. . . it happened again . . . just as sure as april is the cruelest month and it is summer . . . despite an incredible ambivalence - when the air outside becomes oppressive & there's no relief inside, not even in the basement, & seeds of the poplar trees choke the air piling like gentle snowdrifts along the front walk - the words of this mythological beast find a way into the voice of the mind like an addiction, a craving . . . inspite of myself the Strange Music seeks me out and the music repeats endlessly. . . school is out for my students&teachers . . . there ain't no cure . . .
I met a man who lost his mind
In some lost place I had to find
Follow me the wise man said
But he walked behind
(from Teachers by Leonard Cohen)
. . time to honour (mw) wood s lot . . . an incredible harvester of the web . . . little nuggets are turned into gold mines [my little Thomas Bernhard find: character assassination from The Voice Imitator & a simple pointer turns into richly researched feed] . . . a wonderful project would be to somehow organize the wood s lot archives into a encyclopedia of the web (wiki style maybe)/or some other way which i cannot imagine but others certainly not only imagine but know . . . i've read wood s lot describe himself as a simple cut&paste worker . . . no - a crafted artist weaving a brilliant&mesmerizing ever evolving web tapestry which necessitates a visit a day . . .