come back to me in my dreams

banana nutriment battle rap #7 has been released. it’s called:
available position: busty woman with infinite patience
and it goes:
also philosophically indifferent to my failings
tasteful sweatiness would not be objected to
one of those very small nose piercings, diamond or fake diamond
eyebrows of sharp definition but not at all overplucked. no big scraggly eyebrows please
also has several thousand dollars to loan me at present

boarding school kleptocracy –>kennedy’s brain trust –> The Best and the Brightest –> David Halberstam < — The Education of a Coach <— bill belichick <— boarding school kleptocracy

STUDS LONIGAN: i am still hammering out why i loved this book so much, other than A) chicago nostalgia B) conceptual nostalgia for things that you only get in chicago, such as an all encompassing feeling of ownership-lust C) the interplay of wanton sin and crushing guilt D) seemed like a good idea at the time.

our great benefactor Moacir has been telling me how well, crushing and powerful this trilogy is; it's not such that i didn't believe him as that i expected he meant that it was in part melodramatic–a thumbnail sketch (say, the back jacket copy) certainly reads as melodramatic, but it's anything but, unless you want to go ahead and admit that the whole great depression era was a bit maudlin and embarrassing by the end.

one very superficial realization that i had, Studs compared to other chicago-canon novels: the space of Chicago, as it is written in Augie March, is mostly a question of people–each phase that Augie moves through, from West Side to dog-washing in Evanston to furtive abortions in Hyde Park to Mexico (which reads like an extension of Chicago — their journey to and from is all but unmentioned). Chicago in Sister Carrie, or The Jungle, is a wilderness. Chicago in 47th Street Black is,.. well I have to go read 47th Street Black. In Native Son, I can't remember. In Joshua Ferris, it's a cubicle farm and could be anywhere. In Studs, in particular on the eve of SL's death, as Old Man Lonigan looks over his old neighborhood in Bridgeport, has his hubcaps swiped and watches a parade of socialists, he and I realize that all of the forced-march relocations that happen in the book mirror the plague-like ravishment that Chicago represents. It's not growing, it's rotting, in some sense. Anyway I haven't written or thought through this, but if any of you out there wrote off Studs Lonigan as either Bullshevicky 30s agitprop lit or stale naturalism or just tin pan alley, you're missing out: get wise to J Farrell, get live.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

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