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kate
katekat2
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http://www.slate.com/id/2142392/

extraordinary memory: old article but still interesting
http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/story?id=1738881&page=1

Probably the best article I have read yet on the Kaavya Viswanathan scandal:
http://www.thenation.com/doc/20060522/klawansedit

FEEDBACK
FROM JAMES JOYCE'S
SUBMISSION OF ULYSSES
TO HIS CREATIVE-
WRITING WORKSHOP.
http://mcsweeneys.net/2006/5/9wayne.html
fucking hilarious

I think oftentimes we shy away from the esoteric out of fear that it isn’t universal enough. The trick seems to be to handle it lightly- like flour or gunpowder.

I am away from Portland for the week & I don't have access to JSTOR here in NYC. I really really need to get an article from the Journal of American Folklore, so I was wondering if there was anyone out there with access to JSTOR, who could forward it to me. My email is dayglokarma@yahoo.com. The article is:
Kamenetsky, Christa. "Folktale and Ideology in the Third Reich," in Journal of American Folklore, volume 90, #356 (April-June 1977), pp. 168-178.
Let me know if you could help me out with this. Thanks.

For those of you who haven't discovered the joy of salad fingers click on the link: http://gorillamask.net/flashsaladfingers.shtml

trust me, it is so worth it.

I am stranded at the Reed library with out my car or cell phone and I have a big favor to ask of anyone who is still awake and has a phone. I need to get in touch with my friend who has my cell phone and my car. So, if you could call (508) 250 5311 and tell my friend Melanie to come and pick me up I would love you forever and ever. I know this is kind of a strange thing to request on livejournal, but it is a desperate plea. Please let me know if you do.

I feel like I am trying to live in dog years.

Hunger Camp At Jaslo

by Wislawa Szymborska

Write it. Write. In ordinary ink
on ordinary paper: they were given no food,
they all died of hunger. "All. How many?
It's a big meadow. How much grass
for each one?" Write: I don't know.
History counts its skeletons in round numbers.
A thousand and one remains a thousand,
as though the one had never existed:
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,
an ABC never read,
air that laughs, cries, grows,
emptiness running down steps toward the garden,
nobody's place in the line.

We stand in the meadow where it became flesh,
and the meadow is silent as a false witness.
Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest
with wood for chewing and water under the bark-
every day a full ration of the view
until you go blind. Overhead, a bird-
the shadow of its life-giving wings
brushed their lips. Their jaws opened.
Teeth clacked against teeth.
At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky
and reaped wheat for their bread.
Hands came floating from blackened icons,
empty cups in their fingers.
On a spit of barbed wire,
a man was turning.
They sang with their mouths full of earth.
"A lovely song of how war strikes straight
at the heart." Write: how silent.
"Yes."

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