Another Day.


He wakes up. He sent emails last night that he regrets but then tries to forget as he rides in the car and rides off the wine and rides off the memories of embarrassment and missed opportunities. Then he logs onto an email address that he never logs onto and his heart skips a beat because he has a reply from the girl who he loves and he opens the message but then his heart is confused because it is a link to a page about working from home and he thinks to himself this is most odd and then he replies and tells the girl that he loves that her account has been hacked. Then later as he sits on the train his heart sinks very deep because he thinks he knows what has happened. After receiving the email last night she deleted her account and the moment that happened bots went in and took over the name and used it for their nefarious purposes so he was emailed by a bot. So he is even unhappier and looking at pictures of her doesn’t make it any better and when he gets to work he has failed to do a fundamental part of his job and he is reprimanded and he feels bad about his incompetence. Then he eats chocolate and then the day drags on for hours and he finds himself frozen with indecision and cannot do anything at all. Wrecked by the poor choices that he has made he finally gets to do some work that makes him feel worthwhile and he draws some more art and posts the art and hopes for validation with likes and rebloggings which he gets. Then in the taxi on the way home he texts the girls who’s email was hacked but really deleted and pretends to offer advice just so that he can contact her but it makes him feel better and then when he gets home he goes to sleep.

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Another Day.


He wakes up. He tastes wine in his mouth. He is late. He runs but he can’t run far or fast because he has a bag. He spends all day at work drawing a picture of a lorax and being satirical. Then he drinks some more wine. He plays some Mario Galaxy 2. It is an elegant game. He is not an elegant man. He sends an email even though he shouldn’t and he doesn’t expect a reply. He goes to sleep and wakes up to Lawrence O’Donnell at 1am.

Another Day.


He wakes up. His alarm from the week is still on and it wakes him up on Sunday and he cannot get back to sleep and he is annoyed at this. He watches some television and then plays some board games and then goes out for a walk and it is cold but fresh and refreshing then he learns that the woman he loves was accidentally texted by the woman he doesn’t love and then there was an exchange of words and this happened a few weeks before the Trip so he starts to whirr and click and think maybe that made the whole trip a failure, maybe it was these unknown texts but he knows that it is not but he wants to rationalise his madness and hope for his fantasies and live in a Reality that he lost last year with his cowardice and the choices he made to have to pick between selfishness and selflessness and he picked the latter and he goes to bed thinking that he hated that he had to make that choice.


Happy Birthday from your Stalker.

I know it’s your birthday today

But I know you don’t want me to call

So I took your last text message you sent me

And changed the meaning so all

The lines are opposite:

Thank you for your gift

It was very thoughtful.

It all turned out just as you hoped

I want us to be together forever

It was the perfect gift at the perfect time

I’m so alone without you 

Please keep sending me love letters.

Happy Birthday

I didn’t mean to turn love into

Stalking.



Happy Birthday from your Stalker.

I know it’s your birthday today

But I know you don’t want me to call

So I took your last text message you sent me

And changed the meaning so all

The lines are opposite:

Thank you for your gift

It was very thoughtful.

It all turned out just as you hoped

I want us to be together forever

It was the perfect gift at the perfect time

I’m so alone without you 

Please keep sending me love letters.

Happy Birthday

I didn’t mean to turn love into

Stalking.


Another Day.


He wakes up and goes to bible study and is confused when he is asked how he could help the bible study leader tell him what he thinks God is. The whole point of these bible studies is to find out what God is. What is God? He doesn’t know. He gets confused and he gets angry but he manages to calm down. Then he wonders what he is still doing there because the woman he loves no longer loves him and the only reason he was going to these classes is so that she would love him more but now she doesn’t love him at all, after the tragic stalking debacle of the weekend before so he wonders how he might politely extricate himself from these proceedings then he has a better idea and thinks maybe he should keep on going and become a member of the Jehovah Witness Council that will make her love him he thinks. Then he calls his friend and tells him this idea and he soon realises what a silly idea it is. Even though his friend suggested that he use the money he has saved to go back to San Francisco and ride a horse to the woman he loves house and spread rose petals everywhere. He thinks his friend is joking. So he laughs. He then thinks that he should hire Depeche Mode to play for her as that is her favourite band and he will write a song for them and teach them to ride horses too and then everything will be fine and he will get married to her and have children with her in New Zealand. This is not going to happen. He knows this but he still dreams realising, as he talks that he is always happy thinking about the places he used to be in or the places he will be in not the place he exists in now. He will never be happy but he is used to this unhappiness and to have his life any other way would confuse him now that he is old and slowly balding in all the wrong places. He spends the afternoon drifting between sleep and masturbation until the two become one. Then he eats some food and plays some monopoly and watches some terrible television and thinks about his future without the woman he loves and sinks into the bitter sadness that he made for himself.


1970s movie aesthetic and the phosphorescent tube.

I was talking with a friend about how much we love the way that American movies from the 1970s look. We rattled off a few of the macho gritty films that we loved; The French Connection, Black Sunday, Klute,Prime Cut; as much to show off our knowledge as to make our point about a particular film aesthetic. The washed out colours, the use in genre pictures of the new wave hand held camera that would become so derigeur, the location shooting outside on the cold streets of whatever city they happened to be in at the time; Chicago, New York, Washington D.C. This is how I came to know and love America before I moved here. The overwhelming of the senses through big architecture, big emotion, big human interaction. All of this, as it turns out, artificial and created for the films that I watched – but I was not to know this at the time. I had not yet experienced the boredom of America, it’s long empty roads of meaninglessness. I had not experienced it’s tired citizens and it’s angry indecision. I was ignorant of the simmering cauldron of anger that boiled below the surface; acting as threat and fuel to all the fine people of this nation. Recollecting the manner in which I watched these films I realised that I had seen most of these works, not at the cinema, with pristine new prints, but late night on British television with the volume down so as not to wake the rest of the house on a tiny set with poor colour correction, little contrast and the glow from the tubes that gave any hope of showing the directors vision short shrift. My understanding of the aesthetic had been totally false, filtered, by chance and the limitations of 1980s technology, into washed out pastels that had never been the intention of the filmmakers. It was not an America that had ever supposed to exist or an America that, now with the advent of Blu-ray and online movie stores, would ever exist again. Yet, even now, I recall with nostalgia, the hunched shoulders of Popeye Doyle as he swaggers down the street to save America from Europe’s heroine barons, the relentless stride of Lee Marvin as he tries to save Sissy Spacek from Gene Hackman, the obsessional drive of Robert Shaw to stop a terrorist attack on a football stadium. It just makes me realise that what we want others to see is not necessarily the thing that they will see and what we ourselves observe can be filtered through any manner of myriad devices, experiences, dreams and nightmares. Will anyone say the same of Transformers: Dark of the Moon. I suspect not. Then my mind wanders to a deeper problem, beyond aesthetics and something that still exists, albeit in a more subtle way today. I was watching films where white men get things done, white men strive and fail; everyone else is a backdrop to their drama, their hopes and dreams. It is not the America I live in. It is not really an America that has ever existed. The America I live in is a kaleidoscope, shifting, pulsing and alive; archetype free with a story constantly in flux pushing relentlessly on into a future it knows, deep down, it has no control over. That is why I love America.


1970s movie aesthetic and the phosphorescent tube.

I was talking with a friend about how much we love the way that American movies from the 1970s look. We rattled off a few of the macho gritty films that we loved; The French Connection, Black Sunday, Klute,Prime Cut; as much to show off our knowledge as to make our point about a particular film aesthetic. The washed out colours, the use in genre pictures of the new wave hand held camera that would become so derigeur, the location shooting outside on the cold streets of whatever city they happened to be in at the time; Chicago, New York, Washington D.C. This is how I came to know and love America before I moved here. The overwhelming of the senses through big architecture, big emotion, big human interaction. All of this, as it turns out, artificial and created for the films that I watched – but I was not to know this at the time. I had not yet experienced the boredom of America, it’s long empty roads of meaninglessness. I had not experienced it’s tired citizens and it’s angry indecision. I was ignorant of the simmering cauldron of anger that boiled below the surface; acting as threat and fuel to all the fine people of this nation. Recollecting the manner in which I watched these films I realised that I had seen most of these works, not at the cinema, with pristine new prints, but late night on British television with the volume down so as not to wake the rest of the house on a tiny set with poor colour correction, little contrast and the glow from the tubes that gave any hope of showing the directors vision short shrift. My understanding of the aesthetic had been totally false, filtered, by chance and the limitations of 1980s technology, into washed out pastels that had never been the intention of the filmmakers. It was not an America that had ever supposed to exist or an America that, now with the advent of Blu-ray and online movie stores, would ever exist again. Yet, even now, I recall with nostalgia, the hunched shoulders of Popeye Doyle as he swaggers down the street to save America from Europe’s heroine barons, the relentless stride of Lee Marvin as he tries to save Sissy Spacek from Gene Hackman, the obsessional drive of Robert Shaw to stop a terrorist attack on a football stadium. It just makes me realise that what we want others to see is not necessarily the thing that they will see and what we ourselves observe can be filtered through any manner of myriad devices, experiences, dreams and nightmares. Will anyone say the same of Transformers: Dark of the Moon. I suspect not. Then my mind wanders to a deeper problem, beyond aesthetics and something that still exists, albeit in a more subtle way today. I was watching films where white men get things done, white men strive and fail; everyone else is a backdrop to their drama, their hopes and dreams. It is not the America I live in. It is not really an America that has ever existed. The America I live in is a kaleidoscope, shifting, pulsing and alive; archetype free with a story constantly in flux pushing relentlessly on into a future it knows, deep down, it has no control over. That is why I love America.


inothernews:

sexxxisbeautiful:

quitecamille:

madziontist:

viktoribleu:

mohandasgandhi:

thisheartwontdie:

theconjecturer:

Why yes, that is Rick Santorum’s face made out of gay porn.

Oh. My. God.

Sometimes, I have great hope for this world.

I can’t think of a caption.  This speaks for itself.

‘Murica.

oh my.

GOD

BLESS

AMERICA.

CAPSLOCK SERIOUS.

oh joy. Hooray for America.


inothernews:

sexxxisbeautiful:

quitecamille:

madziontist:

viktoribleu:

mohandasgandhi:

thisheartwontdie:

theconjecturer:

Why yes, that is Rick Santorum’s face made out of gay porn.

Oh. My. God.

Sometimes, I have great hope for this world.

I can’t think of a caption.  This speaks for itself.

‘Murica.

oh my.

GOD

BLESS

AMERICA.

CAPSLOCK SERIOUS.

oh joy. Hooray for America.

I remember


I MISTILY remember my very first

Plunge. Wrapped close in vodka’s sweet, warm blanket

I stumbled with my giggling Aphrodite.

She was, to me, the entirely beaut-

Iful, but so drunk was I, a moist fruit

  –

With cored-nook, more than Heaven (even bru-

Ised) would have been. But her eager wet-

Ness, warmed with woman’s flush, began that night

Of febrile fumblings, synthetic starts and

The weakened will of Desire’s wanton wand.

  –

At last, with volcanic idleness, Influ-

Enced by dawn’s golden glimmer, dormant yet

No longer. Life’s spray captured in her tight-

Ness. My vigorous fountain pooled then, in

Nature’s flawless chalice. Then sheath to bin.

Untitled 2.


IMPERFECTIONS yet superior still

To Circe’s substance. An empty fickle

Heart yet more intense still than scorching, brill-

Iant Sol, scalding, past Time’s sickle,

My withered shuck; shackled by Memory’s

Insidious, insipid influence.

With a late lapping longing I barely

Breathe without recalling still her sens-

Ual soul. I seek oblivion from

This ever flowering, chaotic obses-

Sion. No respite can I detect; no brom-

Ide seclusion from this one weakness.

Life’s Simple Designations.


I am much my own emotion’s victim.

Its smooth sheened sphere helplessly hangs, hover-

Ing expectantly, waiting for some glim-

Mering error. Some glimpsed lapse to take her

Inevitable vengeance for my im-

Possible failing. Sleep seems much better.

Smoothly blue.


Smoothly blue.

wuntu, wuntuthreephor…                     Aaaaaaaaaaah…

                                                                crazee… diggit down, reelmellow down, yeah;

                                                ooooooohhh

                                                                                sha

                                                                                                                sha sha

                                                                                la la la                                                                    lala

ooooooooowwwweeeeeeeeaaaarrrrrrrrr   oh yeah

yeah;                                                                                                                      yorragonnaluvvittt, hmmmm.

                                                                                man…

gidown                   huh                         gidown                   baby,

                                                                                aaahh                    ahhhh.

thankuverymuchladeesngenlemen…

                                                                                                                                                    ur2kynd, 2kynd.


Snow heart on Flickr.

As the day comes to an end let us here wish you a cold heart to keep you warm as you go to bed tonight, whether alone with your thoughts, or accompanied by your solitude.


Snow heart on Flickr.

As the day comes to an end let us here wish you a cold heart to keep you warm as you go to bed tonight, whether alone with your thoughts, or accompanied by your solitude.

Blue Turtle Shell Syndrome.


You will see when you watch the Republican Primary and when you play Mario Kart the key similarity is that if you get too far ahead then all the other players behind you will gang up on you and you will be destroyed thus being drawn pack into the pack. The key weapons against the leader is the blue turtle shell. The Blue turtle shell when fired by anyone from the rear of the pack will, invariably and without deviation seek out the leader and crush him or her. They will fly into the air unable to race as they watch the other players zoom below thus taking from them the one thing that they want, the victory of a three lap race. The hideous lapping of the Republican Primary goes on forever and ever and ever, probably, but it has much, in this instance, in common with the day glo excitement of Mario. Probably. My advice to candidates is to Beware the Blue Turtle Shell. My advice to players of Mario Kart is to vote.

Blue Turtle Shell Syndrome.


You will see when you watch the Republican Primary and when you play Mario Kart the key similarity is that if you get too far ahead then all the other players behind you will gang up on you and you will be destroyed thus being drawn pack into the pack. The key weapons against the leader is the blue turtle shell. The Blue turtle shell when fired by anyone from the rear of the pack will, invariably and without deviation seek out the leader and crush him or her. They will fly into the air unable to race as they watch the other players zoom below thus taking from them the one thing that they want, the victory of a three lap race. The hideous lapping of the Republican Primary goes on forever and ever and ever, probably, but it has much, in this instance, in common with the day glo excitement of Mario. Probably. My advice to candidates is to Beware the Blue Turtle Shell. My advice to players of Mario Kart is to vote.


https://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/35444568/stream?client_id=N2eHz8D7GtXSl6fTtcGHdSJiS74xqOUI?plead=please-dont-download-this-or-our-lawyers-wont-let-us-host-audio

britticisms:

“Night Heat” by Selebrities

It’s interesting how, a few years after these sort of slow burners (in a great homage to the 80s) starting popping up on the scene, they have finally found proper footing in 2012. I love this because it feels longer than it is, because of it’s steady beat, and because it sounds dark, haunting, and dangerous.

This is ace.


https://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/35444568/stream?client_id=N2eHz8D7GtXSl6fTtcGHdSJiS74xqOUI?plead=please-dont-download-this-or-our-lawyers-wont-let-us-host-audio

britticisms:

“Night Heat” by Selebrities

It’s interesting how, a few years after these sort of slow burners (in a great homage to the 80s) starting popping up on the scene, they have finally found proper footing in 2012. I love this because it feels longer than it is, because of it’s steady beat, and because it sounds dark, haunting, and dangerous.

This is ace.

25 Extremely Upsetting Reactions To Chris Brown At The Grammys


britticisms:

We’ve failed a generation of women. We’ve failed a generation of men. That’s the only thing I can take from this. We’ve told women that they don’t matter. We’ve told them that their bodies are up for debate. We’ve told them that their voices are nothing. We’ve told men that this is alright, that violence is okay, that anger is the appropriate emotion for frustration. What else is there to say? A part of me wants to say something like, “If Chris Brown hit Taylor Swift, he wouldn’t be getting a second chance.” But is that true? I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t think so at all.

The past decade has been nothing but a reminder that women of all races, ethnicities, bodies, and religions are not worthy of being respected as human beings. This breaks my heart, but how can I be shocked when we’ve told women that this misogyny, violence, and hate is what is okay and normal and right?

25 Extremely Upsetting Reactions To Chris Brown At The Grammys

25 Extremely Upsetting Reactions To Chris Brown At The Grammys


britticisms:

We’ve failed a generation of women. We’ve failed a generation of men. That’s the only thing I can take from this. We’ve told women that they don’t matter. We’ve told them that their bodies are up for debate. We’ve told them that their voices are nothing. We’ve told men that this is alright, that violence is okay, that anger is the appropriate emotion for frustration. What else is there to say? A part of me wants to say something like, “If Chris Brown hit Taylor Swift, he wouldn’t be getting a second chance.” But is that true? I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t think so at all.

The past decade has been nothing but a reminder that women of all races, ethnicities, bodies, and religions are not worthy of being respected as human beings. This breaks my heart, but how can I be shocked when we’ve told women that this misogyny, violence, and hate is what is okay and normal and right?

25 Extremely Upsetting Reactions To Chris Brown At The Grammys


wilwheaton:

areasofmyexpertise:

Mall of America—after taking in the Princess Diana exhibit and celebrating her tragic grace and humanitarian legacy, why not walk across the hall to Hooters?

This pretty much says everything that ever needs to be said about American pop culture.

There is perfection and there is Perfection and then there is this photograph.


wilwheaton:

areasofmyexpertise:

Mall of America—after taking in the Princess Diana exhibit and celebrating her tragic grace and humanitarian legacy, why not walk across the hall to Hooters?

This pretty much says everything that ever needs to be said about American pop culture.

There is perfection and there is Perfection and then there is this photograph.


Just in case we in America are too stupid to understand this commercial the makers helpfully but a disclaimer on the top left hand corner. The commercial was for makeup not time regression surgery. I took an actual photograph of my actual television with my actual camera because I was so actually fucking astounded.


Just in case we in America are too stupid to understand this commercial the makers helpfully but a disclaimer on the top left hand corner. The commercial was for makeup not time regression surgery. I took an actual photograph of my actual television with my actual camera because I was so actually fucking astounded.