The Year of the Trilogy

So, I don’t know what to read first. The Divine Comedy or The Red Night. Am I looking for “a nonlinear course through time and space” or something a bit more structured?

It won’t surprise you to learn I admire Burroughs. That he speaks to me. That it’s his yardstick by which I judge my work by. I wade in the stream that Burroughs forged with the precum of defeated and angry masturbation, in the tears that followed as they mixed into the semen and mucus. Throttled and rattling for death the river roars… and I am wading in the tributary.

The Devine Comedy, on the other hand, is foreign and strange. From all accounts it’s linear and planned. Not to mention it’s one of the more important works in the Western canon. I’ll be reading a 19th century English translation of the 14th century Italian—weird, right? It should shake up my words some. It might lend form to them.

Choking

I was expecting Speculation to go viral. What, with Iggy Azalea and a decidedly xenophobic ruling class and cultural appropriation and growing sense of dread, and all. Not to mention the dumbing down and growing coarseness of popular culture.

The deadly preknowledge* that we’ve been through this before and the knowing it doesn’t change.

Is it too dim? It’s supposed to be a recreated ancient message tattered on its journey across time, a CRT on its last legs, a recovered Nostradamus that turns out to have been binary code rendered analog by the artist’s pen.

I was at least expecting a like. A I-see-what-you-did-there, a we recognize you as an ally.

Efficiency drive

I find it fascinating that birds have less junk DNA cluttering up their chromosomes than do we mammals. Some speculate this tendency is a weight savings mechanism.
Amen to that!
It’s wonderful to imagine an organism so pressured it’s able to identify needless genes and willing to cast them free.
That’s some fierce optimization. The entirety of mammalia must seem like hoarders to our avian allies.

Speculation

In the early 22nd century a hiphop ensemble shall be propelled to stardom with their hit The N*s I’ve Fucked, until it is discovered to have been penned by a white supremacist and powerful member of the ruling party.It will be a minor controversy within a maelstrom of controversies which will blow over in short order. Awards will be rescinded, records updated. The artists will be forgotten while the partyman skates.