain townhouse complex; therein are many units smelling of this or that fried delicacy. However, down at its furthest end, at the door of unit 667, there issues no immediate smell -- of cooking. Yet this was my goal. A rhythmic knock brings a dark hooded figure to the entrance; he slowly opens the gateway and ushers me in with the archaic, nasal dialect of his sect: "Hail, hail." I hailed. Inside, the rooms bespeak sacred rites not bound by social laws of cleanliness or hygiene. Holy books clutter my path as I make my way to the inner sanctum.

My eyes are immediately lifted to the icon of a howling warrior deity plastered on the wall with clear reverence. I use my rudimentary knowledge of Old Nerdish to decipher the gothic script beneath the ghastly Kali-esque image: "Bloody Kombat XV: Voyage to Kill-o-polis". Quickly a chorus of hails snaps my attention to the scene at hand. Along two ancient Ikea couches sit three acolytes equally male, hooded, and neck-bearded, with eyes empty of all save reverence for their avatar. The middle table contains bowls of cheesy-puffed offerings, high-octane sodas, and the mystic scribblings of their latest devotions. At the head, in an armchair of blood-curdling antiquity and historical bespatterment, sits the High Bishop. "Welcome and hail, Brother in Ghanos!" I had done it. I had found at last the remnants of the Old School Nerd Cult.

History would seem to have all but dispensed with the cultural significance of asceticism. That the Monks of Ireland and Old Europe saved Latinate culture through the Dark Ages and into the Carolingian Renaissance is well attested. Ascetic principles, both coenobitic and anchoritic, have played major moves in the chess game of world history and its progress. Yet the modern era seems scarcely aware of its few remnants. We have taken what we like from their doctrines and outer shells, and have tossed aside the inner meaning behind the sweet melismatic chants of the Gregorian era.

Yet most asceticism has been bound in some way with the religions of the Old World. Up until very recently, the Old Nerds were among the few genuinely modern and flourishing examples of asceticism in the later 20th century. Its origins lie in the spiritual reactions of a few deep souls, usually students of mathematics, sciences, and what became computer studies, who though wise in mortal knowledge yet felt resistance against the trending pull of the North American magnetism, that is against materialism, greed, and money. They besought truth from the outer reaches of the Universe in Space, or the sacred archetypes of man's fantastical Mythologies.

The true Patriarchs of the cult had already inscribed the canons and sacred texts by the 50's-60's. Conversion and martyrdom were the first fruits of the 70's. Bullies persecuted the Nerds with a sadistic, Neronian taste for cruelty. According to one of their most respected Theologians, St. Pointdexter, "the sect was built on the wedgies of the martyred." During the 80's regulations of the various orders had been set down; the most significant, among others, were the Ordo Sci-Fiensis, Ordo Fantasticus, and the Ordo Nintendoensis. The present cult of Ghanos which I am studying is a descendant of the last, but, as with many other religious orders, has adopted the eclecticism and protectionist tendencies of a decadent age. As a last, withered branch on a dying tree, they feel the heritage of all Nerdom is their domain.

The Nerds have seen a sickening debasement of their religion no less astounding than the Protestant Reformation. The old rites of true Nerdom have spread to the populace in crude new forms. "Noobs and posers, the lot of them!" I heard one acolyte exclaim. "What do they know of long hours alone, level grinding through the dark soul of the night?" What was once a tacit and subdued display of religious fervour has became a socially acceptable party favour. Who among you has not played on one of the new-fangled systems, a Ninetnedo Woo, Chex-Box, or Playstation Drei? The Old Nerds however stick solely to the oldest systems; Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis, Gameboy; and the true adepts of the sect play only the original Nintendo Entertainment System and Commodore 64.

Maybe the more adventurous of my readers have even embarked upon a little game of Dungeons and Dragons once in a while, with drinks, good company, and a hearty acceptance of its silliness? Something you can boast about to your friends later, saying how "super nerdy" you are with a wink and a sly reference to your dispensed virginity? Yet therein lies a great gulf; for a true Old Nerd, these things are deadly serious. Chastity, study, and reverence for the import of the Old Rites - these are the holiest of virtues to the sect. Their gaming domain has since been taken over largely by competing sub-cultures: The Frats, The Students, The Izzy-Goths and The Claustro-Goths, Metal-Heads, the Jocks, and even that most antithetical of sects to the Nerd, that is, the Celebrity or Popular Culture sect, has embraced the gaming culture. With such temptations at hand, even Nerds themselves began to fall into apostasy. Some shaved and married. Others joined up with the aforementioned subcultures. Only a small, dedicated core remained true to the old teachings.

Particularly disturbing to Old Nerds is the trend of "girl gamers". That females are strictly forbidden and cast out from all Nerdom is one of their most cherished commandments. "It is the key to the entire Mystery of our Brotherhood," explained the High Bishop. "It is through the sublimation of Earthly desires, especially that one..." and here he glanced down-wards, "That is the Way. That is where the fervour and devotion comes from. That is the key to the Old School, to beating Wizardry 1-2-3, to playing through decade long campaigns, to achieving the ecstatic heights of union with Ghanos!" He continued to harangue against the heresies of Geek Chic, Cosplay, Gamer Weddings, and all such petty fraternizing. "Mere shells without meat" he said.

I asked the High Bishop if he saw a future for the sect. He grimly shook his head. "We do not breed" he said with a hint of longing. "Our doctrines are dissipated and watered down among the masses, preventing new converts. Our spirits and our teachings may live on piecemeal, but the time of the Old Ones has come to an end. It is a new age dawning, and while we seek unity in the timeless bosom of Ghanos, the rest of the world must fend for itself. Perhaps there will come a time, as the prophets predict," and here he took a puff from his inhaler, "Perhaps, when the Phoenix of Dorkdom shall arise once more from the ashes of hedonism and success. Hail Ghanos!" I left the Nerds a sadder and wiser man, feeling a mix of regret, melancholy, and indigestion.

The Seventh Squeal

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

Louping and flinging on a crummock,

I wonder did na turn thy stomach!

-Robbie Burns, Tam o' Shanter

Judging by the police reports, the claw-like shreddings in the new wallpaper, and the singular event of my awakening topless and shivering in maple-tree outside of the house, last night's Turner Classic Movies horror marathon must be pronounced a mind-gnashing success. I thought oldies were supposed to be a cakewalk. Laughingly I condescended to spend "an evening of it", making wry faces at the poor special effects and chortling at the hauteur of 40's Trans-Atlantic accentuation. "Noli me tangere!" I gurgled; Was I not a child of the most de-sensitized and bloodthirsty American generation since Hernan Cortez?

Reader, take my advice. If you would like to make a mockery of the cinematic heretofore, and choose the macabre as your genre, make damn sure the film doesn't have four stars. What becomes cheesy acting when done poorly reaches stupendous heights of eldritch horror when performed with Shakespearean acuity and depth; instead of our modern decapitations, the merest sigh or raised eyebrow comes to indicate fathomless terrors beyond the ken of human perception.

The selection was particularly effective. From the casual sheningans of a bloodthirsty lycanthrope, to the shrieking claustrophobia of a British seaside manor, last night's showing left me a stewing pile of nerves and pizzicato mini-yelps, much to the chagrin of both missus and mutt. But far worse than any of the feature pictures were the dreaded intermezzi. Yes reader, I am referring to those commercial (which came close to mental) breaks.

Wound-up to the pitch of high c by dissonant chord changes and fine acting, how do you think I felt when I saw the ghost of Sarah Jessica Parker suddenly appear before me in shimmering white and maw agape? Dead, dead eyes peered into my very psyche, howling, and pointing a gnarled claw at me to lift the curse of a thousand years by buying her new shampoo. I fell to my knees and prayed in all 108 languages I knew until the apparition dis-apparated. Yet many more followed; vision after heart-stopping vision of celebrity ectoplasms, photoshopped to uncanny new heights of ghostliness, threatened to haunt generations of my offspring should I forbear to purchase their unnatural skinware.

What they promised was as eerie and unholy as their appearance. Rejuvenation, eternal life, the philosopher's stone! I was exhorted to "fight the seven signs of aging" by means of a dreadful new alchemy known as "microdermabrasion". Computer generated close-ups of the aforementioned process left me more in doubt about its scientific value, and more assured as to its Satanic origins. What seem to be uncanny little ghostlings suddenly appear after the application of the non-euclidean substance - terrifying shapes beyond the known fibre of the cosmos in the blink of an eye dispatch time and matter alike with babe-ruthless efficiency.

Cosmic dread was upon me. Yet some maddening atavism in my being prompted me to dig deeper into that which I loathed. Telephoning my contacts at Miskatonic University, I obtained through dark channels some security transcripts from the unholy headquarters of these devotees of Hecate. I present them to you now, unadulterated, and recommend squeamish readers turn their heads to more pleasant jottings. You have been warned!

(Scene: Headquarters of ***** skin and hair products. President's office. Two middle-aged men smoking cigars in fine suits (their own suits aren't too bad either) are looking outside at the bleak Autumn weather. One speaks.)

Tracy: Johnson, I need that formula. If we're going to beat Macy's for the Holiday Rush, we need a new product for mom that sells.

Johnson: Mr. Tracy, sir, we're doing all we can. Our scientists are plying their microscopes night and day. We've already managed to take off 20 years...

Tracy: Bah! Only 20!? You and your science! Your slow, plodding, progress of science! No Johnson, I need something more potent.

Johnson: (hastily) Just give us a few more weeks sir-

Tracy: (interrupting) Johnson, I've made up my mind. Call him.

Johnson: Sir, he's mad!

Tracy: He's a genius, Johnson.

Johnson: No sir, I can't be a part of this any longer. I have a family, sir, and -- well damn it all, I have religion and a conscience! You're meddling with powers beyond your control. I'm leaving sir, and if you know what's good for you, you will to! (walks to the door) God keep you, sir!

(exit Johnson. Tracy sighs, flips casually through his flesh-bound copy of the Necronomicon. Finally, he opens his cell phone. Fade to black. )

(Scene opens in Festermoor Castle. Alone in his study, cluttered with unholy tomes, pentagrams, alchemical apparatuses and pizza boxes, the infamous Doktor Fistus finishes drawing a magical circle.)

Fistus: Have now, ach! Philosophy

Studied throughout, alas for me!

And all religion is a bore

Your sanctity doth make me snore.

I stand here yet a mighty fool

In a puddle of my own drool.

Fortowhich I turn to devilry

To ply the wand, aye that's for me!

(enter his manservant Garble, a jaunty homunculus with a heart of ash)

Garble: Master, I've recieved the a call

They wish to know if you withal

Have made the cream?

Fistus: A fool do I seem?

Abra-dabra-cabra car

Gloogle bungle bing ja jar!

I shall show them, who are so pushy!

(waves his hand over the magic circle)

I summon forth an ancient hussy!

(The ghost of Helen of Troy appears in the magic circle)

Fistus: Oh dame who launched a thousand nations!

Pray tell the secret of microdermabrasions?

Helen: Eye of goat, and toad of mud,

Mud of sheep, and cow of blood!

Fistus: Haha! Success! And now I've done it!

The secret alchemy, I've won it!

And to secure the unholy ingredient
A monster party methinks expedient!

(Fistus begins to dance with his homunculus while Helen begins a galliard with castanets. A variety of demons and ghouls join in. Fade to black with accompanyment from Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor).

Dear Dirty Dubstep

An Investigative Report for Up-Yours Magazine

"Madam, will you join me on the verandah? I understand they serve an outstanding lemon squash."

-Phileas Fogg

As a critic and investigator of popular culture who was awarded the Priss Magazine 1928 Glowering Gable Prize Ribbon for the Hushing of Youngsters, I can say this and this alone: keeping up with trends in popular music is like trying to ride a greased warthog - both are very hard to stay on-top of. It was only last Tuesday that I had been listening to a cutting little number from Maurice Chevalier on my old Ginger-Vox, "Ça sent si bon la France". Humming along and browsing the Internet, as is my wont, I suddenly noticed that my Facebook newsfeed was littered with a strange, glowing neologism: Dubstep. Dubstep. Dubstep! The very word flipped out of the mouth like an ill-fastened tongue stud. The audacious contraction! That lack of a hyphen! This was just the sort of thing young ne'er-do-wells would get up to behind my back.

Realizing that, if I let slip this latest development in popular culture, I might miss the most important leap forward since that young lad from Yorkshire -- yes, George Formby -- swept us all off our food, I struck out at once for Wikipedia. I shouldn't have struck out, as that disturbs the monitor. The correct action would have been to point and click, and I made a note to do so hereafter. "Keep your temper, man!" I said to myself. After three hours perusal, I managed to tease out a few so-called "facts":

Fact: Dubstep is from England.

Fact: Dubstep has many sub-genres including Greez, Whimble, Patchouli, and Neo-Substep.

Fact: Dubstep is NOT - a martial art, fishing tactic, organic produce, breed of turtle, or marble-based action figure play-set.

I kneed I nuded more information. I had to make for the heart of Dubstep, in the heart of Merry Old England, right in the heart of Old London Town's throbbing heart. Consulting my Grey's Anatomy, I found my way to a semi-collapsed aorta in Croydon, where I had tea with one of the original founders of Dubstep: DJ Whackamole. Sipping my cup o' rosy, I took note of his (or her) wide-brimmed baseball cap, plenilune piercings, and hollow cave-dweller eye-sockets. He offered to "break it down" for me, and after I slapped him, allowed him to regale me with the legend of Dubstep.

"Yo, Dub stawted wiv some remixes from de 90's, loik majah fimbaulin' you know? Dere wuz tracks, some beats, you know. Well groime gets goin' around '02 and FWD is kickin' off when MegaStylez drops 'is first wizzle. I'm talkin' aces. Well, dat changes everyfin'. We're talkin' dissonance, wobble-tone, 'eavy fump, and lots ov samplin'. Super-syncopation. So you've got dis beat and dese tracks you know. And den it all starts comin' out. Mysticratz, Shanghai Jo, Speaches'n'Skream. It's big. Bee-Bee-Cee big. Next fing American pop-stars are bitin'. Brittney Spriggles, Hushler, all of 'em. Americans h'ain't got no idea. You know? Dey steal and Dey bite but dey don't know, you know?"

I nodded sagely. That is, Doctor Q. Hieronymous Sagely, travelling companion, personal physician, and friend. He did not appreciate my nodding him but, trusting in my impeccable way with the plebs, allowed me to pursue the dubious course I had taken. I shook him a little for politesse and continued with the conversation.

I became more aware at every moment that if I was to truly understand what he or she was talking about, I would have to attend a Dubstep show for myself. This became particularly apparent when Whackamole invited me to attend a Dubstep show for myself. I myself had put-off concerts as insignificant parerga to the popular music scene - my personal conviction was that there had not been a concert worth attending since Mickey Mouse played his era-changing cavalcade of Zampa in 1932. Still, I girded my loins, put on my blue Studentkorps cap, secured Sagely to my fanny-pack, and took off for the unknown.

Darkest night. We approach what seems to be a large abandoned warehouse. We are led in through secret tunnels to the crowded interior. Reader! How can I describe the simultaneous synaesthetic symphony that I stumbled onto! There were lights, red, green, blue, flashing and swirling in a thousand variations per second. Hundreds of wild, multi-limbed, youthful bodies were wobbling and sweating in a mystic trance, giving way to their natural abandon and kicking Old Queen Vic' in the knickers.

And the sound! The sound! Piercing through marrow and cucumber alike. A slight tinkling -- the hum of a speaker -- suddenly I hear a sample of Winston Churchill; "We shall fight them..." echoes throughout the chamber. And then, like the slow plodding march of fate, a heavy multi-level beat -- thump -- beat -- thump -- beat! I felt my heart and hands follow the militaristic rhythm. I was getting giddy. I sweated and bumped and after about 7.824 minutes passed out in a fit of aesthetic wonder.

When I awoke, I found myself in the office of foreman Joseph Billbottom. Where was the dance? Where was the thrill? Where was the Dubstep? It turns out I had taken a wrong left turn at Marmalade Avenue, and what I took to be throbbing beats of a Dubstep show was actually the ambience of a night-shift at the biggest Tooth-bristle and Kipper factory south of Manchester.

Suddenly it dawned upon me. I laughed and laughed until I cried. "I've got it! I've got it! I cackled insanely. Sagely and Billbottom looked at one another in doubt. "Got what, old boy?" my travelling companion cautiously asked, putting a cold-compress on my brow. "Dubstep! I know what it stands for!" They looked askance. "Dubstep - it's all a practical joke! Don't you see? Dub -- Step? I had taken a wrong turn. A Dubious step! Ahahaha!"

After a fortnight in the Tower, I was right and hale as Kidney Pie. Valium and Kidney Pie.

Mr. John Adams meets the Tripolitan Ambassador

...“We make Tobacco in Tripoli," said his Excellency “but it is too strong. Your American Tobacco is better.”—By this Time, one of his secretaries or upper servants brought two Pipes ready filled and lighted; the longest, was offered me,: the other to his Excellency. it is long since I took a Pipe but as it would be unpardonable to be wanting in Politeness in so ceremonious an Interview, I took the Pipe, with great Complacency, placed the Bowl upon the Carpet, for the stem was fit for a Walking Cane, and I believe more than two Yards in length, and Smoaked in aweful Pomp reciprocating Whiff for Whiff, with his Excellency, untill Coffee was brought in. His Excellency took a Cup, after I had taken one, and alternately Sipped at his Coffee and whiffed at his Tobacco, and I wished he would take a Pinch in turn from his snuff box for Variety: and I followed the Example with Such Exactness and solemnity that the two secretaries, appeared in Raptures and the superiour of them who Speaks a few Words of French cryed out in Extacy, Monsieur votes etes un Turk— — —The necessary Civilities being thus compleated, His Excellency began upon Business...

- John Adams to Thomas Jefferson, 17 Feb. 1786

The Young Provocateur's Cookbook - A Guide to Wall Street

"A bas la république des lâches!"

-Bathroom stall-door, Gay Paris

"He iss madeh deh zhamefull beace, iss he? He is madeh de zhamevul beace? A Brest-Litovsk, yess? Aint yuh herd? He vinneh de vore."

-A tenderhearted Fascist

So you want to occupy Wall Street, tovarisch?

Before you set off dancing your carmagnoles and hoisting-up libertarian plant-life, make sure you are completely aware of the consequences. Remember, the smart agent does his research beforehand. Ask yourself the following questions:

• Do you really have the time and commitment to ambuscade a major metropolitan neighbourhood?

• Will you feed and walk it everyday, groom it every week, and take it to the vet for shots?

• Have you consulted your parents?

• Is anyone in your immediate vicinity allergic to fur or gabardine?

Keep in mind that Wall Street can grow very large, and can pull very hard on the leash. We therefore reccommend nobody under the (physical) age of twelve to make an attempt on Wall Street. If you find that Wall Street might be too much to handle at this point in your dialectic development, don't despair! The young Komsomolet can start practicing right away by occupying something a little smaller. Try overthrowing a bowl of sea-monkeys! Or maybe dad's new rumpus room!

Once you've truly decided you can handle the responsibility, the next step is to think out what we in the insurgent business call an angle. The best way to do this is to think big picture. Let your rage against the machine consume your every moment. In the classroom, throw darts at Washington Crossing the Delaware. For art-period, draw Godzilla eating the White House. After-school, stand in front of the mirror, take off your shirt, and look angry. Get really riled up. Think about that time in D&D you rolled a critical hit, only to drop your broadsword -- don't be timid, this is a Revolution after all! What is it that makes you really mad? Oppressive Religion? Boundless corporate Greed? Or is it more of of a visceral, Rottweileresque reaction to men in suits?

Whatever the answer, make sure it is prominently displayed on your placard. And just you forget Mrs. Dumplebottom's calligraphy course! Make those A-B-Cs look really G-R-R. The squigglier the better. Only bourgeois scum colour inside the lines. And nobody can stand that little miss protester who spells all of her words correctly. As for the colour of your glorious standard, we recommend a tasteful sea-foam green with a fuschia border. It's easy on the eyes and shows up nicely on-camera. Simple is the new smart!

If you're thinking about using a slogan, style always trumps sense. Analogic parallelism is a tried and true formula, and can render the most meaningless comparison into a Bolsheviki bra-buster: "My cat buries its poop - Why doesn't BP?" or "Arab Spring = American Fall!" Ominous statistics are also a sure winner, however tangential: "Only 10% of Americans eat AAA hamburgers...and we're the sliced cheese." For doodles, nothing has a more vivid impact on the political arena than well placed stink-lines. De l'audace, encore de l'audace, toujours de l'audace!

As you make a start on your field trip, you may hear names and phrases tossed about by your fellow busmates; things like privatization, organic pineapple, non-violent resistance, hemp beer, gaybortionism, climate change etc. etc. If you are unfamiliar with these terms, don't be put out. A simple set of class-conscious mnemonics will help you to navigate the meaning of every single Kontrovers they can conjure up:

"Leaves of three?

Overthrow the bourgeoisie!"

"Eenie-meenie-miny-mo,

the corporate fat-cats overthrow!"

"Red Sky at night, CEO's delight;

Red Sky in the morning is the CEO's warning."

Once you've gone out and begun to occupy Wall Street, you may find the romance of protest begins to lose its zest after a few minutes. Don't give up! Remember that you made a commitment, and stick to it. Just imagine how proud mumsy will be when she sews on that bright new Jacobin badge onto your sash. Won't yours be the most dashing Facebook picture on the block -- getting shoved into a SWAT car like that! Music is a great way to boost morale. We suggest a quiet, lilting melancholy tune about loss of teenage love as particularly relevant. Keep an eye out for notables on whom to latch your political ideals; the "guy with the beard braids" is always a good rallying point, as are the "hot chicks with dreads". You might even come across Zizek the Entertainer (accent on the Z!); a jolly looking buffon, something like an Eastern Bloc Santa Clause who dispenses socialistic train-sets and cymbals to eager radical children the world over.

The question remains as to the intended and actual effects of your political statement. Overthrow the whole government? Lead greedy CEO's to the guillotine? Save the platypodes? This course will have to be negotiated with your comrades-in-plaid as you go along. Keep in mind that when the Revolutionary tribunal takes power, mercy is always noted in the history books. Of course you will have to chop off a few blocks, but don't feel that you need to. An occasional lifetime sentence in the cider-bogs of Northern Manitoba will spice things up a bit. The Vanguard of the Middlebroletariat will have to maintain order and public services, so make sure you've got your Settlers of Catan strategy guide handy.

And so we bid the radical youth of today a hearty "ahem"! Strike up a chorus of the Internationale! Keep up the good fight. Don't lose your spirits. And above all else, keep off the lawn!

A Philosopher's Guide to Voting

Say what? Election day, is it? I'm not normally one for politics. As a follower of that great Stoic philosopher Paininthenes, I have ever sought to steel myself against the variations of fortune and fickleness. When something goes wrong -- let us supposons with the crapper-- I swallow my rage, clench my jaw, and, pinching my nose without haste or eagerness, enter into that noble state of ataraxia wherein all things are held in the palm of the hand - in this case, a plunger. The preceding analogy applies as well to government as any. For, as with a backed-up toilet, to blame government is not nearly so noble as to endure it. Ask me not whether I am for or against any man or party - readers, I am for myself. I can neither tell a member of the Gumption Party, from one of your Ghibelline boys so much in the news today.

Yet, admiring the ancients as I do, I one day felt a slight prick of conscience somewhere between my lower-back and spinal cord. I was thinking of Cicero ( I was carrying a Costco six-pack of mega-sized margarine). Voila un homme! There was a complete man. Who else, I asked myself in the condiment aisle, had so successfully combined the rigorous honesty of political office with the popular appeal of abstruse philosophy? Setting down my load at once I dashed to the nearest writing desk with the zeal of Thomas Jefferson on a cool Pennsylvania's morning. Quill in hand, and hand in pie, I composed the following definitions. They are above all for the thinking man who, in the height of his intellectual ecstasy, finds the rigamarole of modern politics too base to handle. I trust they will serve as patches, out of which an industrious philosophe can fashion a make-shift inflatable dingy to bear him from the halcyon shores of Philosophy over the rough and rather unaccommodating Sea of "Everyday Affairs".

Let us start then, ab ovo.

Man: According to Aristotle, man is a political animal. Hitherto the emphasis in translation has been that man is a political animal, whereas I believe it ought to be that man is a political animal. Similarly, man can be said to be an animal for anything he desires passionately and devours willingly. Thus just as in common parlance one man is a sex fiend, and another, a beast for the Cheetoh, man as a whole is bananas for politics.

Plankton: Not a political animal. Very much to its credit.

Politics: Originally the act of carrying an umbrella out on a sunny day just in case. Also, in common slang, refers to a very broad sphere of activities undertaken by a very narrow group of people.

Debate: A technological advancement in the state of nature (which is bellum omnium contra omnes - a war of all against all) whereby the death-dealing rock or pointed stick have been replaced by more civilized forms of argumentation e.g. the flinging of faecal matter (and others?).

University: A club for men with good taste and bad manners.

Prison: See University (above).

Government: A club for beating men with good taste and bad manners.

Women: A nuisance. In the last century have brought sanity, orderliness, and strong leadership to the political sphere, much to the detriment of Politics (see above).

Issue: Any numbered edition of a particular comic book. To "raise an issue" is a form of political rhetoric in which the moral import of an act by Spider-Man, Superman etc. is debated and judged by the discerning electorate.

Party: A verb roughly equivalent to "debauch". Also, a means of governing. In either case, man is as much a political animal as he is a party animal. See Gang Violence (below).

Education: At minimum, a mandatory fifteen years of training in the art of answering multiple choice questions as quickly as possible.

Voting: The carrying out of Education (above) in the sphere of everyday affairs.

Public Transportation: Transportation that looks, smells, feels, like a camel. Is not a camel.

Democracy: A fear of crowds and open spaces.

Agoraphobia: A form of government in which the common people determine their own policies. Representative Agoraphobia is the most common form available in today's market.

Canada: A country in the frozen North, ruled with an iron fist by Santa Claus, its eternal God-King.

Bail-out­: Synonym for "woops".

Arts and Culture: Anything having at all to do with Stephen Fry.

Ballot: An unused movie ticket. Often confused for a delicate form of European dance, or for Bail-out (above).

Gang Violence: A censure used by one group of thugs concerning the activities of another.

Results: A form of "special effects" used by politicians at convenient moments, question periods, etc.

Alas, I find, at this juncture, that I must stop. This yakking could go on forever, and then, when, je demande, would the real work get done? To the polls!

From R.H. Blyth

I found this old quotation I jotted down in 2008. That the writings of R.H. Blyth are so difficult to find, even online, is not surprising, but upsetting all the same. I myself only discovered the man by accident, pawing through the fifth floor of the Carleton Library in search of a palliative for a feminine cholic I was feeling right in the jumper. My good daimon led me to thumb through "Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics", first edition nineteen forty something, Hokuseido Press. I was leery, seeing that the author was not Japanese, but a kind forward from D.T. Suzuki seemed to suggest it might be worth reading... Within a paragraph, folks! and I'm a pupil. I've since gone AROUND him frequently -- but he's one of those writers I don't think I'll ever get PAST.

Campaigns have brought back Vivaldi and Bach. I think one day I shall campaign for Blyth:

"Ummon said, “The entire Universe, the Cosmos, and the Great Earth, and I, this old monk in this world! With my staff I give it one blow, and say ‘It is smashed to smithereens!’”

It is in this spirit that we must face death, and, more important by far, face impudent children, and hysterical women, and our own pusillanimity. "

The Antiquities of College

Like the Frenchmen who wandered south-east in the Spring

and come through the verdure to mouldering Rome

Beforehand prepared by a Latin sequence of poems

Are, arrived, fallen deep in the dusts of the thing

And consider of Earth, and its splendour

How marble comes often apart

As Time with her cronies depart

So too how do men to their essential powder.

Like these when into the Bookstore

the First Year, before his first class

enticed by a wood-cut or antique looking cover

Finds when he gives the money over

And to his learning (thinks he) comes at last

The whole of his hours to bore, bore bore...

Before and Aphorisms

Recently discovered, the hidden "Wastrel Books" of a great, underground Russo-German thinker, Fyodor Hindenquarters, are garnering much attention from nervous philosophy departments. They are like to explode, if not literally (for who knows if the man had dynamite) but at the very least, figuratively, with reams of slavish professors wailing in choruses of woe, tearing up over the following pages of raw, un-breaded truth. This new, alas, fragmentary translation of his final fragments, delivered piecemeal because of the vile editorial hands of his second cousin (a noted anti-termite) will have to suffice for the current generation. It will take many hours of scholarship to extract the real meat of Hindenquarter's philosophy from the execrable (and frankly rude) doodlings of his twilight years. A warning - this text is wont to shake mountains and coke-bottles alike.

Have you not heard the tale of the madman seeking God in the marketplace? "Whither is God?" he would cry, lighting his way from face to hapless face with only a flambé quail held aloft in his hand to guide him. "I've lost my God, and I don't know where to find him." The townsfolk stared. "About yea big?" the madman measured his arms about the size of an imaginary chicken. Increasing mumbles. "How shall we comfort ourselves!" The townsfolk were just beside themselves - such a poor little thing - and in their town! They gave the fellow a hot cup of cider and sent out a search party of the heartiest lads and gents in the quarter. The madman felt quite taken care of. "Whither, whither..." he mumbled quieter and quieter. Eventually they found God sniffing about - a stout looking sausage-hound licking himself at the corner of Church and Leibniz. His name was Hugo. That evening at Christmas supper, he, he himself, the mad-man, carved the roast beast.

Self-love is the fattest puppy in a prize litter of piglets.

If men were to be considered as the positive sex, and women, the negative, then all the world would declare basic arithmetic worth looking into.

As Plautus said: man is the wolf of man, homo homini lupus. Wolf-man is also the wolf of man.

Religion is the laudanum of the masses - that is an alcoholic herbal preparation containing approximately 10% powdered opium by weight (the equivalent of 1% morphine). Religion is therefore useful as an analgesic and antidiarrheal. Catholicism enhances the tone in the long segments of the longitudinal muscle and inhibits propulsive contraction of circular and longitudinal muscles. The pharmacological effects of Judaism, however, are due principally to its morphine content. The quantity of the papaverine and codeine alkaloids in Protestantism is too small to have any demonstrable central nervous system effect. Note that oral doses of religion are rapidly absorbed in the gastrointestinal tract and metabolized in the liver. Peak plasma concentrations of the spiritual content are reached in about one hour, and nearly 75% of the content of the Holy Ghost is excreted in the urine within 48 hours after oral administration.

Self-love is the key which starts the ice-cream truck.

I have an unseemly wart, at an unseemly part of my body. Yet I am not afraid to show you the whole of me. See? There it is. Seneca says, "warts, verily, are indeed the grossest of the pustulae." Ah, life!

What if a goblin should creep up to you in your sleep, at the dead of night, and slowly whisper into your ear, "all that you have have experienced up until now, all your aches, pains, sufferings, shall occur again, and again, and again, for all eternity - unless you get your hands on some Pepto Medi-Drink, for upset stomach and all that ails you, now in extra strength formula?" Would you have the courage to venture to the pharmacy? Or would it be an affirmative da capo on the toilet all evening!

What are all the strivings and gyratings of the twelve virtues and the ten faculties in the hearts of men, if not the soggy cereal in a bowl of self-love?

To philosophers of the future! ­- Please shut the fridge door in the faculty lounge ALL THE WAY!!! Thanks :)

Plants are like men. They have deep roots, and high aspirations. They murder each other, and come in all shapes and sizes. The mighty pine is never known to the dandelion, except as a puny rival, or a towering god. Once I even saw a tree stump that looked like two...Well, anyway. Plants are the men of the plant kingdom, as Pliny saith, aristis homo aristorum. Rue the salad-bowl then, for you cover in dressing and serve out in fine bowls, your very mirror selves!

The aim of all art is the neutralizing of the will and the entrance into a state of pure observation, wherein subject becomes "pure knower" of an object without direct interest in the object outside of the purely intellectual realm. A single example will suffice to prove the eternal verity of my proposition: imagine a painting, perhaps by Renoir, of a gentleman in a dashing new outfit, cocked hat, hands be-felted in the smoothest glovewear, breathing a fine Parisian breath, spiced like that of Europa's Bull, onto the lens of a brand new pocket-watch. Meanwhile, to the left, we see merely out of the corner of the canvas, the foot of a local tramp raised and impressionistically daubed with such subtleties of movement that it must be aimed squarely, and surely, at the gentleman's ball-sack. Ah, l'art, c'est pour toujours!

This maxim is brought to you buy the cool, refreshing taste of self-love. Get some now at your local chemist - and COOL your ARDOUR!

Postscript - A Hymn to the Sunny Countenance of the Will to Shower

Let us search out the secrets of knowledge

From the depths of our innermost college

For as once Aristotle

Declared of his wattle:

"What ain't big must thus suffer from smallage."

The Penguin Scholar

Culture has broadened and flattened. If you were a dramatist, you might say the Internet is the death of the age of depth. But what became the Internet is the capstone; the real pyramid has been a drive to publication - a commercial will to found a reading public that spends money. But that stuff has a remarkable dessicatory quality; it sucks dry the giblets and leaves the bone. Hence an affecting similarity between the image of a casual reader of "the classics", and the Paleontologist.

Specifics: a body can come home after work, pick up a Penguin classic, and read, in a fairly good selection of translations, any tradition he pleases. Moreover, these things lie in bookstores ready to ambush him. While his right hand is massaging the Princesse de Cleves, his left has found the spine of Fear and Trembling, while his feet are already making contact with Cao Xueqin near the end of the row.

Most everybody can read these things. They are there to be read, and moreover, are in normal English. This does not disvalue learning a language, but it does mean that now more than ever a man can "get at" the significant wisdoms of the Earth via English. Only the specialist need learn a foreign language. If we do learn them, it's to speak them. Reading a work of literature "in the original" is a fetishistical notion that blurrs the easiness of the actual deed. Literary English is the best preparation for any other literary language; as is usual, they are more akin to each other than to the dialect.

This state of easy literacy likens us almost to monolingualism. The culture of Confucius and Homer was monolingual. Or rather, was more focused on interal dialect and accent over completely barbarous tongues. The culture of Jefferson and Voltaire, and of data hungry Europe and America in the early 20th century, by contrast, was polylingual.

On the list

"We read, we read" they say "evER-y-day!"

Say my gen., who've time for novels

.................but little for poetry.

The denser the text, shorter the wordcount;

there's not much in a few pages

.................to brag about.

Of indecorous Villon, pushy Catullus, and steady John Donne

big-hearted Du Fu, muck-loving Basho, or even whimpering Novalis

.................they'll have little or none.

Short and steep; long and casual;

That people go where others lead

.................Is it so unusual?

Notes toward another Librarianship

Introductory Serious Question on Librarianship

Can the “ship” be turned to the establishing of the people? Is there anything humane left in the profession?

All I mean to suggest by these notes is first of all that the current way of doing librarianship is not conducive to culture, civilization, charity, or anything beyond what exchanges used to occur at the video rental counter. Second, I look over alternatives - notes to be considered, and if there might be anything in them, tried out at convenience.

Information Age?

We are told by experts that at some point in the 90's the ages switched, from industrial or post-industrial, to information. Hesiod might wonder. We are less informed as to how to stand up straight and feed ourselves - who's to speak of culture in the Information Age?

Information is now "immeditaley accessible". And what has it been before now? What were we up to before we had our magic mirrors on the wall? If a man wanted to be informed back then...Would he not have to trudge through hail and ice, civil war, and repressive bureaucracy all the way to library? And before that - read his Bible, hear his priest, poke a stick at an apple!

What does this magic substance do, our "information"? I can now know that a man in Australia is as wicked as my neighbour or myself; can glean very little else...

Let us be honest with ourselves. We have nothing new under the sun. We are simply all the more susceptible to distraction. Whatever age this is, who will contradict the Viscount St. Alban:

"Reading maketh a full man."

ABCs

I am afraid for literacy today; not afraid for its extinction (would that not be a blessing?) but rather for its dissemination over too wide an area. Letters! Our all-healing moly - have we not diluted it, reduced its god-confouding potency to watery alphabet soup? Most people can pick out phrases and sentences; some few notice words; who is left that can nail down proper definitions? We have dictionaries, etymologies, and philological discussion - but who reads them? We have museums, libraries, concert halls - to assuage the cultural guilt of the many, but to nourish only the very few. Perhaps this must always be. I for one would like to help those few - or however MANY - by preserving the strength of their heritage, by slowing down its decline, and by making it easier for them to communicate with themselves and eternity.

This means, above all, cultivating disdain.

The decay of letters is called cliché, the process by which this occurs, stereotype. This is a natural process; when the road is not well built, the ice and sun contract it, shatter it, and the dandelions grow in the cracks. I define as "natural" those patterns which attend the passivity of human action. If you fail to see how detrimental the decay of definitions is to civilization, I suggest you run a favourite painting, first through a photocopier, and then, taking that copy, scan it, print it, then, fax it, and so on, until the strength of the image is blurred over to oblivion. Try listening to an old record of Bach over the phone...

Those of you who think yourselves to be post-modern, de-centred, de-constructed etc., will ask me about the "essence" of definition, and proceed to pick at the target like a turkey-vulture at roadkill. There is nothing so helpful to an old building as when its landlord has sounded out its wobbly points, essential faults, and the like, and is constantly aware of them. This does NOT mean evicting all the tenants for a loose tap. I take Derrida at his word when he spoke of the healthy, strengthening effects of deconstructive thinking. It is a method for making better, sounding out faults, and not an excuse out of the afternoon's chores.

We are being duped. Our books are mouldering in the meanwhile. What do you intend to do about it? Put aside your information-ages, as-technology's, your sweeping e-reader vistas and digital wonderland's- and take one deep thought - how are we best to get at our books today?

Principles?

Where are our organizational principles? The current is a step lazier than "laissez-faire", might even be called "lazy faire" - even if he didn't want it let alone, he is to lazy himself to do anything about it. If we have to nail down the modern principle, insofar as any organization is really going on? A vague sense of direction between the Scylla of public fads and the Charybdis of financial viability. We are far from the Phaeachians.

Method?

Proposed method for digital materials: our first step is to re-claim the conception of digital dissemniation from the bores. The current cliché must be overturned.

The goal: catalogue and metadata as DIGEST, as the TELOS of the primary library materials - the TRUE goal of digitization - the readable catalogue. Or if you like, the well-crafted tool. (The well implies the aesthetic value of handicraft and its resurgence among the petty bourgeois).

What it ain't

Textbooks are the scam of the century. They are almost sincere DaDaism. I mean, the dictatorship of format, font, and graph, with a cream filling.

Wikipedia isn't it - isn't even the front lawn. Plot summaries and accumulated prejudice do not a good 'reading' make.

Academic/annotated bibliographies, “further reading” lists etc. are the unread fine-print - and what's more, usually of better quality than the main show (ie monograph). Even still, composed to be an after-thought, a follow up, rather than a proglomena - it shows in the care! Compilation for someone you take to be an expert is far different than a guide for the beginner.

Introductory books of the “Dummies” specie are to be avoided at all costs, to say nothing of Cole's Notes. They ignore everything important and give you names and dates. If you think any substance can cling to these bones, be forewarned that they have been thoroughly bleached and sterilized.

All of these might be useful as negatives - what they deal with is he dross, avoid at all costs etc. This is what accumulates when the writer is unprepared in reading.

Agassiz and the fish

"A post-graduate student equipped with honors and diplomas went to Agassiz to receive the final and finishing touches. The great man offered him a small fish and told him to describe it.

Post-Graduate Student: 'That's only a sunfish.'

Agassiz: 'I know that. Write a description of it.'

After a few minutes the student returned with the description of the Ichthus Heliodiplodokus, or whatever term is used to conceal the common sunfish from vulgar knowledge, family of Heliichtherinkus, etc., as found in textbooks of the subject.

Agassiz again told the student to describe the fish.

The student produced a four-page essay. Agassiz then told him to look at the fish. At the end of three weeks the fish was in an advanced state of decomposition, but the student knew something about it.

By this method science has arisen, not on the narrow edge of medieval logic suspended in a vacuum."

Roots and branches

You cannot truly have organized the books until the catalogue is readable - real cataloguing doesn't give superficial access - real access comes with acclimitaztion and mastery of the books themselves. To be readable...This means to go from cover to cover, with some sort of profit.

王何必曰利？

“Why must your majesty use that word 'profit' ?”

The librarian must KNOW his books - must be a summarizer.

The danger of him not? And offering what he himself doesn't properly own? Nobody can give another what he does not have himself - what he thinks to have done is irrelevant when the patron comes out muddled.

The only person who can do this has been educated in a real sense. Has been taught to read from Bacon:

"Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books, else distilled books are like common distilled waters, flashy things."

The end of reference is not to refer reader to a cheap snack:

"The medical man tells us we should eat what we truly have an appetite for; but what we only falsely have an appetite for we should resolutely avoid. It is very true; and flimsy, desultory readers, who fly from foolish book to foolish book, and get good of none, and mischief of all — are not these as foolish, unhealthy eaters, who mistake their superficial false desire after spiceries and confectioneries for their real appetite, of which even they are not destitute, though it lies far deeper, far quieter, after solid nutritive food?"

The Mission

How to introduce a non-reading public to books? Summarize the books, give them the books in pill form, then, if the cure takes effect, they will look up the references and go back for more themselves.

The purpose of the librarian is to tantalize.

Thus the aphorisitic and well written catalogue entry will stick in the throat like a ball of molten lead. Cannot be thrown up or swallowed, but will stick.

There is a chain, tying in librarians, the "information need of the patron", all the way to the digests of the Confucian school and the middle ages - even to Thoreau, who read his Iliad while sitting on a pumpkin.

Librarianship as economy above all - the one maxim I agree with in current scholarship. Save the reader time.

In an age of museums, where the culture is stored away so that it need not be confronted, the librarian has a poetic function.

Composition by compilation and comment and digital presentation...

Regularity and format of metadata into "stanzas"...The fugue and the sonnet already relate to the practice of cataloguing as it currently exists.

You can infer from the above that I do not reccomend ordering as alphabetical, subject, date...Rather, by idiogrammatic and creative connotation. Interpretative bibliography.

Librarians, a breed of people who can guide one through the periplum of culture with bibliographic methods, avoiding dangers, adapting lists to the susceptibilities of characters.

Not a random pathological rant like Burton, but a crafted course or digest. Peter Lombard. Pedagaogues but not pedants

Poverty in style (as opposed to poverty OF style) in an editor is good. The mission proves aesthetics are not so far from responsible public thought.

They will not be so quick to send people away to what they do not understand. They will be SURE of themselves, and, despite their limitations, the librarian will KNOW what he reccomends at least. Rather than all fuzzy - limited, but sure.

The use of "subjective hierarchy" based on one's own personality and reading - what shades of culture and history could be revealed...

Quick Order

“It is much easier to "sit pretty", keep one's mouth shut or speak of any author as a whole or apply general statements to a whole book, than to risk picking out the good and the bad, the brilliant and the dull—which latter IS the critic's job, especially in an age when the plenum of books and knowledge is increasing. There is more to choose FROM, and the best 100 books or the best 100,000 or million pages DOES not remain the same 100,000 or million from one age or decade to another.”

-E.P.

"It is by the Odes that the mind is aroused. It is by the Rules of Propriety that the character is established. It is from Music that the finish is received."

-Kung

A Few Lines on the Surface Meaning of Confession

Man must go back to nature for Information.

-Tom Paine

1

Give it time the fellow says, and pats me on the back.

...................I am not one for confessional lines.

Everything is outside the mind and of it

...................Everything

And everyone

...................So where does worry come from?

I have heard nothing of what comes after sublimation.

...................There are things in my mind

Massive things

...................And I would be hard pressed to name them.

Great items push themselves in and are

...................As of yet

Unopened.

...................And of love? And of envy?

They must be there too. And of

...................That silver thread that binds the whole?

Never underestimate the power of dyspepsia

...................To center the mind.

I am for the end of squabbling

...................Don't get me wrong

But life is long and

...................Boredom enforces variety.

I am for the backslashing of extraneousness, of

...................What has been called "overshooting the mark"

but where in this lies satisfaction?

...................The stupid are lucky

They don't even need to go so far.

................... The stupider, coarser, fastidious

(and I among them)

...................Suffer from our own good will.

Answers do not come from authors

...................Nor their intentions.

I read men despite their ends

...................And find my rewards in their unconscious import.

Onward towards the end.

...................Broken up over multiple thinking men

The hours of this the present

...................Stuffing all the weakness in the center

While outside great men

...................Push and filter the cowardly.

We are schooled in the same institution

...................As fish we are

Underwater in disposition

...................As well as genetic history.......................................

Where do abstract nouns come from?

No doubt

...................They emerge from questions of origin and oratory

And the undignified scribblings of pencils.

...................Push them harder at a younger age

And perhaps they shall overcome you.

...................Mythology knew this.

I am hardly the type to obsess over character and meaning

...................But some words are bothersome.

I am not too far gone tomorrow

...................And hope that today can be salvaged.

I am not writing anything here

...................That I would not present at my funeral.

This is the meaning of confession

...................An oration at the tomb head.

Where is the President

...................Why is he not my Prime Minister?

Where is the Queen?

...................Why is she no longer my monarch?

Who doubts the seriousness of parliament

...................And English Law?

I am for the re-discovery of the principles of things

...................In the law courts

In the house of commons

...................In the media

In the street

...................In my home

Among my siblings

...................By my bedstand

In my heart

...................Rectification through confessional be damned.

2

What emerges from evening is that

...................Weary attention to the strength

Of phrase and form.

...................With this anything is arguable.

With this all purposes valid.

...................I speak of correct weights and balances,

Of historians balanced on the scale

...................With multiple poets.

I am unashamed of journalism

...................But the facts are not so stubborn.

Countries around the world are getting angrier,

...................My countries,

And I have several countries.

...................A general phrase concerning the lot:

By self-regulation, all of this our unconscious

................... Treats the thing direct of itself.

Historical record follows development

...................In painting, and music, and poetry

Beyond any imaginable accuracy to

...................The state of law.

Bind not the limbs of the family

...................They work in your favour.

Style and act of voice are prompt,

...................Wherein can improvements be made?

Man always has room for improvements

...................To his own detriment.

Existential as ever

...................But the best of it comes before the

Plan,

...................And the rest of it comes after.

Blueprints are spoilage.

...................In the deep sea

Profit is spillage.

...................By the roadside just outside

Of the village,

...................The men are hard at thievery.

Do not judge them too harshly

...................They are your children

They are your electorate.

...................What Duke or Magistrate keeps them in order

With the proprieties?

...................I am unconvinced I have not seen this all before

In a dream

...................Of a dreamer

Who was for Chou.

...................The thoughts run and the

Limbs never tire on their walk so

...................Long as the distance is uncounted

And the path is new.

...................Discovery is the whiff

That keeps the rambler hungry.

...................Discovery pushes the author to his

Birth pains, so why judge him.

...................Each of you

Each of you men

...................Had hunter ancestors

Who would as the latest scientific anthropology

...................Attests

Run down animals over long distances

...................Harrying

Them

...................Doing whatever it took to break them with our

Upright gait

...................Thumbs

And foresight.

...................What a tempest of pre-history

Comes about

...................And this through

Regular motion of imagination

...................And clockwork typing.

The sense-works arbitrate

...................Faster than the lightning eye

Can conceive

...................And the Painters of the South

Who struck poets and sages

...................To the rice paper

With distinct black line

...................In a manner of seconds

Well how did they get good at that?

...................t's through practice that encourages

Vitality not forethought.

...................Ever hunted down a skill

Like an aurochs?

3

Temper

...................My lovely scourge, changes

On awakening.

...................Afternoons are eternally long

In this city are

...................Great and vast and alone

And long.

...................Tens of thousands of the creatures

Green

...................And beyond what

That trail of the Sun?

...................I am one for structuring my thoughts.

Debates about the sensible novel

...................Useless

For the dominance of the one mind.

...................I have to be very sad

When the afternoon comes along.

...................I have to be as stark

And cheerful

...................As the evening on the hill

The long trail of a plane in the sky

...................The red orange

Organ of Heaven

...................The local baseball game

The TV camera

...................And before all

The dominance of the one mind.

...................Shaded by the clouds

Of composers

...................Reformers

Guarantors and hardly anyone

...................Not in love

Where is the passionless origin

...................And harmonious stirring

As perscribed in doctrine?

...................Parks are wonderful

By nature.

...................Animals are not

Wonderful

...................In the world of nature.

What are you now

...................Distracted by music or chance or something

Of the sort?

...................I love and suffer in turn

And this is not unusual.

...................What is normal

Tell me that

...................To love or hate myself alone

And to do both is that

...................Normal?

Wrote it all down and sent it off

...................Therapy to the detriment of art

But whatever needs making up needs it.

...................It is not a bad feeling when

One analyzes it.

...................How long 18 months

Pretty long and

...................That tiny thing tiniest

Gentlemen of leisure and a metaphysical turn of mind have named

...................A grain.

Each line is its own banner.

...................An advertisement needs no encouragement.

Men need encouragement.

...................Flirting is the terrible joy.

Other people are not terrible

...................Just their shadows are.

Love the world

...................Disdain it

Be fastidious

...................And open hearted with pre

Conceived notions

...................Of the way.

Chop sentences up into fragments

...................In lieu of love.

Failure cannot recognize itself

...................So well done there.

A loss is not something knowable;

...................Just because it is in the mind

Does not mean it cannot

...................Hurt.

Felicitations, affendi.

4

Seeking for value

...................In the singular

A non-embittering exercise.

...................Where are the heights of the age?

Don't bother with them outside

...................Or if you must

Make a list of it all

...................To carry in your front breast pocket

To remind you of

...................Ethics and the vanity of Earth.

Anxiety is not the way to wake up;

...................Hold your repression responsible

Do not be deceived by others.

...................Watch your punctuation, sir.

Put your trust in the Lord

...................and keep your powder dry.

We can swim through time

...................We can herd it along

If only we had the courage.

...................Simplicity cannot be if it is in doubt

About its own methods.

...................Use others as a measuring stick?

Make sure you can reckon

...................Otherwise you may embarrass yourself

In competition.

...................Where do you seek the cause?

The vanity of anxiety

...................Uncontrollable

But reprehensible.

...................Latinate prose suffocates intermittently

With glorious sunshine.

...................Consider that The Enlightenment.

We use the same word to translate Buddhistic

...................Transcendence

As we do European and American and English

...................Coming of mind.

Progress?

...................Progress is an idea of Ghandara and Paris.

Who can be anything but weary?

...................Never tire of it.

Cities are found in all places,

...................In valleys,

In forests,

...................In rivers,

On the tops of burning mountains.

...................Did The Emperor besiege it?

Then we are content with our roles.

...................Hurling burning bales of hay to keep out

Ridiculous invasion.

...................And they call that a project!

We are hindered in the progress of virtue

...................We are become shallow in impatience.

Crude catch-phrases

...................Are the implements of oratory.

Who appeals to my reason?

...................Few men appeal to my reason.

Award me a book award

...................You thousands

Millions

...................Who do not read my book.

They put me beside you

...................So you read your own

And glance a page back

...................With a smirk

And a good lot of comparison.

...................The gentleman seeks the cause within himself.

He shoots his arrow

...................And if it don't hit the mark

He takes a minute

...................A wholesome one.

I am weary of the age

...................As are you.

We have outgrown are pronouns.

...................This anxiety is what we hope is growth

And we endure it because it is difficult

...................And that we love.

All men are created equal

...................We hold these truths to be

Sacred and undeniable.

...................Where is my heart then?

We must love it in another

...................When drowsy neighbours

Neighbours meet

...................And folk begin to take the gate.