Ayn Rand scares me.

It’s time for Who’s Freaking Marcus Out.  Today: Objectivists.  Bunch of selfish, brainwashed, uncompassionate, capitalistic freaks.

Thank you.  This has been Who’s Freaking Marcus Out.

Just a few short things.

Wil Shipley, the brilliant man behind Delicious Monster, also writes a very infrequent but very wonderful blog.  His last post was fantastic, so check it out.  The single post is like a Bildungsroman.

Anybody named Marcus gets a closer look from me.  I want to see what they’re doing with the name.  Marcus Miller is a fantastic bass guitarist who’s played with Miles Davis and Luther Vandross.  His latest solo album came out last month, and it’s on constant rotation with me right now.  His bass playing is just amazing.  Go listen to “Blast” and not want to run out and buy it.

Good things usually come in threes, but this is just going to have be cut short.  I need to figure out my taxes.

 

But, let’s be honest, I’m not doing it today anyway.  Here’s some steampunk Star Wars action figures.  I can’t help but find that so cool.  And dumb.  It’s hard to pick which.

 

Life-Changing Materialism

Fresh Citrus Listerine

I love this flavor of Listerine.  If you haven’t tried it yet, please, do.  It’ll make your whole dental hygiene program ever so much more exciting.

 

Staedtler triplus fineliner pens

Oh, life can finally begin in earnest.  Of course, I wouldn’t have ever known what my life was lacking without dear, dear E.

 

J.Crew Jeans

Oh, $15 jeans.  You may be a bit tight in the Important Pants Area, but you are so wonderful.

Beautiful things forever.

Okay, here’s a much simpler, easier to read blog.  Tell me if you like it, or hate it, or you have an idea.  Just tell me things.

The best poem.

I love constraints.

Restrictions.

Enclosures.

 

One of my favorite concepts is the idea of restrictions making you freer.

Like the Word of Wisdom.

Freedom from addiction through restriction of diet.

 

But my favorite example is the sonnet.

I’m sure, if you’ve ever heard me say the word, it’s in this context.

(I don’t usually talk about poetry much.

Poetry is private.)

 

And thanks to “Ex Libris”, Anne Fadiman’s completely wonderful book on reading, which is maybe the best book I’ve read since the incomparable “Bird by Bird”, I’ve even got a poem to share with you.

(Please give me back my book, Ali.

I miss it.)

Not keeping this one private, sorry.

It’s from Wordsworth, a man who was born to be a poet.

(I guess I’m born to live in the hills with my flock.)

 

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels;

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, unto which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,

In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound

Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;

Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

 

Being bound within the restrictions of a sonnet forces you to be creative in ways you wouldn’t be if you were writing with no enclosure.

It’s the same with all of life.

Work for a certain amount of time, instead of “until it’s done”, and see what you can accomplish under restriction.

The only time I get any work done is with silly and arbitrary self-imposed deadlines breathing down my neck.

I love it.

Love Sonnets.