these are the timesdirty beloved


One of us


Clickety clack ... clickety clack
Bring that man's baby back.
Clickety clack ... clickety clack
I want my spirit back.
Clickety clack
Bubble music being seen and heard on Saturday night
Blinding the eyes of ones that's supposed to see.
Bubble music, being played and showed, throughout America.
Clickety clack ... clickety clack
Somebody's mind has got off the goddamn track.
Clickety clack ... clickety clack
Won't somebody bring the Spirit back?
You didn't know about John Coltrane.
And the beautiful ballad he wrote wait a minute,
And the beautiful ballad he wrote called "After the Rain".
You didn't know about Lady Day and all the dues that she had to pay.
The Beatles come into the country, they take all the bread,
while the police hittin' black and white folks upside their head.
Tom Jones and Humpading got everybody uptight.
They make people that can sing wanna get out and fight.
Clickety clack ... clickety clack
What is this madness that Nixon has put upon us?
Clickety clack ... clickety clack
Won't somebody bring the Spirit back?
Who will it be?
Who will it be?
It certainly won't be someone that says that they're free.
Clickety clack ... clickety clack
Won't somebody bring the Spirit back?
Clickety clack ... clickety clack ...
Volunteered Slavery
Rahsaan Roland Kirk

Pheasant Villagetodetail
This Town, That TownKawakami Shiro

Kodomo no kuni
artists and children's books in 1920's Japan
children's songs
This Town, That Town
Boats of Leaves
Taanki, Poonki

Einstein Tower, Potsdam, Feb. 2001

Stefan Rahmstorf


"After hearing the war reported like sports commentary between gardenias and kittens on the radio, Boynton retreated to an empty large park in an unfashionable suburb, where the unfashionable pines are getting removed by the reconstructed creek, and the vistas are getting landscaped – and on opposing open hills these are quite beautiful. Bare. And barely anyone there. It was partly nostalgia for the kind of remnant bush and exotic dotted ex-orchard country of her outer-suburban childhood, with the strong, wet smell of pine needles, and the brick villas always on the fringes of the frame. Nostalgia because neither landmarks nor family are to be found out there anymore, sentimental because yesterday boynton saw a low cream brick fence of the fifties and lamented a lost world."

Boynton, I never knew...

Updated to reflect accurate spelling(s)
In every attempt at defining these online journals that I've read, for all the "blogs" and "blogospheres" and "bloggers", there's never been anything but the most cursory recognition of work like Mark Woods'. And yet for a lot of us his daily spread is essential, and a constant welcome challenge.
Journalists tend to be the ones doing the analysis, and they tend to see the journalistic aspect and the parallels and correspondences to print journalism; but ::: wood s lot ::: isn't journalism, and it isn't a diary.
Sort of sui generis sort of rara avis and always for me a source of interesting failure, because I can never get to all the links and there's almost always something intellectually beyond my ready comprehension.
It's a presentation of work. His archives could re-seed the mental life of the world.
Four years at hard labor and we're all better for it.
Thank you Mark Woods.
::: wood s lot :::

Eugene Kuo has some photos up of a trip he took to Turkey, of which this is one.


Fania Tei
Fania at Calabash Music

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