POETS Day! Charles Mackay of Extraordinary Popular Delusions Fame

Illustration by Rene Sears

[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

My kid can type. I don’t mean he just knows how. He dropped into a conversation about something else that he started fiddling with a typing tutor website and “plays” the exercises between games or watching videos when he’s messing around on the computer. He’s been at it for three years. We think we keep an eye on what he does online but this was the first my wife or I heard about it, so we tested him on a random type training site, one he wasn’t familiar with.

He’s over one hundred words a minute at 99% accuracy. He’s thirteen. We’re a little terrified that he was able to spend as much time as he obviously has online without our knowing what he was up to, but damn. He won’t need a POETS Day plan. If he sticks to white collar employment, he’ll blaze throught as much by noon as his co-workers manage all day.

As for the rest of you, come up with something. Pretend a cough, remember a religious observance, whatever you have to do to get out of work and live it up on a Friday afternoon. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.

First, here’s a bit of verse.

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One of the reasons I subscribe to The Free Press is for access to dueling articles on a subject. Here’s a guy who thinks war is bad. Here’s a guy who thinks war is good. And they’ll cross link if the two come out a few days apart.

I read the comments on both. Their paired articles seem less plagued by comment section trolls than the standard stuff, not that those are particularly afflicted when compared to the internet as a whole. I don’t think think I’ve ever been radically swayed by one of the exchanges—article or comment—but I get a few questions answered and pick up a few new questions in the process and emerge just as annoyingly opinionated but with a new array of plugged-in patina building bits of info to pester friends and family with. More than worth the $10 a month subscription price.

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POETS Day! At Home with Edna St Vincent Millay

Millay by Pond (photo by Arnold Genthe, 1914)

[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

Vyacheslav Volodin is the speaker of the Duma, and Reuter’s says he’s warning “that if the West gave permission for such [military] strikes deep into Russian territory then it would lead to a ‘global war with the use of nuclear weapons.’”

David Lammy, UK Secretary of State for Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Affairs and someone I’ve heard of, tells us global warming is “is systemic. Pervasive. And accelerating towards us.”

The Detroit Lions have a pretty good football team. Google “two headed goat” and find a world of images. George R.R. Martin isn’t even bothering to write the final book. It’s getting end-timey. Do you really want to squander your shrinking allotment by working?

Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Get out and see the world while the world’s still there. And if David Lammy’s wrong, all the better. Have a great Friday afternoon. But first, some verse.

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I made the mistake of reading an article about Rachmaninoff. It was a good article, “Rachmaninoff reigns” by David Dubal, The New Criterion, September 2023, but it contained the following:

“Studying his pianism is an exhilarating experience, and, although Rachmaninoff wrote for his own enormous hands, few pianists can resist reveling in the growths of his exotic pianistic gardens.”

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POETS Day! John Skelton, Cyndi Lauper, and Phonies

Photo by Rene Sears, in the park, with a Pixel

[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

I’m sure you’ve heard that there are only nine shopping days left until Christmas. I’m acutely aware, kept up to date by radio, tv, and internet. If I somehow managed to avoid all those electronic reminders, there’s the traffic. There’s no correct lane switching strategy with an army of Amazon vans suffocating every intersection and left averse UPS trucks double parked three to a block. Fed Ex drivers like to park in the median. Maybe they train in Philadelphia.

We let the holidays get hectic. It’s commercial and too often anxiety reigns. “Do I have a present for Dad?” “What do I get my sister?” The buildup was already an ordeal and then advertisers got shifty and started using “gift” as a verb. What gets lost in all of this is what’s important: that there are only three Fridays left to lie, scheme, and dissemble in 2023.

Carpe diebus. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. This is the last one before your penultimate chance of the year. Don’t let the weekend just happen. Be an instigator. Fake a cough, arrange an “emergency call.” Whatever you have to do. Start your weekend on your terms and slip out a few hours before The Man™ deigns to give leave. Have a ball, but try to fit in a few minutes for a little verse. It’s POETS Day. Make the most of it.

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“I explicated a Donne sonnet and paid uncomprehending lip-service to a beefy dirge by someone called John Skelton.” – The Rachel Papers, by Martin Amis

There is a park across the street from my house. It runs along Shades Creek, a feeder to the Cahaba River and part of the watershed that provides drinking water for the Birmingham area. That’s terrifying considering how much trash we get from upstream.

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The Consequences of Law and Order

Amanda Palmer is a twit. I met her after her Birmingham show and she seemed nice. She married a writer I’m quite fond of and otherwise has behaved as well as you’d expect despite some crappy political assumptions. Then she wrote this “poem.” The scare quotes are there because I want you, gentle reader, to understand that I don’t consider liberal use of the Enter button to constitute poetry.

At least one writer has called it the worst poem of all time. Well…

This is secondary. I mean secondary to Palmer as an intro to what I was actually thinking but first I want to point out, and that is neither first nor secondary as that honor has already been doled out so we’ll go with tertiary. Tertiarilly I want to point to a line from her Boston bomber elegy:

“you don’t know how to dance but you give it a shot anyway.”

That is dancing, right? That’s the fun of it.

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