November 29, 2004

• 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