epitome of incomprehensibility Sometime in the last few days I woke up and found that it was very hard to believe that I'm in an English MA program in Ontario writing a project on Ezra Pound's music theories instead of remaining in Quebec and taking a BFA degree in Music Comp or marrying an Austrian philosophy student and moving to Vienna or translating Finnegans Wake into Elvish or any of the other things I'd considered doing.

To make this believable, I had to conjure up a nickname for Pound, and I hereby christen him The Incongruity Fascist.

In other news, I've discovered I'm three degrees removed from Deadmaus: his father is my neighbour's drywaller. I like the word drywaller.

Also three degrees removed from Pound - he was my music teacher's former employer's friend - although this involves more time travel.

I just need nicknames for writers who are also musicians, sometimes. I've already got Epitome of Incomprehensibility (James Joyce, actually), Clockwork Teakettle (Anthony Burgess, whose Earthly Powers is funnier), and Honey Starchild (Langston Hughes). I have no women yet on this list and that is depressing. It would be arrogant to add myself. Thankfully the liberal-humanist subject is under attack by posthumanist theory, or else I would have to tell you my name is not James Joyce's name.

But I am a character like anyone else. Love and peace and noise,

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