These are not aphorisms

Broke in a new pair of shoes today. They are not broken in yet. Forced to ask myself this question every time I put them on: whether it’s me or the shoes that is being broken.


The shorter Ezra Pound’s poetry, the smoother; the smoother, the more difficult to grasp. Is there anything to say at all? Any opening?

Presented with this absence, abundance. But others’s abundance.


At times “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell” reads like “Empire of the Senseless”.


Reading “Blow-Up and other stories” and “Dog Attempts to Drown Man in Saskatoon”. Douglas Glover is no Julio Cortazar. Which is good for him, because that means that he’s still alive. Unless he died.


Watched “Little Miss Sunshine” for the first time today. I think I’ve been avoiding it because of a so-so review I heard on the radio four years ago. “Little Miss Sunshine” is a good movie. It’s bit like “Independence Day”, in one way: it doesn’t drag. But afterwards you start to wonder what Ian Malcolm was doing, exactly, in that movie.

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