I take less than a month of absence and now a friend is just. Gone. Vanished. There's a void where their account used to be.
I wonder where they are.
There are those moments when I didn't give a response to something not because I don't care about it but because I don't know what response to give that would be meaningful, considerate, and substantive.
There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams hurry too rapidly down to the sea, and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion, turning to waterfalls under our very eyes. --For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains, aren't waterfalls yet, in a quick age or so, as ages go here, they probably will be. But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling, the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships, slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? Where should we be today? Is it right to be watching strangers in a play in this strangest of theatres? What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around? The tiniest green hummingbird in the world? To stare at some inexplicable old stonework, inexplicable and impenetrable, at any view, instantly seen and always, always delightful? Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too? And have we room for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
But surely it would have been a pity not to have seen the trees along this road, really exaggerated in their beauty, not to have seen them gesturing like noble pantomimists, robed in pink. --Not to have had to stop for gas and heard the sad, two-noted, wooden tune of disparate wooden clogs carelessly clacking over a grease-stained filling-station floor. (In another country the clogs would all be tested. Each pair there would have identical pitch.) --A pity not to have heard the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird who sings above the broken gasoline pump in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque: three towers, five silver crosses. --Yes, a pity not to have pondered, blurr'dly and inconclusively, on what connection can exist for centuries between the crudest wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden cages. --Never to have studied history in the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages. --And never to have had to listen to rain so much like politicians' speeches: two hours of unrelenting oratory and then a sudden golden silence in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:
"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come to imagined places, not just stay at home? Or could Pascal have been not entirely right about just sitting quietly in one's room?
Continent, city, country, society: the choice is never wide and never free. And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home, wherever that may be?"
(I’m in line at a popular discount retail store, with two people ahead of me. The women at the head of the line is clearly new to English, and while she has a thick accent and struggles, she does her best to speak to the cashier in English, even though he rolls his eyes and makes her repeat everything several times. Finally, she is able to leave. As soon as she’s out of earshot:)
Cashier: “Ugh, they shouldn’t be allowed in our stores until they learn our language.”
(The man ahead of me says several things in another language.)
Cashier: “Oh, man, not another one. This is America. Learn the language.”
Customer: “Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed you’d learned Cherokee, since you’re so big on people learning the local language. My mistake.”
(The cashier turned bright red and didn’t say another word through the transaction.)
You are the end result of a “would you push the button” prompt where the prompt was “you have unlimited godlike powers but you appear to all and sundry to be an impetuous child” – Zero, 2022
TIL Matt Chapman wrote "Straight Blanchin"
That was a pretty H*R-esque gag, thinking about it
and just watch some right-winger with conspiracy theories on the mind dig up this post to try to implicate me in a plot to assassinate him or something
to that person who finds the above post and this post in the future
no, i am not planning to harm him in any way, because that would be a waste of my time and possibly my life depending on what sort of sick harm you have in mind
now just be happy that no one's dug up everything you've rage-written about obama
I don't know if I mentioned if before, but I was reading up on Comcast's history, and the cable system it started was originally purchased from (of all companies) Jerrold.
You are the end result of a “would you push the button” prompt where the prompt was “you have unlimited godlike powers but you appear to all and sundry to be an impetuous child” – Zero, 2022
You are the end result of a “would you push the button” prompt where the prompt was “you have unlimited godlike powers but you appear to all and sundry to be an impetuous child” – Zero, 2022
You are the end result of a “would you push the button” prompt where the prompt was “you have unlimited godlike powers but you appear to all and sundry to be an impetuous child” – Zero, 2022
If I'm sufficiently interested in a piece of media, it has been entirely reasonable for me to get through books or current on webcomics and whatnot in the span of a day or so. Historically anyway; my reading has been up and down constantly, which sort of throws a wrench into (unintentionally) speeding through stuff.
This is more of an issue with television, though it's still happened. Just a lot of investment and/or energy, I guess.
i find i can get through webcomics more quickly than books, but it still takes me usually more than one reading session, and that's if the archive isn't enormous. i also find i catch up with comics that tell stories more quickly than gag strips.
Books typically take me about 2 weeks, more if it's something hefty like House of Leaves or if there are exercises for me to complete. This was a problem at uni.
Comments
After seeing this post, is one of them.
hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
--For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren't waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
But surely it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
--A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
--Yes, a pity not to have pondered,
blurr'dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
--Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
--And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians' speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:
"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one's room?
Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?"
(I’m in line at a popular discount retail store, with two people
ahead of me. The women at the head of the line is clearly new to
English, and while she has a thick accent and struggles, she does her
best to speak to the cashier in English, even though he rolls his eyes
and makes her repeat everything several times. Finally, she is able to
leave. As soon as she’s out of earshot:)
Cashier: “Ugh, they shouldn’t be allowed in our stores until they learn our language.”
(The man ahead of me says several things in another language.)
Cashier: “Oh, man, not another one. This is America. Learn the language.”
Customer: “Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed you’d learned Cherokee, since you’re so big on people learning the local language. My mistake.”
(The cashier turned bright red and didn’t say another word through the transaction.)
pwned
For those who don't know what I'm talking about.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
jfc
but it's summer and nobody gives a shit about moral character in homebound teens so w/e
to that person who finds the above post and this post in the future
no, i am not planning to harm him in any way, because that would be a waste of my time and possibly my life depending on what sort of sick harm you have in mind
now just be happy that no one's dug up everything you've rage-written about obama
the things i do to smash capitalism
super jurassic galaxy
Not to say i have better things to do, but i get exhausted after watching/reading the same thing for too long without break.
Books typically take me about 2 weeks, more if it's something hefty like House of Leaves or if there are exercises for me to complete. This was a problem at uni.