Monday, July 17th, 2006

Time	Event
10:30a	Arab Peace Arabs are, essentially, a peace-loving people. The Koran commends peace, and it is Arabic for hello and good-bye and have some more. Heathens don't understand this, and when war becomes a regrettable necessity, Arabs always are blamed. Sometimes a few hotheads get carried away, but what else can one do in situations like this, when one's homeland is occupied for generations? When the Jews have been annihilated in every corner of the Earth, then there will be true peace, an Arab peace. Now that that is understood, let us sit down to negotiate. Salaam. --Tom Disch (13 Comments | Comment on this)
12:57p	Martin Last is Dead I just learned of his death, on July 6, from a mutual friend. Even those who did not know him personally may remember his shop, the Science Fiction Shop, on 8th Ave., near 14th St. He was co-owner with his long-term partner Baird Searles. Bai was a columnist in F and SF and an announcer at WBAI. Bai and Martin left NYC for Montreal in the 80s, and Bai died not long after they moved. Martin was 77 when he died, and had worked much of his life in the (classical) music business. I'd fallen out of touch as our politics diverged. They came to think of the States as the Great Satan. But they were genial hosts and marvelous missionaries for the books and music they loved. They introduced me to Terry Riley's In C when it was a brand-new LP. (5 Comments | Comment on this)
8:47p	Antiques Road Show This is a beautiful child's coffin. Poplar, with a molded edge. The girl's first name was Sophia, You see it here, under the lid. As far as value: it's not in good condition. Five dollars? Perhaps five dollars and sixty cents. --Tom Disch (2 Comments | Comment on this)
10:12p	The Necrophile The earth, its fields and furrows, meadows and morasses. is flesh; heaven's flesh, as it were-- furry, furzy, moist or stubbled, lush with brush that crunches underfoot. How can we feel other than lustful as we garden, watching the weird black bugs scurry away from our probing fingers, licking the delicious muck, thrusting our still-clothed bones into her welcoming voids, while she whispers in our otic cavities, Oh, yes, empty yourself into me. You are so handsome. I love dead men, and I will engulf every pound you can push into me. --Tom Disch (2 Comments | Comment on this)

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