The next Post Of The Week will be announced on Sunday evening.

Please note that nominations for next week cannot be accepted until then.

1. [from fuck up to] fab!: the nazi

In the middle of our intense exchange, the real person behind the penpal got up and retrieved two large books from a chest. They were Hitler Youths books, written in Gothic script. He explained to me they were albums into which Hitler Youths would stick pictures of their then idols (Hitler and his cronies) which they had collected and traded. I was horrified and taken aback in equal measures. Possessing such material is an offence under German law - all Nazi literature was allegedly destroyed after the war.

2. k-punk: Postmodernism as Pathology, part II

Williams and Blair are two sides of one Joker Hysterical face: two cracked actors, one given over to the performance of sincerity, the other dedicated to the performance of irony. But both, fundamentally, actors - actors to the core, to the extent that they resemble PKD simulacra, shells and masks to which one cannot convincingly attribute any inner life. Blair and Williams seem to exist only for the gaze of the other.

3. Paul: Kinda Rough

It was an agricultural community to start with. My first generation dad would point out with disgust how whatever new shopping center or paved roadway used to be Gundersons’ farm or Bardo’s dairy pasture and what a shame they sold out during the depression. Or Nokamura’s radishes, or Watanabes’ celery field, and how they’d lost their land during WWII. Of course , they had to go. They might have been spies and helped the enemy. You couldn’t take chances back then.

4. Peregrinations: Origins

I am from Please Miss, Yes Miss. I am from open-plan classrooms and project work. I am from blazer, blue skirt, white blouse and school tie. I am from M&S white vests in winter, and most of summer too. I am from pageboy haircuts and skinny legs.

5. Planet Mark: About Babytalk

The other week, I tried in my foolishness to correct him about the train he saw on the opposite platform. “Car”, he says. “No, Train.” I said. “Car!” he insisted. “Train”, I gently said. “CAR!” he ordered. Trains then are cars. Children order things by category. Small, furry? You’re an “Abbu”. Big, furry? You’re an “Oggie”. Mechanical, big? You’re a “Car”. Even if you’re a plane. That’s right, Xander. They’re skycars.

6. Seen Reading: Yonge Line, looking forward to dinner.

He’s been pushed against the door and struggles to keep his balance as we pull into the next stop. Four of us shuffle, delegating who goes where, who gets off soonest, who can afford to side step further into the car. He shoots me an apologetic glance and raises his arm past my shoulder to grip the glass behind me. He knows this means he’ll have to stand as close as a husband, but he holds his book up to create a barrier thinking it helps. This makes him uncomfortable and he lowers it, meeting my gaze.

“That felt rude,” he says.

7. Spurious: The Damp and I

I have to go out there again. The damp is calling, and I am an arm of my damp, I know it now. One night it grew me. One night a spore unfolded itself to make a man, a golem of damp. And the damp wrote its name on my forehead and placed its charm on my tongue. I spoke; I wrote; I was the bard of damp. Write, says the damp. Let me spread there, too, on the page. I write. The blog is wet.