this is where i enter text


So, what does he mean?

When he types

Our editorial staff wrote a lot for the editorial staff. Instead of writing a daily newspaper, they were writing a magazine that was impressing other writers. We were a second, maybe a third read. The guy going to Wall Street was reading the Journal, the Times, and then us. The guy I would love to have reached was Joe Six-pack, and Joe Six-pack didn't need to read how the GM of the Mets reminded the writer of the Phoenicians. My immediate reaction was the guy reading this paper thinks the Phoenicians play in Phoenix.

Well, first, he immediately confuses people with himself. That is, if the editorial staff is writing for the editorial staff, then they don't acknowledge that they are different from their audience? Or is it that the author confuses the action with the reason? Is it that he can't understand the perspective of someone who always wanted to write for an audience like themselves with what he believe the goals (business plan?) of the publication should be? Many people write what they write because they got into writing because of reading. That is, if you're not writing pieces like pieces that you like read, why are you writing, exactly?

The way you write depends on the way you read depends on the way you write depends on the way you write the way you read the way you read what you write the way you write what you read into what you write when you write what you read. Or whatever. The point is, the two are inseparable. I know they have separate words, but unlike, say "cake" and "thought", they are not at all connected only by the way that the seconds can contain the first. They are connected by dependence. There is no A w/o B and there is no B w/o A. They are, in the strictest sense, inextricable.

The man speaking is the CFO. The group he is describing is "the editorial staff". Well, it is the CFO's main goal deals with financials. Financial risks, rewards, realities, bottomlinities and the like. The editorial staff is to control the content of the publication. To make the thing that they are writing (as a group) something. What that something is, is (to mess with Clinton) depends on the meaning of what the word is is. The Editorial Staff of a paper is culled from writers. But how? With what purpose?

Well, that depends on the publication. That depends on the whims of the CEO and CFO and the like. If you choose an Editorial Staff (with[out] an E-I-Chief) you will determine what the publication will be. Not that you can always understand what that means, but that you can reasonably anticipate that smart people want to write for smart people. They want to read things written for smart people. Or, even, for people who are smart at what they do. Which is different. However slightly.

The thing about writing, is that it answers the questions which reading answers.
Switch 'reading' and 'writing' and it is just as true.

This is inextricability.

Which market are you trying to pursue? Well, this determines which Editors you should hire. They will determine which writers to hire. The Editors are the audience of the writers. Yes, writers is in lower-case.

Choosing of the Editors is up to... Well who started The National anyway?

Who started this blog?
We didn't start the fire.

We just watched the motherfucker burn.

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We Didn't Start the Fire

by Billy Joel

might be every song ever written.

And I can't stop watching it.

I mean: I can, but I really like it.

It is everything. It covers everything. Either immediately or by ap(prox[y])imation. Challenges. Overcoming of challenges. Hubris. Consumerism. Government. Brutality. Death. War.


Then again, what is "the fire"? It seems to have always been here. Is it a desire for something? Is it a reach whose grasp it constantly exceeds? Is it... humanity?

No, Billy joel is not the messiah.
No, the video is not a revelation.
That doesn't mean = irrelevance.

The thing is that it calls into question all other songs, even all other thoughts. how is something you think or feel not an echo of what came previously? A larger circle in the ever-expanding ripple of human cause-n-effect. What of the Schoperhauerian idea* that we are all just echoes of humans who came before? Or was it Borges echoing Herr Schopenhauer?


*- However much the plays and the masks on the world's stage may change it is always the same actors who appear. We sit together and walk and grow excited, and out eyes glitter and out voices grow shriller: just so that others sit around and talk a thousand years ago: it was the same thing, and it was the same people: and it will be just so a thousand years hence. The contrivance which prevents us from perceiving this is time.

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So then,

let us think of life

as a process of understanding.

As I know more now than I did then,
I know more later than I do now.

Or, if that is false,
I know different things now than I did then.

Let us then assume an impeccable memory.
Or an infallible diary.

Some method of combining everything you've known.
Some medium in which everything is remembered.

Let us assume that this impressionable thing exists forever.
Let us assume that this memory is comprehensible to the future.

What then would you know in total?
What then would be recalled at the end?

What then, if we extend the end?
If we stretch life to 100, 200, 1000, 2000 years or more?

If we at 30 don't understand as fully the world as do those who are 50...
If we at 50 don't understand as fully the world as do those who are 83.3333...

Well then, do we bound the understanding of the world by the extension of life?
Well then, do we bound the extension of life by the understanding of the world?

Which is the figure,
Where is the ground?

How high can I fly
Before I mimic Icarus?

Before some idea burns my brain out.
Before some identity melts my self to paranoia?

Should we look to those long-lived institutions?
Should we look to those long-lived works of art?

Where in these breaths do I live?
Where in these breaths do I die?

Which is me?
Which is an echo of all who/that came before?

Can an echo be less than all that previously existed?
Can an echo imply anything other than time?

If I die before I wake,
I pray the lord my unoriginality to fake.

Or am I tilting at windmills,
Borrowing from the past?

To say unoriginality exists
Is to say originality exists.

If there is one author
One mind, one story...


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Avail Thyself to Interpretation

There is a point in each book

(Shirley: There usually exists more than one point in a book.)

at which the book opens itself.

The pages read carry enough weight to hold the place of the reader.
The pages to be read still hold enough weight to refrain from rushing the reader.

How like a plateau con una magnĂ­fica vista?
Struggle to enter, feel each moment equal, rush to return to the lowlands.

How like The American Dream?
Establish an idea, experience the genius, rush to return to base.

Buy the ticket, take the ride,

How opposite The American Dream?
Climb up Appalachia, sully thyself in the great valley, fall from the Rocky Mountain High.

California tumbles into the sea.
Blame the San Andreas Fault, naturally.

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In Re The Only One I Read On-Time

It is like I'm making him die.

Right there, on the page, as I read.

A photograph of some soul.
Seeping out, tint by tint.

Unwittingly he'd laid himself bare,
insecurities, inimitable wit and all.

His heart.
His mind.

"I'm in here."

Willingly taking on the hardest task:
To make me emote in w/r/t The Service.

The knowing unkowingness of it all.
The conniving innocence.

The incongruity.
The clarity.

I turn the page,
and the end draws near.

No more ghost words,
no more recursive characters.

No more implied infinities,
no more painful jest.

With each page turned,
the present becomes the past.

Each page turned,
the end becomes the beginning.

If no one else will write it,
perhaps I will?

If I well-regard the reading,
then I should do the writing

instead of (mak/lett)ing dfw intricately beautifully
painfully mumble muddle w nder through it for me.

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"He's just this guy, you know?"