November 29, 2004
of socks and string theory
This person oughtta be a Monkey. Maybe already is?
Socks seem to really enjoy it being united by their necks, don't they? It is as if their union created a model for our multidimensional universe.
Hope he's not involved in foot hoodoo
Socks???
/head explodes
ack! Goofer Dust!
Socks made for each foot and marked "r" and "l"? If you were feeling really rebellious, would you put them on the wrong foot, so that the markings were over the little toes? Would they feel strange? Or, would the extra cloth fill in the areas in your shoe over your little toes, making them more comfortable? And would the big toes feel strangled?
Yasser + Goofer Dust?
I'm just askin'
I don't think the string theory would work for this laddie.
But his socks do match.
According to the first link, tick, it is the left sock which seems more likely to disappear. But this doesn't really make sense, since if one sock of a pair disappears, then the other sock is left -- even if that sock is a forlorn and deserted right sock.
This labelling of socks must stop! It is too confusing!
Well, maybe this is where the socks end up then. First all the right socks showed up, then some of the ones that were left.
#2 just bought a five-pack of black socks, but when we got them home it turned out they were paired up and colour-coded by day. He now makes a point of mismatching them: today he's wearing Wednesday and Friday. It drives the obsessive-compulsive in me up the wall.
He looks at his wrist to tell the time,
it's a common thing to do,
If he lifts one foot to tell which day,
then we know he is Number Two!
Days of the week socks? Be still my heart.
(I have some goofer dust)
It was way last year, when my trouble began
It was way last year, when my trouble began
I had done quarrelled with a woman, she said I took her man
She sent me a letter, said she's gonna turn me round
She sent me a letter, said she's gonna turn me round
She's gonna fix me up so I won't chase her man around
I began to feel bad, worse than I ever before
I began to feel bad, worse than I ever before
Lord, I was out one morning, found black dust all round my door
I began to get thin, had trouble with my feet
I began to get thin, had trouble with my feet
Throwing dust about the house whenever I tried to eat
Black dust in my window, black dust on my porch mat
Black dust in my window, black dust on my porch mat
Black dust's got me walking on all fours like a cat
Can't reach the door, can't reach the locks
Can't reach the door, can't reach the locks
Worse than that, I done lost my lucky green socks
Wail it out loud, Nostril, m'man.
Gotta sing them lost sock blues.
darn ye, sock!
no darning will help it now
an old sock, weary of wear
with its rundown yarns parted
leaving the foot threadbare
merely a cuff
fringed with loose threads
hardly enough
to happily tread
down the walk
or through tall grass
farewell sock
your time has passed
Once I was happy, but now I'm forlorn,
Like an old sock that is tattered and torn;
Left in this wide world to weep and to mourn,
Betrayed by a sock made by Hanes.
Now these socks that I loved, they were handsome,
And I rolled them together, you see,
But I never could fold them one quarter so well
As the man at the corner laundree.
Oh, he folds all my clothes with the greatest of ease,
This tidy young man at the corner laundree;
But I picked up my duds at a quarter to three,
And one sock he had stolen away.
A most moving yarn, Monster.
In winter when the fields are white
I snatch a sock for my delight.
In spring once trees are leafing out
I steal a second, and tear about.
In summer as the small birds fly
Perhaps you start to wonder why.
In autumn as you wail and whine
I hang your socks upon my line.
I sent a message to the geese
I asked them not wear socks, please.
'We never have, we never will,'
In chorus came from every bill.
Ode to a pair of socks
Pablo Neruda
Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
that she knit with her
shepherd's hands.
Two socks as soft
as rabbit fur.
I thrust my feet
inside them
as if they were
two
little boxes
knit
from threads
of sunset
and sheepskin.
My feet were
two woolen
fish
in those outrageous socks,
two gangly,
navy-blue sharks
impaled
on a golden thread,
two giant blackbirds,
two cannons:
thus
were my feet
honored
by
those
heavenly
socks.
They were
so beautiful
I found my feet
unlovable
for the very first time,
like two crusty old
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that embroidered
fire,
those incandescent
socks.
Nevertheless
I fought
the sharp temptation
to put them away
the way schoolboys
put
fireflies in a bottle,
the way scholars
hoard
holy writ.
I fought
the mad urge
to lock them
in a golden
cage
and feed them birdseed
and morsels of pink melon
every day.
Like jungle
explorers
who deliver a young deer
of the rarest species
to the roasting spit
then wolf it down
in shame,
I stretched
my feet forward
and pulled on
those
gorgeous
socks,
and over them
my shoes.
So this is
the moral of my ode:
beauty is beauty
twice over
and good things are doubly
good
when you're talking about a pair of wool
socks
in the dead of winter.
Psst! repeating yourself now, BlueHorse.
BEES! Must you imply that I am going senile?
It's only that these are some of my favorites, and I want to share.
*sits in a corner, wailing
There now, have a glass of cockpunch, lass, and see if ye don't feel spryer.
Literary Review, Spring, 2002 by Brian Blanchfield
String Theory Readymade
Number one, draw on your paper your paper on fire.
Get this down. Use this red. Any line you start
is a hose in half, and from third dimension
a fourth is siphoned, but that suggests as far as it goes.
By no power higher can you raise yourself and document.
Make fire, page one of one. With fire
or with red or with rise begin.
International operator, come on with patience.
Once I have you I think that once I was imaginative
and more than once imaginary, closely
an ant at the date line climbing over.
I answered Susan Mensch's cell phone because it rang, and,
from Four Seasons Chicago, Susan said she'd cancel usage,
so, darling, say hello in English remember I miss you.
If Duchamp made quite the New York snowshovel and from
scratch the vial of Paris air, such is art more material to love.
Once Mrs. Steven Jay Gould makes a name for herself,
rest assured; everyone's units are like assholes, but there is one
theory of everything:
One's attention is not divided between following that car
and stepping on it. To have come by pursuit is fait accompli,
the skin and trail and look of getting out but not the serpent self.
heh-heh
man speaks of string
yet we praise yarn
we wear such words
upon our measured feet
and even drink them neat
before we call them home again
as far we fly with pegasus
miles high above far Turkistan
amid wing-shimmering birds
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