Lo these many months things have and have not happened. I may here freely complain to Heaven, and beg for that relief which I might ask in vain of false mankind: for it is vain, I find, to seek below either counsel, ease, or remedy.
To run mad on any just occasion, is neither strange nor meritorious; no, the rarity is to run mad without a cause, without the least constraint or necessity. Bury the very memory of this unhappy creature, who, more through ill fortune than ill intent, has given the idle world occasion to be too busy with his fame.
Recent happy collaborations with joonyong & chul-ki (a.k.a. Astronoise / Seoul Frequency Group), and some improving discourse with Sato Yukie.
From the much-maligned and greatly missed Toadex Hobogramathon, via geegaw, I bring you Fun With Words, which isn't as fun as one might hope, but which is chock full of marginalia and tidbit s . Like a word, strengths that has 8 consonants to buffer but one forlorn vowel. This is information not to live a life without.
From The Memory Hole (a very worthy destination, I might opine over short but beastly drinks), I present for your appraisal some secrecy news:
When Secretary of State Powell underwent surgery earlier this week, Deputy Secretary of State Armitage was able to exercise Departmental authority delegated to him on the Secretary's behalf. "He's allowed to act on any matters that are within the purview of the Secretary," a Department spokesman explained yesterday.
Forty-some years ago, there was a rather more extraordinary delegation of executive authority.
President Eisenhower, it seems, once sent "classified letters... to ten private citizens throughout the country giving them authority over various parts of the economy and total society in the event of the declaration of a national emergency."
, for example.
To further decorate the world, the duly esteemed Mr. Tom Djll has informed me of his trio with Matt Ingalls and Christopher Williams that is still looking for a publisher. I could not more sincerely urge the patrons of the world to bedeck this merry troupe with the flowers of their mammon.
Bryan Eubanks will be here in Seoul South Corea in a scant 11 days and I will play with him in public, private, and sundry less describable locales. Chief among them will be the home of Park Changsoo (with sOo-jung kAe and other leading figures of world creativeishnessishocity) and the aforementioned Bulgasari.
And, since I must now retire to my chambers for my daily constitutional (a quart jar of butter-flavored Crisco to moisten my lips, seven and a half Choco-pies, and a tall draught of Near Beer), I will leave you in the capable metaphorical hands of my most recent and maddening mentor, Dan Reynolds:
I had to decide whether or not I wanted an anaesthetic. I guess that the doctor had asked me, but I don't remember that anyone was there. Thinking, I asked how much the procedure was going to hurt me. The doctor replied, "Oh, there'll be pain..." in a voice that was trying to dismiss such pain. Since I know that that type of voice meant that there would be a lot of pain, I closed my eyes.
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Music is a figure of love, incapable of stopping at a particular being, and rapidly passing from one to another. But the forgetting that determines it in this way is only a subterfuge of memory.
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As soon as we put something into sounds, we devalue it in a real way...We delude ourselves that we have discovered a wonderful treasure trove, and when we return to the light of day we find that we have recovered only fool's gold, costume jewelry, and shards of glass; and yet the treasure goes on shimmering in the dark, unaltered.
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I love you. Only you. I love thee.
