week35: dvorak, kawhi and van gogh
Just listen to the sound of the commands whose roar surrounds the German cities now that they drill outside all gates: what arrogance, what raging sense of authority, what scornful coldness speak out of his roaring! Could the Germans really be a musical people?
“”F. Nietzsche, The Gay Science
enough of the germans for now, at least of beethoven (till next february)—dvorak’s new world symphony is spring for those who’ve known more of winter than of spring …it has no time for a slow thaw…an ice pick for whatever is left of february (the 2nd half more so)...
Far from the sweet stench of that perilous air
In which our comrades are betrayed, we freeze
And marvel at the smashing nonchalance
Of nature : what better way to test taut fiber
Than against this onslaught, these casual blasts of ice
That wrestle with us like angels; the mere chance
Of making harbor through this racketing flux
Taunts us to valor
“” Sylvia Plath, channel crossing
two of the most russian thing i’ve heard in a while: (1)the best way to overcome your fear of the cold is to become colder than the cold. (2)we demand concrete proof that it wasn’t in fact you that was responsible for the poisoning of our double-crossing agent sergei skripal. (i’ll leave it to you to guess which one was an excerpt from brit marling’s the oa and which one is official communique from the kremlin, in response the eviction of russian diplomats).
elsewhere. it’s been a shite start to spring (it’s snowing as i write this)—but befitting of the mood i find myself: at the moment, for reasons not entirely relevant, there’s a strong desire for a sort of privation. it’s the kind of mood one actively seeks out come october. here’s hoping there’s very little of it left by the time better weather gets here—this is no time for the private point of view.
very elsewhere. i’ve decided i have nothing new to say. what i really mean: inasmuch as it is new, it can’t be said. i’d sooner give words to my meat and potato thoughts than to any brazen, furnished idea…. perhaps that might be the final concession of eccentricity: consistency, steadiness, a fanatic devotion to every kind of beige instinct, a fashionista for every plaid aesthetic. —if only i paid attention during those classes in high school when they were trying to convince us of the magic of photoshop, i might be able now to edit myself into the background of some diy printout of van gogh’s the potato eaters—. everywhere i look in that painting i get this unsettling intimation of morning, of tilling, of sweaty brows and the long etcetera of getting started. i look up from that painting and i want to jump up and plant the very next thing i set my eyes on! but i’ve never done anything more than yard work… perhaps this is new: whatever the point is, what’s the point if it can’t make it out if it’s own generation (that’s nothing new, but has it even been said?)
elsewhere. where is kawhi leonard? what’s happening with kawhi? it’s the spurs after all, nothing too exciting could be happening there.