Most peer reviews are anonymous. And that is fine. But I recently received a very interesting peer review of this particular “publication,” this weblog, and I thought I might as well affiche it up. Because it is far, far more brilliant than anything yet written heretofore on said “blog.”
It arose like a flaming phoenix from the mind of Gurarie, Eliezer, he of multiple origins upon which I might hope to expostulate at a later date. I have been fortunate to call him friend for one very long decade PLUS two years or so, and thus can claim that his various verwandlungen or transformations have not restructured the most idiomatic and swift-footed paths of mind and word which are his.
Mille grazi, Gurarie!
and thus the review:
while it is an obvious schande that i haven’t shot off missive after
missive in heady response … let me have partially absolved myself by
reporting that i have dutifully spent an extragavant ninety minutes
burrowing into the adamcathcart blog, and that the experience was as
intimate an immersion into that giddy world as could be hoped for this
side of I-5.
more than that, for myself, it was a downright gouldian revelation of
the transcendent liguistico-musical possiblities of new media.
to wit, i would skip lustily over your penetrating postings, only to stumble across thickets of musico-political video that greedily call for entire minutes of throughplay, while all those tantailizing verbal thoughts hang like so many strawberries for my parched and insatiable information gorge.
so i pushed my synchro-media fugal tolerange.
letting, for example, to alan harris drone on about vibrato accompanying your pointedly vibratoless d-minor, while whiffing gasoline fumes in aspen, circa 1998, segueing into modern chinese art and a synchronous articulate french rallycry accompanied by tastefully inchoate pastiche of the same at our own university of washington .
.. all rising to a near overwhelming pitch of sinic riteousness tempered eventually only by the crisp sanity of the little piano prelude, followed by the cleansing if insipid cello-inflected continuou of the video reconstruction underlying the old triumphant warsongs of 1944, melding into warm readings from die Zeit, clipped over the hamburg hiphop as backdrop to editorializing on the us body politic, and on and on.
The pitch was feverish, the data streams irregularly conflicting and, surprisigle often, harmonizing, and my parched, insatiable, overinternetted mind, could not, would not have enough.
the communion, as i say, with adamcathcartness was at personalized and
indulgent and utter.
afterwards i had a smoke.