I was going to write about who I think would win in a beach volleyball tournament between the Romo-Greek and Hindu gods. Or about how the new Death Starbucks' completion date is worryingly slated for 2012. But then I saw this news-piece on how disembodied feet have been washing up on BC shores. It's a case I've been watching since I first read about it here.
Please help generate some puns with me here people, cause I'm stumped!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
As I lay flying
6am Sunday, supine under my dual-action ceiling-fan light, it dawned on me that we were deep in conversation. Me and my static ceiling-fan, that is, you weren't around.
What made me dizzy wasn't that I was spinning while it was tranquil, or that it alternated between looking like a giant but genial albino mosquito, or a prototype sheep with rocket-trotters that had lodged its head in the plaster whilst showing off, or even an intergalactating heli-udder come to administer cosmic anti-bodies to brains paranoid of growing hair on the concave surfaces of their skulls,
but the ceiling fan's astonishing capacity for conversation (and, eerily enough, prolonged eye-contact) cut through all my delirious codswallop (such as my 'normalizing' joke about this all just being a trick of the light, to which it responded that the only lights turning tricks were red ones). It suggested that the pursuit of control actually inhibited self-determination, interrupted receptivity to detail, and mugged curiosity by luring it down the gloomy alleyways of preconception. I've long known my empiricist tendencies towards mapping my dendrites first through the material plane, deferring to the candor and impact of others, holding myself beholden. Exhausting these roots/routes/routs quickly, I then took to traipsing through the muck of self-deconstruction (which is pretty silly, because who yet has constructed a self?), and observationally-assisted entropy.
I've had blushes of intersubjective experience. They were events that occurred as bursts of moral and emotional elevation, culminating at an ephemeral arc at the thin-aired crown of the parabola, and then plummeting earthward again. These occasions instilled within me a profound sense of love, but never before toward a dormant but polymorphous air-circulator. At no point that morning did I find myself lonely, only quietly and blissfully alone. And so evidently connected with all the other unfinisheds that I've been afraid of receiving feeling from for so long. The rubble has been cleared, my political candidacy is restored and I can yet live!
If that didn't interest you, then these tidbits will:
- Click the 'video' icon to initiate the AMOEBA. A couple of minutes in, it gets really drippy.
AND
AND
What made me dizzy wasn't that I was spinning while it was tranquil, or that it alternated between looking like a giant but genial albino mosquito, or a prototype sheep with rocket-trotters that had lodged its head in the plaster whilst showing off, or even an intergalactating heli-udder come to administer cosmic anti-bodies to brains paranoid of growing hair on the concave surfaces of their skulls,
but the ceiling fan's astonishing capacity for conversation (and, eerily enough, prolonged eye-contact) cut through all my delirious codswallop (such as my 'normalizing' joke about this all just being a trick of the light, to which it responded that the only lights turning tricks were red ones). It suggested that the pursuit of control actually inhibited self-determination, interrupted receptivity to detail, and mugged curiosity by luring it down the gloomy alleyways of preconception. I've long known my empiricist tendencies towards mapping my dendrites first through the material plane, deferring to the candor and impact of others, holding myself beholden. Exhausting these roots/routes/routs quickly, I then took to traipsing through the muck of self-deconstruction (which is pretty silly, because who yet has constructed a self?), and observationally-assisted entropy.
I've had blushes of intersubjective experience. They were events that occurred as bursts of moral and emotional elevation, culminating at an ephemeral arc at the thin-aired crown of the parabola, and then plummeting earthward again. These occasions instilled within me a profound sense of love, but never before toward a dormant but polymorphous air-circulator. At no point that morning did I find myself lonely, only quietly and blissfully alone. And so evidently connected with all the other unfinisheds that I've been afraid of receiving feeling from for so long. The rubble has been cleared, my political candidacy is restored and I can yet live!
If that didn't interest you, then these tidbits will:
- Click the 'video' icon to initiate the AMOEBA. A couple of minutes in, it gets really drippy.
AND
AND
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
consciousness as brain damage
Constipotatos.
There, a landscape of riffled nerves.
Which is best: to accept the manifest as intended, and bear the weight of responsibility for your felt world? Or proclaim inadvertency, and become the opportunist you secretly suspect everyone else to be?
In trying to heal, I have hurt myself more. I forget that everyone talks about what they remember, and studies show that studies show that people prefer to remember lies.
Sometimes I wish I lied more, especially to myself. Err on the side of treason.
I know so many people who are mediocre only to themselves.
Did you know that an 'acre' is a unit of exertion? The 43,560 sq. feet (or 44,000 - 1%) is as much as one man and one ox can plough in one day. They say.
Did you know that famed futurist Buckminster Fuller was going to kill himself, but then decided to view his life as an experiment as to how much a human can accomplish in one lifetime?
Is it strange to be more afraid of life than death? I'm through absorbing the pain of others. Empathy is shit when it's only working in one direction. That's the willful depreciation of the self, direct and unmitigated.
Here's to physis. Here's to the lemon-oil spray that freshens the mind. Here's to recombinant happiness. Here's to the collapse of identity as the greatest perpetrator of all the world's ills. Here's to remembering, remembering that all is learning and learning is practice and practice is play.
There, a landscape of riffled nerves.
Which is best: to accept the manifest as intended, and bear the weight of responsibility for your felt world? Or proclaim inadvertency, and become the opportunist you secretly suspect everyone else to be?
In trying to heal, I have hurt myself more. I forget that everyone talks about what they remember, and studies show that studies show that people prefer to remember lies.
Sometimes I wish I lied more, especially to myself. Err on the side of treason.
I know so many people who are mediocre only to themselves.
Did you know that an 'acre' is a unit of exertion? The 43,560 sq. feet (or 44,000 - 1%) is as much as one man and one ox can plough in one day. They say.
Did you know that famed futurist Buckminster Fuller was going to kill himself, but then decided to view his life as an experiment as to how much a human can accomplish in one lifetime?
Is it strange to be more afraid of life than death? I'm through absorbing the pain of others. Empathy is shit when it's only working in one direction. That's the willful depreciation of the self, direct and unmitigated.
Here's to physis. Here's to the lemon-oil spray that freshens the mind. Here's to recombinant happiness. Here's to the collapse of identity as the greatest perpetrator of all the world's ills. Here's to remembering, remembering that all is learning and learning is practice and practice is play.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Why I called but hung up when you answered.
"So what's your tattoo of?" You lean over the table, your finger finding a sinuous path through the dinner's debris. Your elbow almost touches the baby-corn that I pushed off my plate over an hour ago. I'd left it there, hoping you might perceive it as erotic, or mildly provocative, or at least very casual of me. Back when freshly lubricated by black bean sauce, it had seemed a tad more tumescent. Now it just looks RE-vocative. Like a rolled up post-it note in a patch of dried beer. Or a giant Lego-man poo.
I gulp as the tip of your index finger grazed my bicep. I've been told that I gulp frequently. And loudly.
"I think I can just make out the edge of it..." you continue. "Is it a wisp of smoke emerging from a bullet hole? Or... hmmm... would one follow it to find Tacitus' refutation of Nero's incendiary solo?" Your finger jumps as you hiccup, catching the edge of my shirt. I gulp again.
"Um," I break eye contact. "Actually, I sneezed in the ashtray when you were in the bathroom. I must've scratched myself, my armpits have been so itchy all day. I think I'm allergic to my new antiperspirant. I hope I don't get hives, my aloe plant died last week. I'm not very good with objects. Physical objects. Er, ones that live."
Armpit hives? Somewhere I'm sure a Happy Elf falls off his Happy Branch. Dead. Or at least hemorrhaging quite badly from the ear.
"So it's kind of like dermography? I wonder what word is written?" I have no idea what dermography is, so I default-laugh and look frantically around for the manifest inspiration of a witty word.
"HA! I think it would say... fortune nookie. COOKIE! It would say fortune cookie."
You smile your crooked smile, a good, winning smile for the tail-end of a dangerous second date. Your arm is still stretched across the table, playing with my cuff.
"That's a far cuff for you!" I give you what I think to be the flirtatious frown of admonishment. Your smile falters slightly.
"What...?"
"Oh, no, I didn't mean. Er... you know, I am thinking of getting a tattoo though. Yeah. A big one of the life-cycle of the lancet fluke Dicrocoelium dentriticum. Breeds in the digestive tracts of grazing ungulates, the eggs of which are eaten from the dung by slugs, which then cough them up in these slime-plaques which are subsequently consumed by ants. The eggs pupate and form these cysts in the heads of the ants and then control their brains, making them climb grass-stalks so that they complete the loop by getting eaten again by cattle."
I pause.
"Now that I think about it, that might actually be the single most repulsive idea for a tattoo that I've ever heard. I think I'd rather get a portrait of Dick Cheney water sliding naked. Or one of that baby corn by your elbow there. With syphilis."
You retrieve your hand so quickly, you clink your bracelet against a bottle, thankfully disguising my latest gulp.
"Nakedly," you correct me. "I think I'm going to take my fortune cookie with me, if that's OK with you? And I'll call a cab. It's only a $30 ride from here........"
And it is THIS line of deleterious imaginative projection of how our second date will go which prevents me from mustering up the courage to ask you out again. I wish I could instead pretend that you are an arsonist or that I find your elbows too flabby.
Actually, we didn't even have a first date. I thought all this in between glances at you in the candy aisle at Blockbuster.
It's why I didn't smile back. Sorry.
I gulp as the tip of your index finger grazed my bicep. I've been told that I gulp frequently. And loudly.
"I think I can just make out the edge of it..." you continue. "Is it a wisp of smoke emerging from a bullet hole? Or... hmmm... would one follow it to find Tacitus' refutation of Nero's incendiary solo?" Your finger jumps as you hiccup, catching the edge of my shirt. I gulp again.
"Um," I break eye contact. "Actually, I sneezed in the ashtray when you were in the bathroom. I must've scratched myself, my armpits have been so itchy all day. I think I'm allergic to my new antiperspirant. I hope I don't get hives, my aloe plant died last week. I'm not very good with objects. Physical objects. Er, ones that live."
Armpit hives? Somewhere I'm sure a Happy Elf falls off his Happy Branch. Dead. Or at least hemorrhaging quite badly from the ear.
"So it's kind of like dermography? I wonder what word is written?" I have no idea what dermography is, so I default-laugh and look frantically around for the manifest inspiration of a witty word.
"HA! I think it would say... fortune nookie. COOKIE! It would say fortune cookie."
You smile your crooked smile, a good, winning smile for the tail-end of a dangerous second date. Your arm is still stretched across the table, playing with my cuff.
"That's a far cuff for you!" I give you what I think to be the flirtatious frown of admonishment. Your smile falters slightly.
"What...?"
"Oh, no, I didn't mean. Er... you know, I am thinking of getting a tattoo though. Yeah. A big one of the life-cycle of the lancet fluke Dicrocoelium dentriticum. Breeds in the digestive tracts of grazing ungulates, the eggs of which are eaten from the dung by slugs, which then cough them up in these slime-plaques which are subsequently consumed by ants. The eggs pupate and form these cysts in the heads of the ants and then control their brains, making them climb grass-stalks so that they complete the loop by getting eaten again by cattle."
I pause.
"Now that I think about it, that might actually be the single most repulsive idea for a tattoo that I've ever heard. I think I'd rather get a portrait of Dick Cheney water sliding naked. Or one of that baby corn by your elbow there. With syphilis."
You retrieve your hand so quickly, you clink your bracelet against a bottle, thankfully disguising my latest gulp.
"Nakedly," you correct me. "I think I'm going to take my fortune cookie with me, if that's OK with you? And I'll call a cab. It's only a $30 ride from here........"
And it is THIS line of deleterious imaginative projection of how our second date will go which prevents me from mustering up the courage to ask you out again. I wish I could instead pretend that you are an arsonist or that I find your elbows too flabby.
Actually, we didn't even have a first date. I thought all this in between glances at you in the candy aisle at Blockbuster.
It's why I didn't smile back. Sorry.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Hickeys on the Moon
3 totally unfounded theories:
1) Pedestrians that walk on the right side of the street perceive themselves to have enhanced right-of-way compared to those walking on the left side.
2) Increasing oil prices (and subsequent food prices) will cause overweight people to be perceived as sexy again (or would that be 'overweight people to be perceived as the body-type ideal'?)
3) Since the muscles controlling the tautness of the eardrums relax when presented with persistent loudness, the aural perils found at a raucous concert or such like event occur only when someone tries to speak to you, when you are most likely to willfully tense the eardrum in order to hear what they say. Peril!
1) Pedestrians that walk on the right side of the street perceive themselves to have enhanced right-of-way compared to those walking on the left side.
2) Increasing oil prices (and subsequent food prices) will cause overweight people to be perceived as sexy again (or would that be 'overweight people to be perceived as the body-type ideal'?)
3) Since the muscles controlling the tautness of the eardrums relax when presented with persistent loudness, the aural perils found at a raucous concert or such like event occur only when someone tries to speak to you, when you are most likely to willfully tense the eardrum in order to hear what they say. Peril!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Friday, May 09, 2008
Spurs or The Space Between Fingers
I asked the lake about you.
The whole lake,
not just the piece
held
in the muted eyes of the stag;
That piece of whetted
guillotine sky
that cannot be withdrawn from the block.
Evidence of people
content in appearing content
wrinkle the hems of the sheet.
I want to crawl under it,
to fill it,
yet still ask for the door to be left
slightly ajar.
The worst offense
of the feud's forgotten origins,
is that we anthropomorphize
people
and bind ourselves to each other instead
with smoke lanyards,
and whistles,
and gifts with hooks in their bellies.
Suddenly I wish I'd bought some apples
from the basket-faced man
at that roadside stall.
He would have declared that
"apples are for walking"
but I would have stayed awhile
unfairly thinking
too much of him.
A friend once told me
that he was told
that something is only worth saying
if it adds to the silence.
And I was annoyed,
as if he had just laid claim
to my grandfather's patronage.
As if crumbs of time
didn't get caught in the headstone's lettering.
Turns out I just admired my friend's purpose.
But the lake.
It heals over my question,
the cambial silver
polished from beneath by old stories.
So I smile to the face I know
the least -
the leased?
And retreat to the boathouse
where I left the book
which taught me the word
anomie
even though I already knew the meaning.
The whole lake,
not just the piece
held
in the muted eyes of the stag;
That piece of whetted
guillotine sky
that cannot be withdrawn from the block.
Evidence of people
content in appearing content
wrinkle the hems of the sheet.
I want to crawl under it,
to fill it,
yet still ask for the door to be left
slightly ajar.
The worst offense
of the feud's forgotten origins,
is that we anthropomorphize
people
and bind ourselves to each other instead
with smoke lanyards,
and whistles,
and gifts with hooks in their bellies.
Suddenly I wish I'd bought some apples
from the basket-faced man
at that roadside stall.
He would have declared that
"apples are for walking"
but I would have stayed awhile
unfairly thinking
too much of him.
A friend once told me
that he was told
that something is only worth saying
if it adds to the silence.
And I was annoyed,
as if he had just laid claim
to my grandfather's patronage.
As if crumbs of time
didn't get caught in the headstone's lettering.
Turns out I just admired my friend's purpose.
But the lake.
It heals over my question,
the cambial silver
polished from beneath by old stories.
So I smile to the face I know
the least -
the leased?
And retreat to the boathouse
where I left the book
which taught me the word
anomie
even though I already knew the meaning.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
a quick sketch
The boy looked like a clump of semi-articulated rhubarb. Though not especially tall, his stringy frame lent him that illusion. His stiff limbs betrayed neither evidence of elbow nor knowledge of knee, and gave the impression that he was always hugging himself. To his mind though, he was hugging the world. Like rhubarb, he didn't seem worth chewing on directly, and his face was always scrunched up as if he was attempting to battle the astringent taste of himself.
Though he had one already, he had always wanted a brother. A real, tough, principled, confident brother. The brother he had was also that: older, imperious, impertinent and devil-may-care... but never what Roob imagined. His brother was a master of karate, a particular skill-set that Roob had felt quite directly involved in his brother aquiring and perhaps explaining why Roob reflexively kept his limbs where he could count them.
"You're still such a boy." His brother sat on the corner of his bed looking around at Roob's room in mock-horror. A pair of drum-sticks walrused out from beneath his toque.
"You should take up a martial-art. That way you could pick up chicks. And then use them as weapons!"
"Hrrr!" said the bassist hovering in the doorway, leaning in for a high-five.
Roob glanced at him from his desk.
"What does that even mean? Use as a weapon?"
"Oh man. Roob. You're killing me here. I meant it as a play on words, don't be so reactive. Martial-arts! You know. You flow over your environment, when you feel danger, everything in the environment becomes dangerous, and every object a weapon."
"Doesn't have to be a physical weapon neither. It can be like, psycho-logical," growled the bassist.
"Object?" Asked Roob, still turned towards his desk.
"Why are you such a Roob? We're all ready to be used. We're all objects awaiting weaponization. If you don't fill your environment with your mind, someone else will fill it with theirs. And then you're at their mercy."
"Hrrr. Mercy Beaucoup. That's our new band name, dude!"
"But don't environments overlap? Let's go back to the 'picking up chicks' bit." Roob was well-practised at ignoring bassists.
"Let's go back to you being a prick. It's no small wonder you're still stuck in Mom's basement, playing with your self, rubbing the rhubarb. Wow, if ever there was a metaphor..."
"Hrrr. Metaforeskin. Hrrr."
"I said 'pick up chicks' cause that's what people think alpha-men do. Finding a girl's just an expression of confidence, you know? The whole 'weapon' thing is a joke, like in The Yakuza, where the guy says to Tanaka: 'I see you've picked up the sword again.'"
"I don't want to just find a girl. I want full planetary fusion. The unity of mind. I want someone to devote myself to. To be my advocate. An equal partner." Roob had finally swivelled his chair around to face his brother.
"Oh no. No you really don't little dude. Trust me. You won't respect each other that way. That's a romantic disguise for leprosy. A freakin myth. Only the one in the weaker position looks for equality. Looking for that is playing catch-up all the time. And if you both feel weak, hell forbid!"
"I didn't say I was looking for it, I said I wanted it."
"Yeah, yeah. But you gotta find a way to exceed each other to be together. You're just defaulting on your own problems if you devote yourself to someone else. Take Lily and me right now. We're together because we have a common love: the band."
"Do you love her though?"
"Well yeah, but she's not my everything. And nor would I want to be hers. Give up her... whatsit... her volition? To me? Creepy."
"Hrrr. Let alone boring. Who wants to hang out with someone you have to make decisions for?"
Roob passed a stalky hand over his pale, pinched face and sighed.
"Aren't you guys supposed to be rehearsing right now?"
"Hrrr. Yeah, but we thought we'd fuck with your Morosey ass for a bit first." Yet another high-five was exchanged.
"Roob, little dude, you gotta stop trying to create your world from scratch. Love is bigger than you. Come upstairs to the garage. Grab a Bud. Drink in some Ohio air. Lily's sister's coming over in a bit. She's pretty pretty. Cutely cute. She'll look like a slice of pie balanced on a briefcase full of money compared to this monkey-boy outfit you got going here. Maybe you and she could help us come up with some lyrics for our new tune."
The brother plucked the drumsticks out of his hat, rattled a quick tattoo on Roob's chair, and left. The bassist stayed a moment, pulling on his goat, then also left. And Roob turned back to his desk. Rumed over his 'weaponized environment' for a moment before sharpening his pencil. Flipping over the sheet of paper, he started to write afresh.
I was in love with you, and you were there too...
Though he had one already, he had always wanted a brother. A real, tough, principled, confident brother. The brother he had was also that: older, imperious, impertinent and devil-may-care... but never what Roob imagined. His brother was a master of karate, a particular skill-set that Roob had felt quite directly involved in his brother aquiring and perhaps explaining why Roob reflexively kept his limbs where he could count them.
"You're still such a boy." His brother sat on the corner of his bed looking around at Roob's room in mock-horror. A pair of drum-sticks walrused out from beneath his toque.
"You should take up a martial-art. That way you could pick up chicks. And then use them as weapons!"
"Hrrr!" said the bassist hovering in the doorway, leaning in for a high-five.
Roob glanced at him from his desk.
"What does that even mean? Use as a weapon?"
"Oh man. Roob. You're killing me here. I meant it as a play on words, don't be so reactive. Martial-arts! You know. You flow over your environment, when you feel danger, everything in the environment becomes dangerous, and every object a weapon."
"Doesn't have to be a physical weapon neither. It can be like, psycho-logical," growled the bassist.
"Object?" Asked Roob, still turned towards his desk.
"Why are you such a Roob? We're all ready to be used. We're all objects awaiting weaponization. If you don't fill your environment with your mind, someone else will fill it with theirs. And then you're at their mercy."
"Hrrr. Mercy Beaucoup. That's our new band name, dude!"
"But don't environments overlap? Let's go back to the 'picking up chicks' bit." Roob was well-practised at ignoring bassists.
"Let's go back to you being a prick. It's no small wonder you're still stuck in Mom's basement, playing with your self, rubbing the rhubarb. Wow, if ever there was a metaphor..."
"Hrrr. Metaforeskin. Hrrr."
"I said 'pick up chicks' cause that's what people think alpha-men do. Finding a girl's just an expression of confidence, you know? The whole 'weapon' thing is a joke, like in The Yakuza, where the guy says to Tanaka: 'I see you've picked up the sword again.'"
"I don't want to just find a girl. I want full planetary fusion. The unity of mind. I want someone to devote myself to. To be my advocate. An equal partner." Roob had finally swivelled his chair around to face his brother.
"Oh no. No you really don't little dude. Trust me. You won't respect each other that way. That's a romantic disguise for leprosy. A freakin myth. Only the one in the weaker position looks for equality. Looking for that is playing catch-up all the time. And if you both feel weak, hell forbid!"
"I didn't say I was looking for it, I said I wanted it."
"Yeah, yeah. But you gotta find a way to exceed each other to be together. You're just defaulting on your own problems if you devote yourself to someone else. Take Lily and me right now. We're together because we have a common love: the band."
"Do you love her though?"
"Well yeah, but she's not my everything. And nor would I want to be hers. Give up her... whatsit... her volition? To me? Creepy."
"Hrrr. Let alone boring. Who wants to hang out with someone you have to make decisions for?"
Roob passed a stalky hand over his pale, pinched face and sighed.
"Aren't you guys supposed to be rehearsing right now?"
"Hrrr. Yeah, but we thought we'd fuck with your Morosey ass for a bit first." Yet another high-five was exchanged.
"Roob, little dude, you gotta stop trying to create your world from scratch. Love is bigger than you. Come upstairs to the garage. Grab a Bud. Drink in some Ohio air. Lily's sister's coming over in a bit. She's pretty pretty. Cutely cute. She'll look like a slice of pie balanced on a briefcase full of money compared to this monkey-boy outfit you got going here. Maybe you and she could help us come up with some lyrics for our new tune."
The brother plucked the drumsticks out of his hat, rattled a quick tattoo on Roob's chair, and left. The bassist stayed a moment, pulling on his goat, then also left. And Roob turned back to his desk. Rumed over his 'weaponized environment' for a moment before sharpening his pencil. Flipping over the sheet of paper, he started to write afresh.
I was in love with you, and you were there too...
Monday, April 28, 2008
LL Cool D
My cat got in a back-alley fight. Lost most admirably and returned with a limp. The limp was from a bite, and the ensuing bacterial infection swelled his hind-leg to the size of a Bratwurst with a bacterial infection. I took him to the vet, where they lanced the wound and coddled Dougal better and held him for the rest of the week.
Man, did I ever miss that little guy: Abcess makes the heart grow fonder.
Now he's back, with one shaved normal-sized hind leg that looks like a weathered peg that may've drifted up onto some isolated beach. And was then firmly attached to a cat. Or the rolled-up tracksuit leg of an early 90's gangsta. Or a country parishioner on a bike. There's not much dignity to the look, but his mood is spry and cuddly and it looks like he'll be a porch-cat from hereonin.
And all I can say to the menace still lurking in the alley is, "Mama said knock you out".
Man, did I ever miss that little guy: Abcess makes the heart grow fonder.
Now he's back, with one shaved normal-sized hind leg that looks like a weathered peg that may've drifted up onto some isolated beach. And was then firmly attached to a cat. Or the rolled-up tracksuit leg of an early 90's gangsta. Or a country parishioner on a bike. There's not much dignity to the look, but his mood is spry and cuddly and it looks like he'll be a porch-cat from hereonin.
And all I can say to the menace still lurking in the alley is, "Mama said knock you out".
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
mass perturbation
"Jack off all trades, mastur... oh, fuckget it"
I am wondering what it is that brings me back to this site. I've definitely missed being a contributing member, missed the reading of others' blogs, missed the piercing clarity that typing a few words here and there brings to my day-to-day mental opacity. But mostly I've missed the puns. The blog has this marvelous way of feeling like you can refine your own little pocket of reality, and that all consent is tacitly granted by its accessability. You can create this -cosm of the absurd, populate it with the demented, and then somehow use that to counterpoint REAL life. A blog's like a jester to the king. Otherwise, what is it? A failed attempt at a 1:1 ratio of your feelings and all of its dust-motes? The throbbing forehead vein of vermicular emotion? One of the websites you return to in order to reinforce and revalidate what you already know? A performance-art of self-revelation? Very very, I'd say.
Montreal's got me down these 6 months passed. Like some sort of mental inversion, wherein I strengthen the same neural pathways just by walking the same streets. I've felt a victim of perfidy, of self-sabotage, of my own emotional reactivity (obscuring my lassitude and resignation). No specifity needed: I don't want to be trapped by myself any longer. I'm sure we all feel that way (hence the perception of perfidy). So I don't believe in comfortable change anymore (linked to and confused by the implicit human tendency toward self-destructive behaviour). Nor do I believe that we have to 'understand' everything anymore either, at least, not in order to make a decision.
I definitely want to stay firmly within the mists of mystery. Just a really really mysterious mystery. One that helps me forgo my cognitive prejudices and brings me back to the details.
Oh yeah, and boobcheese, prostatic analglyphs and bumbarnacles, just to meet the day's rude-word quota. Let's get real, we both come here for that.
I am wondering what it is that brings me back to this site. I've definitely missed being a contributing member, missed the reading of others' blogs, missed the piercing clarity that typing a few words here and there brings to my day-to-day mental opacity. But mostly I've missed the puns. The blog has this marvelous way of feeling like you can refine your own little pocket of reality, and that all consent is tacitly granted by its accessability. You can create this -cosm of the absurd, populate it with the demented, and then somehow use that to counterpoint REAL life. A blog's like a jester to the king. Otherwise, what is it? A failed attempt at a 1:1 ratio of your feelings and all of its dust-motes? The throbbing forehead vein of vermicular emotion? One of the websites you return to in order to reinforce and revalidate what you already know? A performance-art of self-revelation? Very very, I'd say.
Montreal's got me down these 6 months passed. Like some sort of mental inversion, wherein I strengthen the same neural pathways just by walking the same streets. I've felt a victim of perfidy, of self-sabotage, of my own emotional reactivity (obscuring my lassitude and resignation). No specifity needed: I don't want to be trapped by myself any longer. I'm sure we all feel that way (hence the perception of perfidy). So I don't believe in comfortable change anymore (linked to and confused by the implicit human tendency toward self-destructive behaviour). Nor do I believe that we have to 'understand' everything anymore either, at least, not in order to make a decision.
I definitely want to stay firmly within the mists of mystery. Just a really really mysterious mystery. One that helps me forgo my cognitive prejudices and brings me back to the details.
Oh yeah, and boobcheese, prostatic analglyphs and bumbarnacles, just to meet the day's rude-word quota. Let's get real, we both come here for that.
Monday, March 03, 2008
End of an error?
This rolling page, abused and misused in its prime, may be no more... my computer gave up the ghost this weekend, and now I'll probably resign myself to attaching etch-a-sketches to pigeons.
So, thanks for the laughs my friends, I'll visit when I can and update when I cannier.
*Whom's uncle out*
So, thanks for the laughs my friends, I'll visit when I can and update when I cannier.
*Whom's uncle out*
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thinking about drawing stick figure cartoons
This is a collection of cartoon ideas about stick figures that I recently found in a scrappy old notebook. Its lo-fi objective was apparently not to even draw the cartoons, but to let the reader do that in her head. I did add a few just so I could rediscover what the hell I was trying to do.
- STICK FIGURES WITH SMALL STRIATIONS ACROSS THEM. "The cartoonist thought his stick figures had stretchmarks, but then realized it was just cathair."
- JUST A SINGLE VERTICAL LINE. CAPTION: "What stick figures look like to each other."
- BLANK PAGE. "In the early 80s, the stick-figures unwisely dabbled in atheism for a few days."
- A STICK CAT LOOKING AT THE READER SAYING: "What the fuck?"
- A COUPLE OF STICK FIGURES LOOKING BEWILDERED. "The stick figures couldn't tell if they were racist or not."
- A LARGE @. "Todd was part tumbleweed."
- TWO STICK FIGURES. "Mary-Kate and Ashley traded heads for a day."
- BLANK PAGE. "The day Teflon came to town."
- A 3x3 GRID WITH Xs AND Os. "Tic-Tac-Toe is a war crime."
Yeah. I've no idea either.
I have no idea what this is
- STICK FIGURES WITH SMALL STRIATIONS ACROSS THEM. "The cartoonist thought his stick figures had stretchmarks, but then realized it was just cathair."
- JUST A SINGLE VERTICAL LINE. CAPTION: "What stick figures look like to each other."
- BLANK PAGE. "In the early 80s, the stick-figures unwisely dabbled in atheism for a few days."
- A STICK CAT LOOKING AT THE READER SAYING: "What the fuck?"
- A COUPLE OF STICK FIGURES LOOKING BEWILDERED. "The stick figures couldn't tell if they were racist or not."
- A LARGE @. "Todd was part tumbleweed."
- TWO STICK FIGURES. "Mary-Kate and Ashley traded heads for a day."
- BLANK PAGE. "The day Teflon came to town."
- A 3x3 GRID WITH Xs AND Os. "Tic-Tac-Toe is a war crime."
Yeah. I've no idea either.
I have no idea what this is
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
blinking out of my sunday window, i saw my middle-aged neighbour in her kitchen. she was wearing a big yellow bee costume. she looked busy.
today i reformatted and restored my ailing computer. i wiped it clean like they did McMurphy. i lost all my archives in the process. perhaps the Chief'll finish it off tonight.
today i reformatted and restored my ailing computer. i wiped it clean like they did McMurphy. i lost all my archives in the process. perhaps the Chief'll finish it off tonight.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
valent tines
<< collision >>
>> collusion <<
<< illusory >>
>> elision <<
<< elution >>
>> lesion <<
<< ablution >>
>> ablation <<
>> collusion <<
<< illusory >>
>> elision <<
<< elution >>
>> lesion <<
<< ablution >>
>> ablation <<
Saturday, February 09, 2008
more post-its and aphorisms
- ever noticed that as our representation becomes more figurative, we rely ever heavier on a literal interpretation of it?
- ever feel that your social guilt is that of an individual and that your individual guilt is that of a member?
- Guerrilla Gardening... I'm sow in!
- ever feel that your social guilt is that of an individual and that your individual guilt is that of a member?
- Guerrilla Gardening... I'm sow in!
Thursday, February 07, 2008
videmocrazism
some interesting clips and media...
- Don Hertzfeldt's Rejected... saw this at Just For Laughs, then a friend reminded me of its existence last year.
- Billy's Balloon reminds me a little of my dad's globophobia, or, fear of balloons
- Monsatan and Faux News kissykissy
- I'm Alan Partridge... My favourite comedy series of all-time (season 1 is from '97; season 2 from 2002). I think it's genius.
- I was wondering what happened to the coverage on the Anthrax Attacks... something I read a few years ago now in palatable 'clip' form.
- And lastly, when one takes into consideration the use of oil to underwrite the value of currency, this article can explain much of the recent saber-rattling against Iran. Sure, there's many sparking loose wires in here, but what else, other than conjecture, do we really have to go on? This one also helps explain the money system.
- Don Hertzfeldt's Rejected... saw this at Just For Laughs, then a friend reminded me of its existence last year.
- Billy's Balloon reminds me a little of my dad's globophobia, or, fear of balloons
- Monsatan and Faux News kissykissy
- I'm Alan Partridge... My favourite comedy series of all-time (season 1 is from '97; season 2 from 2002). I think it's genius.
- I was wondering what happened to the coverage on the Anthrax Attacks... something I read a few years ago now in palatable 'clip' form.
- And lastly, when one takes into consideration the use of oil to underwrite the value of currency, this article can explain much of the recent saber-rattling against Iran. Sure, there's many sparking loose wires in here, but what else, other than conjecture, do we really have to go on? This one also helps explain the money system.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Full Self-Esteem Ahead...
Sat here turning phrases and opening lines about like a rusty, off-centre lathe for a good 20 minutes already. Pulse has synch'd with the despondent-looking cursor, which blinks at a pace approaching near-aerobic for me these cloistered days. But I've brooded my way to accepting that this entry will be an ungainly exercise, like a squid challenging a gazelle to a round of hopscotch, minus the funny sounds. It will be disjunctive (thus suitably representative) and moldy; weak on digestible content and doubtlessly several astronomical units away from the deportment necessary to convey my apologies to my friends and loved ones.
The good news though is that this is an elect state of mind for me as compared to the 3 odd months passed... you see, I'm almost re-heartened. Which is thumbs-up!
so... HELLO WORLD!!
I won't tell you where I've been. I'll allude: an amoebic disembodied tongue in a pickle-barrel. My phone has been nothing more than ballast on a foundering ship. It may've well been up my butt (which I guess'd bring new meaning to having a great ringtone).
You see, I am a depressive.
Not 'prone to the blues'. Not morose. Not histrionic. Not reactionary. But neuro-tragic. It turns the world literally inside-out. And all my choice is confounded by the 'reality'. It's a systemic corruption of consciousness. I'll list it...
- Words get slippery. I cherish vocabulary. It's the ecology of idea and the one reply we've generated to our impermanence. One slippery word starts the mudslide. One semantic gaffe... well... 'All for the want of one horseshoe nail, the kingdom was lost.'
- Free will becomes a hostage-taker. All pursuit of creating positive feedback loops only strengthens the sense of victimization. And I am vehemently opposed to victimization - it is habituated fear, and fear cordons and enslaves.
- Music sucks.
- Dependencies and addictions increase. Concern of this fact is in inverse correlation.
- The people who normally buoy you and keep you thinking and ultimately make you whole (you social animal you), become demons. You envy their apparent completion. You feel 'open' to scrutiny, and presuming you know how they feel about you, feel that its bad (in actuality you are feeling you feeling you, which upon further reflection is a gross violation of the other person's freedom = you unwittingly disallow their conscious presence). Your response is to avoid them.
- You become physically weak. Mayhaps from lack of healthy living in total, but it feels like a psychic ailment still.
- Lost time.
- Not even nothing matters. All is trivial.
- You flake-out a lot. Break vows, devotions, commitments.
- You feel that your simple presence on the planet, as a part of the whole, debases the 'good' of the rest. That you destroy it by being.
- Perhaps the worst bit, and linked closely to the free-will: you become you're own excuse and question your agency ('Am I 'creating' this? or am I a creation of this?')
Pretty bad stuff. It's only a fragment of 'me', but when it happens, it happens for a spell unbroken.
And yet, I emerge now from it... an astonishing thing to watch, as it's hard to know what to attribute it to. a squirting of brain? a flexed push of thought? an emotional levee? ... whatever, it feels good.
One caveat here:
Depression does not equal feeling 'unhappy' or 'sad' or 'angry'. Depression may CAUSE those feelings, but in and of itself it is NOT an emotion. It is a numbing of competency and sheer life-presence. If you, as a person, have a rough day and say: 'I was depressed today' then please, for the sake of veracity, know that that's what you mean.
In the meantime and the nicetime, I'll be talking to you...
My face is reforming and I'm lurching back into your life!
The good news though is that this is an elect state of mind for me as compared to the 3 odd months passed... you see, I'm almost re-heartened. Which is thumbs-up!
so... HELLO WORLD!!
I won't tell you where I've been. I'll allude: an amoebic disembodied tongue in a pickle-barrel. My phone has been nothing more than ballast on a foundering ship. It may've well been up my butt (which I guess'd bring new meaning to having a great ringtone).
You see, I am a depressive.
Not 'prone to the blues'. Not morose. Not histrionic. Not reactionary. But neuro-tragic. It turns the world literally inside-out. And all my choice is confounded by the 'reality'. It's a systemic corruption of consciousness. I'll list it...
- Words get slippery. I cherish vocabulary. It's the ecology of idea and the one reply we've generated to our impermanence. One slippery word starts the mudslide. One semantic gaffe... well... 'All for the want of one horseshoe nail, the kingdom was lost.'
- Free will becomes a hostage-taker. All pursuit of creating positive feedback loops only strengthens the sense of victimization. And I am vehemently opposed to victimization - it is habituated fear, and fear cordons and enslaves.
- Music sucks.
- Dependencies and addictions increase. Concern of this fact is in inverse correlation.
- The people who normally buoy you and keep you thinking and ultimately make you whole (you social animal you), become demons. You envy their apparent completion. You feel 'open' to scrutiny, and presuming you know how they feel about you, feel that its bad (in actuality you are feeling you feeling you, which upon further reflection is a gross violation of the other person's freedom = you unwittingly disallow their conscious presence). Your response is to avoid them.
- You become physically weak. Mayhaps from lack of healthy living in total, but it feels like a psychic ailment still.
- Lost time.
- Not even nothing matters. All is trivial.
- You flake-out a lot. Break vows, devotions, commitments.
- You feel that your simple presence on the planet, as a part of the whole, debases the 'good' of the rest. That you destroy it by being.
- Perhaps the worst bit, and linked closely to the free-will: you become you're own excuse and question your agency ('Am I 'creating' this? or am I a creation of this?')
Pretty bad stuff. It's only a fragment of 'me', but when it happens, it happens for a spell unbroken.
And yet, I emerge now from it... an astonishing thing to watch, as it's hard to know what to attribute it to. a squirting of brain? a flexed push of thought? an emotional levee? ... whatever, it feels good.
One caveat here:
Depression does not equal feeling 'unhappy' or 'sad' or 'angry'. Depression may CAUSE those feelings, but in and of itself it is NOT an emotion. It is a numbing of competency and sheer life-presence. If you, as a person, have a rough day and say: 'I was depressed today' then please, for the sake of veracity, know that that's what you mean.
In the meantime and the nicetime, I'll be talking to you...
My face is reforming and I'm lurching back into your life!
Sunday, December 02, 2007
I read somewhere that Will Smith had recently divorced and posted his profile on Millionairematch.com
That meant it was ok for me to sign up, so I did. If only to take a peak at "I, Will Smith". Perusing it while I ate take-out Phad Thai, I found it to have a delightful inital pr[e/o]mise: "#1 site for finding wealthy men and gorgeous girls, and women."
After squeezing the lime and sprinkling some peanuts on my noodles, I went and initiated a profile. Soon I was finding 39 year-old girls from LA, FL and Oakville, ON and guys from NY or TX or NY. But I soon discovered that if I truly wanted to email them I'd have to be a Gold member. All I wanted to do was see Will, so I typed in Will for a match. I got sirwilliam, willgivethisatry, willowyblonde, and WILLtoPOWER (who co-wrote the 1989 smash: Baby, I love your way). So I tried Smith and got Smithers123 or something.
And then I got bored of looking at 39 year-old social drinkers who are confident and compassionate and merely very good looking and looking for 22-22.5 year old spontaneous homebodies who love children (working for them), and stopped.
That meant it was ok for me to sign up, so I did. If only to take a peak at "I, Will Smith". Perusing it while I ate take-out Phad Thai, I found it to have a delightful inital pr[e/o]mise: "#1 site for finding wealthy men and gorgeous girls, and women."
After squeezing the lime and sprinkling some peanuts on my noodles, I went and initiated a profile. Soon I was finding 39 year-old girls from LA, FL and Oakville, ON and guys from NY or TX or NY. But I soon discovered that if I truly wanted to email them I'd have to be a Gold member. All I wanted to do was see Will, so I typed in Will for a match. I got sirwilliam, willgivethisatry, willowyblonde, and WILLtoPOWER (who co-wrote the 1989 smash: Baby, I love your way). So I tried Smith and got Smithers123 or something.
And then I got bored of looking at 39 year-old social drinkers who are confident and compassionate and merely very good looking and looking for 22-22.5 year old spontaneous homebodies who love children (working for them), and stopped.
Friday, November 30, 2007
cone of sound and fury
i am in a spot, once again, where i can understand things way beyond me and yet, Cassandrastyle, can't understand others or things present to me. let alone meet them. what to do?
ask you...
what do you do to pick yourself out of a depressive place? practices? consortiments? people? websites? please (a) suggest things, i.e. help and (b) buy Boxcutter's latest album (then think you've been ripped off, then get drunk and lonesome and listened to it full-volume and then told all your friends about it)...
ask you...
what do you do to pick yourself out of a depressive place? practices? consortiments? people? websites? please (a) suggest things, i.e. help and (b) buy Boxcutter's latest album (then think you've been ripped off, then get drunk and lonesome and listened to it full-volume and then told all your friends about it)...
Thursday, November 29, 2007
i'll wake up embarrassed for this one...
we are farmed to dis/arm.
becoming a kettle of lickspittle to better belittle the speakers less-special.
from original sin to societal din to redivisible individuals too remediated to rebegin.
we dress up to stay in.
or come out so stout in the self, that our society stays thin.
rubbing itself with deep-shelf unguents and linaments spun out from the latest in-thing spin.
ever mediated, ever expediated, ever inebriated, ever experiencing.
enjoyment sipped lustily through gripped teeth and belief stripped by flipped grief.
and where's the story read to me not through me?
if you're proudly rowdy, my larynx'll loudly reverse and upend, defaulting muscles to send your messages again to my brain... injecting insects and larvae and perfidious pain, through the one reign that remained and kept my self sane.
my voice, it belongs to you, but not how i meant it to.
bred to bleed and needing to seed, and in constant alarm are made to dis/arm and make stupidly stooped ids and entities and IDs. might as well wear shoes on your knees. or say sorry when you mean please. or say nothing when you mean sorry. or resent them for making you say nothing. and hate them for resenting them for saying nothing for saying sorry for saying please.
becoming a kettle of lickspittle to better belittle the speakers less-special.
from original sin to societal din to redivisible individuals too remediated to rebegin.
we dress up to stay in.
or come out so stout in the self, that our society stays thin.
rubbing itself with deep-shelf unguents and linaments spun out from the latest in-thing spin.
ever mediated, ever expediated, ever inebriated, ever experiencing.
enjoyment sipped lustily through gripped teeth and belief stripped by flipped grief.
and where's the story read to me not through me?
if you're proudly rowdy, my larynx'll loudly reverse and upend, defaulting muscles to send your messages again to my brain... injecting insects and larvae and perfidious pain, through the one reign that remained and kept my self sane.
my voice, it belongs to you, but not how i meant it to.
bred to bleed and needing to seed, and in constant alarm are made to dis/arm and make stupidly stooped ids and entities and IDs. might as well wear shoes on your knees. or say sorry when you mean please. or say nothing when you mean sorry. or resent them for making you say nothing. and hate them for resenting them for saying nothing for saying sorry for saying please.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
BLinks
After some careful munching, I decided to ameliorate my other blog's name to of murk and sky. This was originally to be the name of a pirate radio story I was going to write a few years ago, but eventually put on the 'recyclable material' pile.
Also new or updated on the blogroll are the following links... Goodnight and Sweet Byzantine Dreams,Once upon a day..., and ...and hijinks ensued.
Enjoy...
Also new or updated on the blogroll are the following links... Goodnight and Sweet Byzantine Dreams,Once upon a day..., and ...and hijinks ensued.
Enjoy...
Fried Rich...
About all I'm good for tonight is the delivery of the devilry of my bathroom book du jour: Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil... here's Walter Kaufman's 1966 edition, not that I know of any others...
After such cheerful commencement, a serious word would like to be heard; it appeals to the most serious. Take care, philosophers and friends, of knowledge, and beware of martyrdom! Of suffering "for the truth's sake"! Even of defending yourselves! It spoils all the innocence and fine neutrality of your conscience; it makes you headstrong against objections and red rags; it stupefies, animalizes, and brutalizes when in the struggle with danger, slander, suspicion, expulsion, and even worse consequences of hostility, you have to pose as protectors of truth upon earth - as though the truth were such an innocuous and incompetent creature as to require protectors! and you of all people, you knights of the most sorrowful countenance,* dear loafers and cobweb-spinners of the spirit! After all, you know well enough that it cannot be of any consequence if you of all people are proved right; you know that no philosopher so far has been proved right, and that there might be a more laudable truthfulness in every little question mark that you place after your special words and favourite doctrines (and occasionally after yourselves) than in all the solemn gestures and trumps before accusers and law courts. Rather, go away. Flee into concealment. And have your masks and subtlety, that you may be mistaken for what you are not, or feared a little. And don't forget the garden, the garden with the golden trelliswork. And have people around you who are as a garden - or as music on the waters in the evening, when the day is turning into memories. Choose the good solitude, the free, playful, light solitude that gives you, too, the right to remain good in some sense. How poisonous, how crafty, how bad, does every long war make one, that cannot be waged openly by means of force! How personal does a long fear make one, a long watching of enemies, of possible enemies! These outcasts of society, these long-pursued, wickedly persecuted ones - also the compulsory recluses, the Spinozas or Giodano Brunos - always come in the end, even under the most spiritual masquerade, and perhaps without being themselves aware of it, sophisticated vengeance-seekeres and poison-brewers (let someone lay bare the foundation of Spinoza's ethics ans theology!), not to speak of the stupidity of moral indignation, which is the unfailing sign in a philosopher that his philosophical sense of humour has left him. The martyrdom of the philosopher, this "sacrifice for the sake of truth," forces into the light whatever of the agitator anc actor lurks in him; and if one has so far contemplated him only with artistic curiosity, with regard to many a philosopher it is easy to understand the dangerous desire to see him also in his degeneration (degenerated into a "martyr," into a stage- and platform-bawler). Only, that it is necessary with such a desire to be clear what spectacle one will see in any case - merely a satyr play, merely an epilogue farce, merely the continued proof that the long, real tragedy is at an end, assuming that every philosophy was in its genesis a long tragedy.
*reference to Don Quixote...
Ch 25, p35-37, Nietzsche, F. (trans. W. Kaufmann).
After such cheerful commencement, a serious word would like to be heard; it appeals to the most serious. Take care, philosophers and friends, of knowledge, and beware of martyrdom! Of suffering "for the truth's sake"! Even of defending yourselves! It spoils all the innocence and fine neutrality of your conscience; it makes you headstrong against objections and red rags; it stupefies, animalizes, and brutalizes when in the struggle with danger, slander, suspicion, expulsion, and even worse consequences of hostility, you have to pose as protectors of truth upon earth - as though the truth were such an innocuous and incompetent creature as to require protectors! and you of all people, you knights of the most sorrowful countenance,* dear loafers and cobweb-spinners of the spirit! After all, you know well enough that it cannot be of any consequence if you of all people are proved right; you know that no philosopher so far has been proved right, and that there might be a more laudable truthfulness in every little question mark that you place after your special words and favourite doctrines (and occasionally after yourselves) than in all the solemn gestures and trumps before accusers and law courts. Rather, go away. Flee into concealment. And have your masks and subtlety, that you may be mistaken for what you are not, or feared a little. And don't forget the garden, the garden with the golden trelliswork. And have people around you who are as a garden - or as music on the waters in the evening, when the day is turning into memories. Choose the good solitude, the free, playful, light solitude that gives you, too, the right to remain good in some sense. How poisonous, how crafty, how bad, does every long war make one, that cannot be waged openly by means of force! How personal does a long fear make one, a long watching of enemies, of possible enemies! These outcasts of society, these long-pursued, wickedly persecuted ones - also the compulsory recluses, the Spinozas or Giodano Brunos - always come in the end, even under the most spiritual masquerade, and perhaps without being themselves aware of it, sophisticated vengeance-seekeres and poison-brewers (let someone lay bare the foundation of Spinoza's ethics ans theology!), not to speak of the stupidity of moral indignation, which is the unfailing sign in a philosopher that his philosophical sense of humour has left him. The martyrdom of the philosopher, this "sacrifice for the sake of truth," forces into the light whatever of the agitator anc actor lurks in him; and if one has so far contemplated him only with artistic curiosity, with regard to many a philosopher it is easy to understand the dangerous desire to see him also in his degeneration (degenerated into a "martyr," into a stage- and platform-bawler). Only, that it is necessary with such a desire to be clear what spectacle one will see in any case - merely a satyr play, merely an epilogue farce, merely the continued proof that the long, real tragedy is at an end, assuming that every philosophy was in its genesis a long tragedy.
*reference to Don Quixote...
Ch 25, p35-37, Nietzsche, F. (trans. W. Kaufmann).
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Burning Down The House
The Rules:
1. Put your iTunes/ music player on Shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER WHAT
(this is in capital letters, so it is very serious. No hiding your showtunes, folks!)
After you’ve answered all of the questions, tag 5 other people and then let them know they’ve been tagged to do the meme themselves!
IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY” YOU SAY?
Bullyshit - Quasimoto
(this meme is spot-on so far!)
WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Underground Communication- Bassnectar
(cloak and dagger!)
WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
The Aircrash Bureau - Gary Numan
(true! drama feels like it chooses me, but i guess choice is a choice)
HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
I Want To Relax, Please! - Tei Towa
(hobble the damned hamster already!)
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
Laundry Baskets - Aqueduct
(the L key's nowhere near the W key. i'm in trouble...)
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
It's Her Factory - Gang of Four
(no comment)
WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Song Against Sex - Neutral Milk Hotel
(someone stole my mojo baby...)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
Beat the Odds - Dj Numark & Pomo
(hahaha... HA HA HA!)
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Panic - The Smiths
(-otine... if i don't get it!)
WHAT IS 2+2?
Juju Space Jazz - Brian Eno
(actually, no matter what the stumper, i'll reach that conclusion)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Fat Ass Joint - Amon Tobin
(the fucking Oracle of Delphi this is!)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Angel - Massive Attack
(this question, if that's what it is, demands a stupider answer than it got)
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
You Were There With Me - Four Tet
(awwww. wait. who was? wait further. where were we?)
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
24 Hour Party People - Happy Mondays
(I grew up aaaages ago)
WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Lycanthropy - Patrick Wolf
(ahahahahahahahahaha... ha)
WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Down Down Down - The Presets
(that many downs... must be a syndrome)
WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
True - Spandau Ballet
WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Slipping Into Darkness - Dayton Sidewinders
(that's what i'll hear at least)
WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Faded Coat of Blue - Jolie Holland
(old things? beggary? i do like blue, but what kind of hobby is 'liking blue'?)
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Fire Your Guns (Live) - AC/DC
(I guess so)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
WWIII - KMFDM
WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?
Burning Down The House - Talking Heads
(well, works for Monday night procrastination at least)
And the 5 Taggees Are:
James, Eve, Amy, Lucy and I don't think anyone else reads this...
1. Put your iTunes/ music player on Shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER WHAT
(this is in capital letters, so it is very serious. No hiding your showtunes, folks!)
After you’ve answered all of the questions, tag 5 other people and then let them know they’ve been tagged to do the meme themselves!
IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY” YOU SAY?
Bullyshit - Quasimoto
(this meme is spot-on so far!)
WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Underground Communication- Bassnectar
(cloak and dagger!)
WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
The Aircrash Bureau - Gary Numan
(true! drama feels like it chooses me, but i guess choice is a choice)
HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
I Want To Relax, Please! - Tei Towa
(hobble the damned hamster already!)
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
Laundry Baskets - Aqueduct
(the L key's nowhere near the W key. i'm in trouble...)
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
It's Her Factory - Gang of Four
(no comment)
WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Song Against Sex - Neutral Milk Hotel
(someone stole my mojo baby...)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
Beat the Odds - Dj Numark & Pomo
(hahaha... HA HA HA!)
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Panic - The Smiths
(-otine... if i don't get it!)
WHAT IS 2+2?
Juju Space Jazz - Brian Eno
(actually, no matter what the stumper, i'll reach that conclusion)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Fat Ass Joint - Amon Tobin
(the fucking Oracle of Delphi this is!)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Angel - Massive Attack
(this question, if that's what it is, demands a stupider answer than it got)
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
You Were There With Me - Four Tet
(awwww. wait. who was? wait further. where were we?)
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
24 Hour Party People - Happy Mondays
(I grew up aaaages ago)
WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Lycanthropy - Patrick Wolf
(ahahahahahahahahaha... ha)
WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Down Down Down - The Presets
(that many downs... must be a syndrome)
WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
True - Spandau Ballet
WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
Slipping Into Darkness - Dayton Sidewinders
(that's what i'll hear at least)
WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Faded Coat of Blue - Jolie Holland
(old things? beggary? i do like blue, but what kind of hobby is 'liking blue'?)
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Fire Your Guns (Live) - AC/DC
(I guess so)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
WWIII - KMFDM
WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?
Burning Down The House - Talking Heads
(well, works for Monday night procrastination at least)
And the 5 Taggees Are:
James, Eve, Amy, Lucy and I don't think anyone else reads this...
Monday, November 26, 2007
posterchild for democrazy
i don't post much these days. and i'm not going to post about how i don't post post this 'post'.
i'd like instead to turn to freeverse to help thaw some anxiety here.
clackclack the crow goes
clack
grey cold gnawing on the house,
fielded nearby,
chewed stalks under thick clouds
pushed to a brittle surface
like the sad skin of a spurned lover
black feathers see such a compromise of air
and speak on the spoken
clackclack the gate shows
clack
a wind of dark trees
moans a door moans a window
as they approach
like the hearth of your parents,
it issues around the words
which are warmer when you are not there
clackclack the door goes
clack
the sound of a trick
you play on yourself
when you finally pull open
i'd like instead to turn to freeverse to help thaw some anxiety here.
clackclack the crow goes
clack
grey cold gnawing on the house,
fielded nearby,
chewed stalks under thick clouds
pushed to a brittle surface
like the sad skin of a spurned lover
black feathers see such a compromise of air
and speak on the spoken
clackclack the gate shows
clack
a wind of dark trees
moans a door moans a window
as they approach
like the hearth of your parents,
it issues around the words
which are warmer when you are not there
clackclack the door goes
clack
the sound of a trick
you play on yourself
when you finally pull open
strangely, i feel more anxious than ever
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
squeal
I fought the law and..............[soft sound of someone passing gas in the middle-distance].
Had the prelim today at the municipal court. Checked my name on the roll, the day's list of procedures, and it wasn't there. Went to the reception, she typed in the case number, nothing digital so she called up to the clerks office and fed them all the information that was on my summons. Nothing. She even said: They don't have anything filed. So she stamped the citation and said to watch the mail, they might designate a new day OR, if nothing happened, I could consider the procedures recinded (or some such buggery). So I did a few laps of the building and saw Sven, who had been identically charged. He had experienced the same 'whoopsie'. A 'whoopsie' that he'd rented a car and driven up to Montreal from Toronto for, inconveniencing both him and Liz, who'd come for support.
???
Relief is intermingled with indignation here.
Now also, because I'm neither guilty nor not-guilty, what happened that night between us four and the 2 divisions of cops all happened outside of the law. In other words, it never happened. I can't begin to describe how an event that now never happened has fucked with me for 2 months straight...
But do I dare ask for satisfaction? That's actually quite scary.
Had the prelim today at the municipal court. Checked my name on the roll, the day's list of procedures, and it wasn't there. Went to the reception, she typed in the case number, nothing digital so she called up to the clerks office and fed them all the information that was on my summons. Nothing. She even said: They don't have anything filed. So she stamped the citation and said to watch the mail, they might designate a new day OR, if nothing happened, I could consider the procedures recinded (or some such buggery). So I did a few laps of the building and saw Sven, who had been identically charged. He had experienced the same 'whoopsie'. A 'whoopsie' that he'd rented a car and driven up to Montreal from Toronto for, inconveniencing both him and Liz, who'd come for support.
???
Relief is intermingled with indignation here.
Now also, because I'm neither guilty nor not-guilty, what happened that night between us four and the 2 divisions of cops all happened outside of the law. In other words, it never happened. I can't begin to describe how an event that now never happened has fucked with me for 2 months straight...
But do I dare ask for satisfaction? That's actually quite scary.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
cell is other people
do you remember when there was cellphone etiquette? when the one person you knew owned a phone would blush at a squawking 2-bit Old Macdonald ringtone, whisper apologies in every direction and hurry to the nearest permissible area as if suddenly suckerpunched by stage 2 of Montazuma's revenge? do you remember when people were exhorted to leave tables? go into other rooms? leave the house? remember when they were treated as pariahs and not as if they were the 110 decibel rallying point of convergent 'future technology'? remember when they were the only brain-tumor you had? remember when one person checking their phone led to people rolling their eyes as opposed to inducing them to check their own? when your Mum didn't have Giving the Dog a Bone as her personal ringtone for Gerry from her darts-league?
remember that? when you thought that you invented the 'they look like crazy people' joke? when PDAs held up the mini-putters behind without making you look like a total shithead?
...i just realized i could go on a long time about this one...
remember that? when you thought that you invented the 'they look like crazy people' joke? when PDAs held up the mini-putters behind without making you look like a total shithead?
...i just realized i could go on a long time about this one...
Monday, November 12, 2007
boasting on posting
because i've had a rat-gnawed watermelon serving as an excuse for a head this last 10 days, it is with great aplomb that I provide my first post at Architext (that name just has to go... its a smelly name, as if the teeth of my thoughts thunken have a periodontal disease). It's a snobby, self-congratulatory story, but one that'll yield to softer pastures, I'm sure. I'll stay here, for what boredom now passes as here, and try for naught but exclusive whimsy.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
After deliberating through a mild spell of depressed sensibilities and general lassitude, I came up with the awkward www.liminalumen.wordpress.com... while I pondered crumbs I'd heard from elsewhere (Architorture, Anarchitecture) I settled on the facile 'Architext' as the interim title. Why would I stop here at this lacklustre inauguration? That's right! I haven't even posted on it yet. The first post'll concern the person who's work I stolenated as the banner picture. And also how 'sustainability' as a word is the new 'enemy combatant'. And also why I chose liminalumen as a domain name in the firstplace.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Left Angles
But the straight line has become an absolute tyranny.
The straight line is something cowardly drawn with a rule, without thought or feeling; it is a line which does not exist in nature.
And that the line is the rotten foundation of our doomed civilization.
- Friedensreich Hundertwasser
Our buildings are machines built by machines and designed around their convenience. We have the choice now either to willingly climb into the machine, and integrate with it the rounded edges of our dreams, or to just let the machine be built around us. Our babble is realizing its parallel process, and media is the towering superstructure. What can we do? What can we do?
The liminal space is now private: your doorstep, your school, your communal area. You have been programmed to live in this liminal space: your car, your television, your credit card. Liminal space used to afford you expansion, was your theater of transcendence. Now you cannot let your children play in the streets. Someone will sell you your power, will you stand for that? But what can we do?
Engineer = ? = Angina
!!!Inside Outside!!!
The straight line is something cowardly drawn with a rule, without thought or feeling; it is a line which does not exist in nature.
And that the line is the rotten foundation of our doomed civilization.
- Friedensreich Hundertwasser
Our buildings are machines built by machines and designed around their convenience. We have the choice now either to willingly climb into the machine, and integrate with it the rounded edges of our dreams, or to just let the machine be built around us. Our babble is realizing its parallel process, and media is the towering superstructure. What can we do? What can we do?
The liminal space is now private: your doorstep, your school, your communal area. You have been programmed to live in this liminal space: your car, your television, your credit card. Liminal space used to afford you expansion, was your theater of transcendence. Now you cannot let your children play in the streets. Someone will sell you your power, will you stand for that? But what can we do?
Engineer = ? = Angina
!!!Inside Outside!!!
Saturday, November 03, 2007
The End Is Sigh
There is a worm in your moon
nibbling at each eye you cast to it
There is a leaded net, sunken dark
far from the shattered shore
There is a phrase that brought you joy
that will never utter itself again
And you'll be lost in the same woods that you once loved so dearly
nibbling at each eye you cast to it
There is a leaded net, sunken dark
far from the shattered shore
There is a phrase that brought you joy
that will never utter itself again
And you'll be lost in the same woods that you once loved so dearly
Friday, November 02, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
The Name Blame
Hello.
Amidst the turbid effluvium of school-gas and life's subtle but profound semantic shifts, I intend to start a complementary blog. Inspired by Pruned, mine will pick up those seashells I step over when writing essays and the like. It'll be part archival, part vanity, part fascination and be very pictoral. Architectural landscapes will be its focus (how this is distinct from landscape architecture, I do not know) and it will be a simple way to chronicle some of the airier and more ephemeral interests of mine. Like pruned, pictures of stuff will be the preferred information package. And for you Sparky, it will also be a discrete exercise in vitalism.
Despite the borrowed bricolage of underpinned ideas, it needs a really good name. I was thinking of "echoscapes", because it infers resonance and broad ecology and symbolic depth, but I looked it up, and blogspot already has it (founded in Montreal, no less)... This'll be a wordpress supported blog, but still, I'm not a big fan of doppelgangers (one of my few superstitions). I might yet do it, but it still bothers me, even though there hasn't been any movement on it since 2005. Meanwhile, "escapes" does not yet exist, but i do prefer the first former...
Help me please, and have a good think about it. Qualities valued in the name are: subject association, compactability, novelty and a mystic twinge.
Amidst the turbid effluvium of school-gas and life's subtle but profound semantic shifts, I intend to start a complementary blog. Inspired by Pruned, mine will pick up those seashells I step over when writing essays and the like. It'll be part archival, part vanity, part fascination and be very pictoral. Architectural landscapes will be its focus (how this is distinct from landscape architecture, I do not know) and it will be a simple way to chronicle some of the airier and more ephemeral interests of mine. Like pruned, pictures of stuff will be the preferred information package. And for you Sparky, it will also be a discrete exercise in vitalism.
Despite the borrowed bricolage of underpinned ideas, it needs a really good name. I was thinking of "echoscapes", because it infers resonance and broad ecology and symbolic depth, but I looked it up, and blogspot already has it (founded in Montreal, no less)... This'll be a wordpress supported blog, but still, I'm not a big fan of doppelgangers (one of my few superstitions). I might yet do it, but it still bothers me, even though there hasn't been any movement on it since 2005. Meanwhile, "escapes" does not yet exist, but i do prefer the first former...
Help me please, and have a good think about it. Qualities valued in the name are: subject association, compactability, novelty and a mystic twinge.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Ploughed
Had to stop myself attempting to lock my bike to an old guy's leg yesterday. Slept too long today. Ran myself over with my own plough. Should change my name now to Doug. I just want to read comics.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
'The Plough'
Day 1 - 10.53am EST
There seems to be a hole in my marble bag already: I actually caught myself looking up the word 'synonym' in the thesaurus this morning. What next? I say phrases like 'I wish I said envious phrases more often'? THE PLOUGH!!!
There seems to be a hole in my marble bag already: I actually caught myself looking up the word 'synonym' in the thesaurus this morning. What next? I say phrases like 'I wish I said envious phrases more often'? THE PLOUGH!!!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
wheezed rhapsody bellows
In this cafe/bar there is...
- one couple with half-pints staring off in opposing directions, apparantly lost in contemplation. it's not a fight, it's not a grudging autumn-ending, it's just life.
- Paul Spence/Deaner from Fubar. He has a moosestache, not a moustache these days.
- a couple of the steely locals diligently climbing into Tuesday's bag.
- someone who's got a wirebrush goatee and expressive eyes, like a blue-peepered Don Cherry as puppeteered by William H. Macy.
- a Swede hipster
- the ambipresent Vic Vogel (here and Barfly are the only places I ever see him)
- and a guy who looks like hes doing pretty much the same thing as me, though he's got a pint in front of him. I don't have anything in front of me save the Plough, which I'm trying to put my hand to now and generate an instant work ethic. My fields have lain fallow long enough...
...but first, butt first!
Perhaps one of you three dear readers will this about me, likelily not, but I want to be a landscape architect. There, I said it. I love writing, but I feel it should be like happiness, "not the destination, but the path" and I found setting writing as a goal in itself somehow made it unobtainable and obscured some pretty good ideas, if I do say so myself, (which I do, which is hardly ever a good idea and so obviously they're not all good ideas...) and I'm going to out-wit myself by moonlighting as something I can inter myself with, and that's this. Landscape architecture.
Curse the pragmatics for now, I just 'like' greenery and design. I want to see ecological integration as a course of technological innovation, and though GREEN is voguish right now, it's almost always how I've always thought, I want to help blur the delineation between interior/exterior (perhaps a tough thing to do in this climate, with the coils of private security tightening around public consciousness), and believe that paradise can be meted out to all in large enough increments for everyone to be involved, and thus responsible, but in small enough parcels that planning for it does not get glassy-eyed under utopiates. There's enough of a movement now to join in professionally and not struggle (like I have been - thank my kind makers for keeping me kept). And we seem to now at least have the diagnostic tools to appraise and inform a better approach to our planet, if not the economic will or tomorow's imagination (but those will be here in short order, if only for the money). Which leads me to a fairly crucial point: Not to sound like a money-grubber, but right now is also a time of speculation. Ecological values necessitate economical tenets, and so, once we're on the right path, Green "alternatives" will also be the most cost-effective... But now, well right now and over the next little while, it's going to yield a different green. So I guess I literally am a money grubber: play with dirt for cash. Oh yes.
I expressed my interest in this area to a classmate when I first met her, and she told me about a decent landscape architecture site: Pruned. I haven't fully explored it yet, but I had seen this installation in Chile before, featured in a landscaper's magazine. How classically sublime.
Since writing the paragraph above, I've dipped into Pruned even more and found that the writing's tight and the issues compelling. I saw something there that I'd heard of before, but not known much about... this post made me see more things... For the shock value found in its disturbing immediacy, there is a picture on this post that really delivers the message about the garbage centered gyres (the currented oceanic systems the sea-dwellers use to migrate) and their rapid growth.
My other friend in that class, leaning towards architecture proper, informed me of his architectural crush, Paolo Soleri who founded this multidisciplinary field experiment/tutelage center which envisioned this drawjopper.
Monday, October 08, 2007
immediations
Nicole used to wield a quote by George Costanza's dad, Frank, who, finding that he had high blood pressure, was instructed by the cardiologist to say "serenity now".
Instead, he screamed it.
Nicole, right now, I feel the exact same way.
The trick to belief is not to notice it. It needs to be examined, of course, but the examination necessitates the suspension of the belief - and forgetting that belief is a dynamic process, will stop it all together.
As Paul Atreides says to the Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother in Dune: 'A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it'.
But what happens when events challenge your beliefs and make them opaque? The casual individual may claim they have no beliefs, but that's because they're systemic: an augmentation of the mind, a vessel of extension... necessarily transparent. It takes but one confidence artist, but one mistaken attribution of character to make the believer pause and examine how their beliefs failed to uphold their view of the world (naught but projection of a personality to create a planet). And examination of belief, though perhaps clumsy and earnest and inexperienced, has a like form to belief itself: it is cast onto and informs the examiner of their world. And may cause them to question other things. One bad thing that interrupts a person (for belief IS that: a segment of person) can cause many more bad things to follow (a new tension of values allows a new world-scape to be envisioned).
Who's to say then that beliefs aren't the most dangerous thing we are dressed in? Maybe they should all be beaten on, cheated on, lied to, stolen from, let down, spat at, shat at, defrauded, denuded... so that real design of purpose takes their place? So our worlds are truly a process of choice, rather than a reflexive kick of seemingly inherited character projection?
But we all have vision, and we can all imagine... and in place of believing, in place of witnessing our beliefs in process, we can envision to become what we want. Maybe then we can imagine our serenity, even if we can't imagine our now.
Instead, he screamed it.
Nicole, right now, I feel the exact same way.
The trick to belief is not to notice it. It needs to be examined, of course, but the examination necessitates the suspension of the belief - and forgetting that belief is a dynamic process, will stop it all together.
As Paul Atreides says to the Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother in Dune: 'A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it'.
But what happens when events challenge your beliefs and make them opaque? The casual individual may claim they have no beliefs, but that's because they're systemic: an augmentation of the mind, a vessel of extension... necessarily transparent. It takes but one confidence artist, but one mistaken attribution of character to make the believer pause and examine how their beliefs failed to uphold their view of the world (naught but projection of a personality to create a planet). And examination of belief, though perhaps clumsy and earnest and inexperienced, has a like form to belief itself: it is cast onto and informs the examiner of their world. And may cause them to question other things. One bad thing that interrupts a person (for belief IS that: a segment of person) can cause many more bad things to follow (a new tension of values allows a new world-scape to be envisioned).
Who's to say then that beliefs aren't the most dangerous thing we are dressed in? Maybe they should all be beaten on, cheated on, lied to, stolen from, let down, spat at, shat at, defrauded, denuded... so that real design of purpose takes their place? So our worlds are truly a process of choice, rather than a reflexive kick of seemingly inherited character projection?
But we all have vision, and we can all imagine... and in place of believing, in place of witnessing our beliefs in process, we can envision to become what we want. Maybe then we can imagine our serenity, even if we can't imagine our now.
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