Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's BĂȘte Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Wednesday, August 04, 2004


What makes me angriest about other people, sometimes, is when they remind me of things I don't like about myself, only I haven't realized it yet. And then when I do, oh man, the red face of embarrassment.


No place. The web's image of itself, except of coure it's a grid in physical space, and -- what's the word -- *servers*, big computers storing all the bits and orts and dribs and drabs and flotsam and jetsam of typed verbal whatnot and pictorial images and sonic configurations. The English saint and courtier who coined the word from Greek -- his name was MORE. U = "no" or "not"; topos = "place"; u + topos = "no place." It's also a town in Texas.


The eyes droop from having attended too long, too long in the waking. Waking waves cascading behind the prow of the ship of time as it sails across the ocean of What Is.


Flotsam = whatever still floats after the shipwreck.

Jetsam = the stuff that someone has jettisoned from the sinking ship, in order that maybe it won't sink now that's lighter.

In case you were wondering.

I think Guy Davenport told me this. In a book. Good writer, that Guy Davenport; wonderful essayist. Whom I sometimes think of as Dude Couch. (I know, it's a weakness.)

Sometimes I think of Ezra Pound as Nehemiah Kilo.


Weddings and deaths and dinners and hours and wandering animals. And pinball.

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