n: vb: the spice of imagination
found in the journal of nt by ed_dirt:
These were taken last week “south of Longview and west of Nanton” (about midway between Calgary and Lethbridge).
if you’re further interested in nifty cloud formations, you may want to look here and here. Also, a video of a tornado eating a house, general tornado damage videos.
I have just stumbled across some utterly unbelievable pictures. Thank you Nikkyboy, you’re fabulous. Why didn’t you tell me??
Jesus.
Right, well. I did have something to say but it’s been utterly wiped from my brain. Now I’m back to the fingertrap pondering of relationships, trying to find in myself the endless young girl snakeskin shedding of this belief for that.
See, I know I have a problem. I’m aware of quandary and fire, that salt tears erode spirit faster than the weather in winter. It’s all old news, a headline that travels back farther than my family name. Simply put, I love a man who doesn’t love me back, not in any optimistic way, not with any modicum of respect, not enough. This is a star misalignment of being and need. My make-up requires more care than they give me, my building blocks want and they scream at me, going catatonic with infuriating logic, if he wants a whore, he should have hired one, it’s not like he bloody well isn’t a hell damned slut, not that I even know who’s he’s fucking or that he’d tell me, but see, here’s the kicker – I can’t make it matter. Something’s wrong with me.
He’s just a man, flesh and bone like the rest of them, two eyes to see me as something less than I am, two lips from which to fall back-pedaling excuses, but in some intrinsic way, he’s caught in me. He is my sweetest lapse of sanity. To me he smells like rain and tastes like the crackle of an endless static pattern, no matter how he hurts me in his selfishness. It hasn’t been relevant that with/out him I’ve been dying. With my heart, my health has taken a dive, the two tied together in an uncomfortable treaty. I fall now, dizzy from being unable to care for myself, and my eyes can’t close at night without filling with sky, not a beautiful twilight filled with glittering wonder, but a particularly empty span, lending no reason to move in any direction.
On-line, I rant less at people about how wonderful technology is, but I’ve been coming to an odd conclusion lately that I want to share; that language just might be devolving through the internet. I don’t mean so much words like WOOT coming into parlance, but that vocabulary is homogenizing. Meeting international friends has only added credence to this idea. No matter where in the world they are from, we are all speaking the same language.
I’m talking about expression through memetics, hyperbolic emphasis.
It’s like somehow we’re managing to slim down language to something that’s almost electronic gesture based, so non-specific that we’re reaching a plateau of zen communication that’s partially worrisome. The inflections that span oceans because we read the same news stories and know each other almost purely by interest have not been complex ideas. The common denominators are almost startlingly like a severe Californian infection once they’re noticed. Berkley as patient zero. Home culture barely impacts. We all say “like” and “yeah” smattered with the occasional “I win” acknowledgment of clever. We seem to be erasing language with porous words, as meaningless as the most commonly known word in the world, “okay”.
suspician (noun): one who plays the oddly insidious music of the paranoiola
After brushing me teeth, I sat on a black couch and cut out stitches with the little scissors which live on my keychain. I think now that I quite badly want a little nurses hat. A nurses hat and white garter belt stockings.
That, however, is an aside.
Last night was Korean Movie Night, and it very insidiously blew me away. I suspect it cashed all of us in, actually. A Tale of Two Sisters is intense. The whole thing is lush, every shot a gift. A movie loosely based on a murder-revenge fairytale, it follows the life of a family in a delightfully morbid house. I don’t think I can explain. It was filmed with incalculable impact, seeming like a nightmare at times, but always progressively more logical in its unbelievable mental twists. Invariably, we found ourselves shouting, “Yes!”, when another piece of the puzzle was revealed. When the credits rolled, we yelled and howled and hugged each other. It was a victory. Just, really, go buy the damned thing.
There was a star, and it burned me. Scorching my tongue, words bubbled hot inside of me. I looked out a window to something that wasn’t real. Internal and effigy, strange days have come upon these. I am frail.
There are many things I want to say, to write down and so excise them from my flesh into some sort of reality. “I love her, but I’ve told her, you fuck any of my friends, and it’s over.” I want to have a moment where I might find the disrespect to name my creatures, to throw down gauntlets of other people’s pain and simply write everything that’s been told to me. “He hasn’t worn the ring for two days.” This last piece of pulse time has been ridiculous, harsh in unexpected ways, and jabbing holes in my every piece of personality.
I left this city and came back changed.
I walk the earth
and leave footprints
like molehills
for experience to divide
into towering mountains
Dreaming time like memory.
Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it’s cracked up to be. That’s why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.
– Erica Jong
I always feel as if I can’t create, as if I bring nothing to the world. Then I meet someone who shines to me, a holy fallen thing of desire who sings to me with just a little glance of their eye, and I’m lost. I want to give them something with a smooth sweep of meaning. I start believing again in every little thing that I thought I’d forgotten, that I was certain was a fallacy dreamed up be a society that couldn’t find its own worth.
Dee and pvck have tagged me in a music meme that’s having another stab at popularity. The idea is to list out your latest favourite tracks and then point the finger at five or six other people. As I happen to have put together a mix CD for Ellen, I’m going to post that instead.
01 – TV on the Radio – Desperate youth, blood thirsty babes – 02 – Staring at the Sun
02 – Emilie Simon – Graine D’étoiles
03 – Superphones – Deep Trip
04 – Johnny Boy – You are the generation that bought more shoes & u get what u deserve
05 – Electronic Excursions In Hi-Fi – 06 – Sway (Rip-Off Artist Remix)
06 – The Life Aquatic – Sigur Ros – Staralfur
07 – The White Stripes – Blue Orchid
08 – Secret Machines – 01 – First Wave Intact
09 – Future Bible Heros – 03 – Doris Daytheearthstoodstill
10 – Cornelius – Drop
11 – Revporl & Stuart Crozier – Dr Thirsty
12 – Wolf Parade – Dear Sons And Daughters Of Hungry Ghosts
bonus track: DJ Spaz remixing one of my attempts at spoken word.
If any of these run out of downloads, drop me a comment and I’ll refresh the link.
It could have been one night, but instead it was one day. Something I knew would happen, all the way down to the fact that it wouldn’t matter to me afterward. As an illustration, it marked the harsh lack of chemistry while remaining kind. When it’s right, I cling. I am buried entirely. Ahead of time I know. Ahead of time I decide that the best I can do is try. I know it’s going to hurt, that some delicate thing is going to rip out of my inability to prepare. I’m aware that I’m not going to shake. My illusions weren’t shattered, the pressure was enough to shred unwilling membrane, a debt paid over again but I’ve done similar before, even lived with someone for six months where I paid almost daily but couldn’t gather interest. I let them captain the ship through horrible storm, haunted by violence and spoken words of You’re Never Worthy For me. Now I’m not as young. I’m acutely informed that there has to be a seed for there to be a blossom.
He’s since fallen into the sea, washing over deck into a body of addiction. We think he’s dead now, meth burned and vanished.
Regulators in the US could soon be asked to approve a human trial of gene therapy for cystic fibrosis that uses a hybrid of the HIV and Ebola viruses. In spite of my sketchy grasp of such technology, I can’t see how this is anything but a wretchedly stupid idea for a new Michael Crichton novel. The robots what run on blood might like it: Enter Hero Scientist, enter Military General. Hilarity Ensues. As does Much Bleeding From The Eyes.
I rediscovered an artist the other day through a boingboing posting and decided that this time around, I simply had to remember to share. His name is Dave Devries and he creates rich realistic paintings based on the scrawled drawings of monsters that children draw. There’s a certain beauty in them that captures a little sense of something ethereal and creepy. It only takes a minute, go give it a look.
In other news, dolphins have taken the next step toward being worshiped as gods by the New Age crowd by carefully crafting situations where they will be found using tools, proof evinced. This is extra good timing on their side, as just this week we’ve learned to breathe underwater as fish do.
However, they have not managed to make the useful as sexy sleek as Tsaya has. They make strap on wallets that look as if they were designed with an everyone-wearing-black mexican stand-off in mind that involves cell phones instead of guns. The idea is to replace the handbag with something you can wear and be active in. A pity, I think, that so far it’s only made of black patent leather, though I’m certain that has it’s own built in market.
Speaking of design, actually, I found that Dream Designs, the place I had my interview at, has a website. I highly recommend giving them a decco if you’re looking for quality fabrics. As part of my interview, I asked what their policy was on corporate consumption and confirmed my suspicion that they’re firm supporters of organic and natural products, a stance that only bolsters the respect I had for the company. I sincerely hope there’s a strong possibility that I get a chance at this. To work what I call ‘a real job’ in a place where my skills fit and I have the opportunity to continue learning, it would be such a gift. Theater became tiresome, too many egos. The networking was an aspect I didn’t mind so much, but the petty things that one had to remind oneself of constantly were wearing. This is a small city. This actress loathes that director who dislikes that actor who won’t work with this costumer who’s dating the first woman mentioned. Reliable employment, full time, is exactly what I want.
I’m feeling a little snow-blind lately. My week has been flurries of shredded newspaper information and I’m finding now that it’s becoming hard to keep track of who has read what into my incruental sacrifices.
Curiosity, does anyone know who this artist is?
