05.18.02 and you can't sing

still trying to plan another vacation. i'm far too poor to do anything now, but limited means work in my favor: as i can't pop to seattle for the weekend, i may as well sock away for something spanking in the distant future. buns day in iceland, for example -
Children especially love Buns Day because they get to wake up early to try to catch their parents still in bed. If they do, they "beat" them out of bed with their individually made Bolluvondur or "Bun Wands," which are colorfully decorated with strips of paper and gleaming ribbon.
or christmas in reykjavik -
When days are short, beloved folklore adds to the mystique and glories of Christmas in Iceland, so while American children dream of sugarplums and Santa Claus, little ones in Iceland are tantalized by visions of Gully Gawk, Window Peeper, Bowl Licker, Pot Scraper, Door Slammer - among others.
or the iceland airwaves festival - i have a theme, is the point, and will set about getting an empty water cooler jug for my spare quarters. i must go.

the argument has been that don delillo peoples his novels with minidelillos, and i'm afraid that great jones street bears it out. individual passages are entertaining, even poetic, but plot and characters - pish! i'm appreciating libra in retrospect, as the kennedy assassination stuff prodded the story along.
Just make sure you don't call it art. It's not art. It's back to before art. Fire-building and the fingering of testicles. The wonder of pre-information is that men perceived the earth and themselves actually in the process of changing. Zenko's been trying to create pressure along a fault with a series of very delicate TNT explosions. Just a few more in the right places and he'll have his small quake. The greatest work of art ever achieved. Except don't call it art.
i begin to understand what i mustn't do, and that is something.

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