In the middle of a recap of the day’s chaos in New Orleans, this gem:

As the sun set over a still-churning Lake Pontchartrain, the smoldering ruins of the Southern Yacht Club were still burning, and smoke streamed out over the lake. Nobody knew the cause of the fire because nobody could get anywhere near it to find out what happened.

Shot in the parking lot of Ruby’s this morning after breakfast. I had to get up early for a weird medical test: arterial elasticity. The result seems to be good. I don’t have evidence of long term high blood pressure, in fact I’m doing great. First good medical news in forever. I had a nice amurrrrican breakfast at Ruby’s, the theme restaurant for the 1940s that never happened. It was a pretty surprise to find the galvanized shed cover in the back crawling with flowers.

joyfulagitator I failed in my first attempt at the photo mission for you. I will try again. Also, were you abducted by aliens tonight? You were there and then poof.

I feel like I’m looking at everyone through binoculars lately.

I first heard these set to Hans Eisler’s music, as sung by Dagmar Krause on her wonderful record “Supply and Demand”. My favorite is the last one, “The Swamp”. If you’re all TL;DR today you should read that one at least.

I
The village of Hollywood was planned according to the notion
People in these parts have of heaven. In these parts
They have come to the conclusion that God
Requiring a heaven and a hell, didn’t need to
Plan two establishments but
Just the one: heaven. It
Serves the unprosperous, unsuccessful
As hell.

II

By the sea stand the oil derricks. Up the canyons
The gold prospectors’ bones lie bleaching. Their sons
Built the dream factories of Hollywood.
The four cities
Are filled with the oily smell
Of films.

III
The city is named after the angels
And you meet angels on every hand
They smell of oil and wear golden pessaries
And, with blue rings round their eyes
Feed the writers in their swimming pools every morning.

IV
Beneath the green pepper trees
The musicians play the whore, two by two
With the writers. Bach
Has written a Strumpet Voluntary. Dante wriggles
His shrivelled bottom.

V
The angels of Los Angeles
Are tired out with smiling. Desperately
Behind the fruit stalls of an evening
They buy little bottles
Containing sex odours.

VI
Above the four cities the fighter planes
Of the Defense Department circle at a great height
So that the stink of greed and poverty
Shall not reach them

THE SWAMP

I saw many friends, and among them the friend I loved most
Helplessly sink into the swamp
I pass by daily.

And a drowning was not over
In a single morning. Often it took
Weeks; this made it more terrible.
And the memory of our long talks together
About the swamp, that already
Had claimed so many.

Helpless I watched him, leaning back
Covered with leeches
In the shimmering
Softly moving slime:
Upon the sinking face
The ghastly
Blissful smile.

INSOMNIUS REX