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“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision,” says Helen Keller. Wisdom. Word. Milton, Borges, Monet, Thurber, Galileo, Ella Fitzgerald. All with such voice, but no sight. That said, thank god for the voices in the dark. Tonight I think, what is blindness when it comes to art? Clearly sight doesn’t mean that much.

I don’t have a lot of vision tonight. i have a great fear of people staring into their own eyeglasses, though. It creeps me out, on a Terminator kind of level: https://plus.google.com/103380528824628666059/posts

Just what, exactly, will change when the machines come? I wonder. I’ve been thinking of this first line over and over today, not sure why.



What will I give up when the machines take over?

The time, or the hot stinging bubbles

that plunge each task into contemplation?

What will I take out of the suds

but raw hands and sight? Kneel down, love.

Fill your sleeves with sin.

Find that moonlit passage,

and rest there by night,

as gold as gold dares.

These secret things wake up bitter

on the unaccustomed side,

the blue shades are left ungathered.

What will take down our confession once

Sonny gives up the task?

Yes, the sight is wired to our spectacle,

but what is left when we ask it all?


Happy Friday, you!