The oldest and most obscure weblog. Probably. Lovingly maintained and neglected by Shawn Kilburn.
Syphilis as smear campaign. Pretty successful, that. I wonder if this will make people think differently of Nietzsche. I guess is just not as scurrilous to die of brain cancer…
Nietzshe isn’t the only one who had wild rumours crafted about his life (and death). Edgar Allen Poe has had his troubles as well.
Here’s an excerpt from Thomas Pynchon’s introduction to the new edition of Orwell’s 1984.
It’s a classy essay (how incomplete it is I don’t know, excerpted as it is) and fraught with glorious textual fragmentables:
What was “disgusting rubbish” back in a more insulated time has become, by the postwar era, part of the vernacular of political education, and by 1984 in Oceania it will be institutionalised. Yet Orwell cannot, like the average pulp writer, enjoy the luxury of unreflectively insulting the flesh and spirit of any character.
Though, I still liked Mason and Dixon better…
a brimful of steaming… or what the trousers said when they were wound up tight in a bundle.
yasta or the pasta that eats itself a day later. that’s all the gummoed moncario that we have to offer. or some say ya. i can’t eat for dreaming.
or today, sitting at the desk, arms curled around the head… wondering y y y . and feeling the world crush into spirallysplintery hordes. and then it passed.
watch these waves, the quicksand’ll getcha, boy. turn yer back on it with peril looming and you’ll be shuttled down to the netherpard. oyex, that’s what yeoldeman tolderme. gaps and gaps of teeth and flee. undertoe’s what he called it or maybe when the drownded return dragging their limp weeds…
coralay, coralee.
on other notes, heard phantasticals last night and jumped so hard i sproinged a doimple. curse that doimple sproinged! eat the doimply sproing and dairyeers! but udderwise, heard the cackophoney and called it GOOD. ya. whistled “supertaster” for ages (aeons past in a twinkly bat–wondering wondering)
or what brought me here? was it or is it a dance about the hallside parkingllot…
there were a bundle of words that sent me hither and thither.
but finally finding this? who’d have thought:
all the same places. every single one.
the patterns that erupt inside my cornea.
wow.
itso fapto.
A gallery of strange cultural instruments the world over (images and sounds).
The huaca and the waterphone are especially groovy.
gargling. that’s the answer. respect the irreducible contraptions. they will HAUNT you. eat your liver. and spill your unconfessed “sins” to the vasty porpitude. in case, you were wondering. you know. thundry/lightny gods were playing in the skies above my house last night. playing dice or maybe backgammon. that’s a good game for fogs to play. (i mean, gofs or doofs) enough stricture to keep them from erasing… er.
so there you are. then. then then.
feel that braincurdle welling up. i mean, that toecurdle. or why do the eyes brimup sometimes? that old throatcurdle. where are you, my nejurochemisticals, going to?
“it’s hard to watch ducks float by when your nose is goosepinched….”
i have no happy link for you today. or no sad link neither. contrariwise, only dull links that i’m not linkering too. dingdongdellyo.
ahoy, my vasty dilmas! eat some words and watch the footnotes parade by like ants, ya.
that con queso keeps my spleen from venting, patching up the quivering loverbuoys.
ah, forsigh, but who even reads poemcicles anymore? plenty of writers scrawling away at their etchy monsoons.
eat your heart in the marketplace? that’s the way to do it… kick over those countingtraps. whop the words into frenzied (heh) k-?r-skrs.
The naybhurr’s got a frangifed (or can you eat a sponge? mcgregor?) slice of time/spatial/lightbucket.
where’s all the viisual slices when you need them? here, mcgregor’s drowning in a snapwich. (back back, vile… er, aroint thee blessed snapwitch!)