Kim Jong-Il is 65 and He’s Got Missiles and Syd Barrett Was 60 and Now He’s Dead

This is how I feel about Syd Barrett and then some. Uncanny; I always seem to forget the impact his music had on me—his name is always just at the back of my tongue, in the shade of my throat’s shadow. Ooh, so tickled today.

And where else to start? Well, the rocketblooming ground. No need to be nervous; The Economist just has the best magazine covers in the universe and now I can finally stare at something other than—all Powellpatations excusable in summer—this. The Sunset Tree left the Mountain Goats on scorched earth; Get Lonely, which will come out in August, totters around in search of vegetation and fresh air. John Darnielle always manages to capture the reassuring glint of intuition in the wake of something traumatic—our hero is cold, so he puts on a sweater. I get a better look at the land after the great quake. So yeah, it’s a breakup record, haunted by that uncanny post-breakup feeling of lightness. Launchable, again. Well, I told Alfred last night that I’d prefer to be somewhere that had more devastating weather. I have been reading Ben Marcus, and you should, too. I read The Age of Wire and String a couple months ago and have gone back to Notable American Women. Those are ground-up like Tender Buttons was, or like The Raincoats. Syd goes ground-down and I stay on two feet. Not baaaad.