Still winter in Michigan, 34 degrees and thundersnowing as I type this sentence, forecast is heavy rain through Sunday, we head home Monday morning, the fuck. Made it outside yesterday in sunshine and high 20's, hiked Waterloo's Sugar Loop with L (photo below) then played Red Hawk West
Played like shit but fun was had. Can't play outside today, at least not until maybe a window this afternoon, so here, links that have been collecting plus additions this morning. Only one encounter so far with a Pickup Truck-Magamerican, west on I-94 near Dexter, pissed I wasn't tailgating the Subaru-American in front of me, sped by me, gave me the finger, zoomed in front of me, tailgated the Subaru-American then slammed on brakes so I almost rear-ended him, gave me one more finger then sped off towards Jackson. Trump signs everywhere still planted in front yards where they were when I was here last October the week before the election. Hating you trumps everything, no self-sacrifice of personal wealth and comfort will ever change that.
Shovel on Sugar Loop, part of a giant mountain biking system, hikers go counterclockwise three days of the week while bikers go clockwise, hikers go clockwise four days of the week while bikers go counterclockwise, if I have to live in Michigan Waterloo is where I want to live, it's a fifty square mile anomaly of gorgeous in otherwise flat boring Lower Peninsula, east half of it in Blue America, west half in Magamerica. Fuck it, I'm going out in the rain. The two songs in this post off yesterday's Bandcamp shuffle in our drivearounds
CROSSROADS IN THE PAST
John Ashbery
That night the wind stirred in the forsythia bushes,
but it was a wrong one, blowing in the wrong direction.
“That’s silly. How can there be a wrong direction?
‘It bloweth where it listeth,’ as you know, just as we do
when we make love or do something else there are no rules for.”
I tell you, something went wrong there a while back.
Just don’t ask me what it was. Pretend I’ve dropped the subject.
No, now you’ve got me interested, I want to know
exactly what seems wrong to you, how something could
seem wrong to you. In what way do things get to be wrong?
I’m sitting here dialing my cellphone
with one hand, digging at some obscure pebbles with my shovel
with the other. And then something like braids will stand out,
on horsehair cushions. That armchair is really too lugubrious.
We’ve got to change all the furniture, fumigate the house,
talk our relationship back to its beginnings. Say, you know
that’s probably what’s wrong—the beginnings concept, I mean.
I aver there are no beginnings, though there were perhaps some
sometime. We’d stopped, to look at the poster the movie theater
had placed freestanding on the sidewalk. The lobby cards
drew us in. It was afternoon, we found ourselves.