Category Archives: Stories

SO PArceptive

Somehow took me until now to crack open Orwell’s 1984, and maybe it’s just a coincidence that a few days later, SOPA/PIPA freaked the free thinking world out enough that Wikipedia decided it needed to step in with their nationwide exercise in hypothetical imagination. “The Information Age” is a common phrase for the current generation, but seeing the commodity itself get witheld from the public was a sight to behold. Sometimes it was appropriately frightening. Other, rare, times it was actually entertaining.

Orwell’s foresight was embodied not only in his work, but in his life. Winston, his character in the novel, dealt with the same catch-22 that he did: that if anybody found his writings in the present state of things, it would be destroyed, and if things changed, nobody would find it relevant. While he was working on his novel, I wonder if fiction was already starting to be compartmentalized intellectually and tossed aside as pseudo-reportage on real contemporary issues. I wonder if he knew how accurate his diagnosis was, and also the apparent futility of his medium: the fiction novel.

Perhaps the world that we now live in, the world that allowed SOPA/PIPA to even be seriously proposed and manifested as a real threat, could have been amended earlier due to a culture that corporately took works of literature and art seriously. Work that was engaging about these current issues decades ago. It seems like many people on the sidelines who like to think they have a realistic perspective on these issues don’t think the internet can really be censored. However, it’s safe to assume Orwell wouldn’t be one of them. Reading has always been crucial, but now, maybe it should also be called dire.

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Some dreams

should be real.

(This is kind of old, but my housemate saw these recently and I feel the need to bring it up again. The idea of the imagination of children being used as inspiration for the aged, or older people bringing them to another glory is something worthy of re-claiming.)

Also, this is another project similar.

p.s. for anyone who follows this blog, I’m sorry for the lack of posting, It’s been the busiest semester I’ve ever had. There’s a good chance I will be posting more about readable issues rather than wordblurbs that are trying to get by as poesy, perhaps starting with another end of the year music list which will be twice as long as last year’s to make up for the dearth of posts. I write that there so that I, on record, am bound by my word to actually do it. Happy Advent Season.

comix

Something about this seems very important.

Book Fund from and for the Common People, Against the Tyranny and Reality of Dislocation

Hello internet personas.

I have recently lost a book I just bought called “Walking on Water” by Madeleine L’Engle, and I’m supposed to read it with a friend soon, meaning regularly starting several weeks ago. You know the story: looked everywhere* for it, couldn’t find it. Because of the timely nature of this, and the broke financial nature of myself, I am officially accepting donations (.25 cents minimum) to help me buy it again. Because this is America, I will list the entitled rewards for doing something selfless.

 

Rewards:

Package A. Any donation will get you a tag in my next status.

Package 2. If you donate 5 or more dollars, I will write you a poem or draw you a picture.

Package 3. Fund the entire book, and I will do all of the above, and put as my profile picture any image you send me with restrictions that I will instigate if that bridge is determined to be necessary of crossing, or write something awesome about anything you want (except for that I can’t lie) on this website, and you will be named executive producer somewhere public.

 

Please don’t talk about kickstarter here, there is nothing new under the sun anyway(s).

 

Donation runs until December 12. Goal is the price of the book, which is 15 dollars.

 

 

 

 

*a lot of places that would make sense to look. Not including Antarctica, or Ryan Gosling’s guitar case, etc.

 

Accidental worship

…or something. Twitter links lead to weird things sometimes.

Presenting the result of when you have

1. Some teenage girl.

2. Who tries to be rebellious and “edgy”.

3. Who likes pictures of islands and surfing et cetera.

4. Who can’t see messages photoshopped into images.

5. Who has a twitter.

= HE is effing > i.

 

 

 

Motion At Last

If you subtract the amount of minutes that you spend rethinking your life, and convert it to actually living, you would probably be able to explore every option you were considering in the first place.

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One of my favorite musician artists Sleeping At Last have recently announced their launch of a new project called Yearbook. Instead of making a new album, they’ve decided to release three completely new songs as digital mini EPs every month for 12 months, exhausting new boundaries of their creative capabilities, and their “only criteria being that these songs will be something we can be proud of.” They stated in their extended blog about the project that Hans Zimmer decided to go into film composing instead of being in his rock band because they usually sat around discussing the music they wanted to make/should make/ could make rather than actually playing and creating it. Sleeping At Last have decided that they wanted to cut out a little of the time consuming business side of being in a band, and just commit to generating the music they love to write.

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The business side of film has scared me temporarily into a deeply rooted desire to stay away from it’s bureaucratic twisted system for a while. I still need to create stories, and I will still try to find ways to do that, even if it is in small portions. A poem. A photo. I am trying to take pictures almost daily in an effort to put forth art into the world and cut out the business side. I try not to produce or “publish” anything that I am not proud of and (most recently) that I don’t feel people will not be able to understand. To me, art is an invitation and angle on love, because it is the most universal form of communication. Love, in most relational cases, cannot exist without communication, and sometimes, art is a way to communicate things that cannot be stated in more systematic mediums.

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In my experience, everyone knows how to talk. Few people are willing to go out and actually create. I have a friend who spent a lot of his life learning how to think and observe. Then he decided it didn’t do him much good to not also be creating and interacting. He writes stories now, and makes relationships and interacts and engages the real and the profoundly and physically, tangibly, spiritually important.

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This band is onto something. They are sick of the conversation of action without seeing fruit. Maybe this year I will decide to do a Yearbook project of my own. Five poems, Three photos, A short film… every month, who knows. Maybe I’ll find friends to help. Maybe we can be excited about things that are happening, and that have been accomplished, rather than what might be. We can celebrate victory instead of just constantly and only hoping happily and safely and somewhat nervously for the future. All I know is that if I don’t work my hands until they are raw, they will shrivel, unused, in the shade over misty words about what is awesome and what is not awesome. What we should do someday. What: yeah, we totally could do that… someday. This kingdom is not one of talk but of action and it belongs not to the timid but to violent men. This ground is cursed. You need to fight the earth to eat the grain. You need to bleed on your camera, your pen, your typewriter, your calculator, your programming software, your stethoscope, your dictionary, your sketchbook, your diary, your dancefloor, your microphone, your instrument, your graph paper, your kitchen knife, your earth. You need to bleed. And art, in this dark and broken world, can be earth and a gardenfeed for love, which is the most endangered and precious resource we have ever received by the grace of heaven. I think it’s about time I acted like it, and started something and finished it and repeated the process, releasing the art I have stored inside of me instead of hoarding it like a storybook dragon who hibernates in caves waiting for the world to change or burn.

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I can blog with the limbs of angels, but if I have not love, I am nothing.

This sign

… is stacked.

Meaning both that it is literally physically stacked and that it is funny for at minimum 7 individual reasons.

(Personal apologies if you were not mentally or spiritually ready to see the most terribly named massage parlor in all of existence.)