firstly, no, i will not keep calm and carry on
there are too many actualities of presence
in my way and lord knows we are perishable and will.
i beg of you honesty in earnest and i vomit completely
at the steps of your etsy shop when you tell me
in peach pastel paisley on eight by five with lethal…
Music for Marcel Duchamp by John Cage, 1947. Prepared piano, Juan Hidalgo.
Listen to the sounds between the notes. Magic.
(my neck knows knuckles-
do your fingers remember the grip
like a wedding wring imprint
and later with soaked regret coughed you
a reprint of a sulking pulse?
i’m sure you put me to paper.)
i told you once that valentine’s day
should take place in july
(the melody that months sing,
“The way we experience space is no longer only about our physical surroundings; we should now be considering the city as a site for virtual encounters, and design the space accordingly. ”
“The public is still waiting to be sold on the vision of [augmented reality], but there is a lack of imagination in the industry as to what the technology can do,” Matsuda said. “We are in a position of power at the moment, and we need a vision of the future that is sustainable, helpful, and doesn’t compromise us. If we can just establish the vision, then I feel we have more chance of leading the technology in a way that can be a positive force.”"
The hilarious Alison Rich wrote this gem. Glad to be part of it!
Sadly, the part in which I slap Ken Beck with my hand full of Nutella didn’t make the cut.
Relationship specialist and night blindness sufferer Lydia Reed Boxby has released a new book. In stores and car trunks today!
Alison is so good. So good.
my life. this video.
1. You need a job to get an apt, but you need an apt to get a job.
2. You need internet to find out how to get internet.
3. The only thing I have to do in this world is make enough money to survive. It’s strange that this one task should take up so much of one’s life.
4. You need money to make…
Welcome, sam. Please direct any confusing questions to kai, life guide edition.
Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject; but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken with my lunch or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no longer.
“Which is it to-day,” I asked, “morphine or cocaine?”
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened.
“It is cocaine,” he said, “a seven-per-cent solution. Would you care to try it?”
“No, indeed,” I answered brusquely. ”My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it.”
He smiled at my vehemence. ”Perhaps you are right, Watson,” he said. ”I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment.”
“But consider!” I said earnestly. ”Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process which invokes increased tissue-change and may at least leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable.”
He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together, and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation.
“My mind,” he said, “rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruce cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for medical exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world.”
- The Sign of Four