When there’s loneliness
and the need for someone
to heal the pain
You can always count
on running shoes
to keep you away from
needy saddened friends
GET ONE NOW TRY IT
ALL MY FRIENDS ARE WEARING THESE
I have never seen so many sane people. I mean it: those who are there either know themselves or are trying to know. Out here, most people only se themselves yet what they see is but a reflection, an image reflected in a mirror. But that mirror doesn’t reflect them, it reflects others, and those are also ignorant to who they are seeing. But in the mental home, not one person is looking at others, much less at the mirror. They are looking or trying to direct their sight toward themselves, so then they can see their surroundings. And once they achieved, it really works out greatly.
Good-Looking Men In Small Clever Rooms That Utilize Every Centimeter Of Available Space With Mind-Boggling Efficiency, by James O. Incandeza, from David Foster Wallace‘s Infinite Jest
“Thus the Flood’s real consequence is revealed to be desiccation, generations of hydrophobia on a pandemic scale,’ the protagonist was reading aloud. Peterson’s The Cage was running on a large screen behind the lectern. A number of shots of undergraduates with their heads on their desks, reading their mail, making origami animals, picking at their faces with blank intensity, established that the climactic lecture wasn’t coming off as all that climactic to the audience within the film. ‘We thus become, in the absence of death as ideologic end, ourselves desiccated, deprived of some essential fluid, aridly cerebral, abstract, conceptual, little more than hallucinations of God,’ the academic read in a deadly drone, his eyes never leaving his lectern’s text. The art-cartridge critics and scholars who point to the frequent presence of audiences inside Himself’s films, and argue that the fact that the audiences are always either dumb and unappreciative or the victims of some grisly entertainment-mishap betrays more than a little hostility on the part of an ‘auteuf pegged as technically gifted but narratively dull and plotless and static and not entertaining enough — these academics’ arguments seem sound as far as they go, but they do not explain the incredible pathos of Paul Anthony Heaven reading his lecture to a crowd of dead-eyed kids picking at themselves and drawing vacant airplane- and genitalia-doodles on their college-rule note-pads, reading stupefyingly turgid-sounding shit — ‘For while clinamen and tessera strive to revive or revise the dead ancestor, and while kenosis and daemonization act to repress consciousness and memory of the dead ancestor, it is, finally, artistic askesis which represents the contest proper, the battle-to-the-death with the loved dead’ — in a monotone as narcotizing as a voice from the grave — and yet all the time weeping, Paul Anthony Heaven, as an upward hall full of kids all scan their mail, the film-teacher not sobbing or wiping his nose on his tweed sleeve but silently weeping, very steadily, so that tears run down Heaven’s gaunt face and gather on his underslung chin and fall from view, glistening slightly, below the lectern’s frame of sight. Then this too began to seem familiar.”
“America is a Gun”
transcript from this tweet
England is a cup of tea.
France, a wheel of ripened brie.
Greece, a short, squat olive tree.
America is a gun.
Brazil is football on the sand.
Argentina, Maradona’s hand.
Germany, an oompah band.
America is a gun.
Holland is a wooden shoe.
Hungary, a goulash stew.
Australia, a kangaroo.
America is a gun.
Japan is a thermal spring.
Scotland is a highland fling.
Oh, better to be anything
than America as a gun.”
The Little Engine That Could But Decided Well Fuck This Shit I Won’t And That’s Final
James O. Incandenza’s Wave Bye-Bye to the Bureaucrat
a synopsis by David Foster Wallace, part of the world created in Infinite Jest
A bureaucrat in some kind of sterile fluorescent-lit office complex is a fantastically efficient worker when awake , but he has this terrible problem waking up in the A.M., and is consistently late to work, which in a bureaucracy is idiosyncratic and disorderly and wholly unacceptable, and we see this bureaucrat getting called in to his supervisor’s pebbled-glass cubicle, and the supervisor, who wears a severely dated leisure suit with his shirt-collar flaring out on either side of its rust-colored lapels, tells the bureaucrat that he’s a good worker and a fine man, but that this chronic tardiness in the A.M. is simply not going to fly, and if it happens one more time the bureaucrat is going to have to find another fluorescent-lit office complex to work in . It’s no accident that in a bureaucracy getting fired is called ‘termination,’ as in ontological erasure, and the bureaucrat leaves his supervisor’s cubicle duly shaken. That night he and his wife go through their Bauhaus condominium collecting every alarm clock they own, each one of which is electric and digital and extremely precise, and they festoon their bedroom with them, so there are like a dozen timepieces with their digital alarms all set for 0615h. But that night there’s a power failure, and all the clocks lose an hour or just sit there blinking 0000h. over and over, and the bureaucrat still oversleeps the next A.M. He wakes late, lies there for a moment staring at a blinking 0000. He shrieks, clutches his head, throws on wrinkled clothes, ties his shoes in the elevator, shaves in the car, blasting through red lights on the way to the commuter rail. The 0816 train to the City pulls in to the station’s lower level just as the crazed bureaucrat’s car screeches into the station’s parking lot, and the bureaucrat can see the top of the train sitting there idling from across the open lot. This is the very last temporally feasible train: if the bureaucrat misses this train he’ll be late again, and terminated. He hauls into a Handicapped spot and leaves the car there at a crazy angle, vaults the turnstile, and takes the stairs down to the platform seven at a time, sweaty and bug-eyed. People scream and dive out of his way. As he careers down the long stairway he keeps his crazed eyes on the open doors of the 0816 train, willing them to stay open just a little longer. Finally, filmed in a glacial slo-mo, the bureaucrat leaps from the seventh-to-the-bottom step and lunges toward the train’s open doors, and right in mid-lunge smashes headlong into an earnest-faced little kid with thick glasses and a bow-tie and those nerdy little schoolboy-shorts who’s tottering along the platform under a tall armful of carefully wrapped packages. Kerwham, they collide. Bureaucrat and kid both stagger back from the impact. The kid’s packages go flying all over the place. The kid recovers his balance and stands there stunned, glasses and bow-tie askew. The bureaucrat looks frantically from the kid to the litter of packages to the kid to the train’s doors, which are still open. The train thrums. Its interior is fluorescent-lit and filled with employed, ontologically secure bureaucrats. You can hear the station’s PA announcer saying something tinny and garbled about departure. The stream of platform foot-traffic opens around the bureaucrat and the stunned boy and the litter of packages… The film’s bureaucrat’s buggy eyes keep going back and forth between the train’s open doors and the little kid, who’s looking steadily up at him, almost studious, his eyes big and liquid behind the lenses… The bureaucrat’s leaning away, inclined way over toward the train doors, as if his very cells were being pulled that way. But he keeps looking at the kid, the gifts, struggling with himself… The bureaucrat’s eyes suddenly recede back into their normal places in his sockets. He turns from the fluorescent doors and bends to the kid and asks if he’s OK and says it’ll all be OK. He cleans the kid’s spectacles with his pocket handkerchief, picks the kid’s packages up. About halfway through the packages the PA issues something final and the train’s doors close with a pressurized hiss. The bureaucrat gently loads the kid back up with packages, neatens them. The train pulls out. The bureaucrat watches the train pull out, expressionless. It’s anybody’s guess what he’s thinking. He straightens the kid’s bow-tie , kneeling down the way adults do when they’re ministering to a child, and tells him he’s sorry about the impact and that it’s OK. He turns to go. The platform’s mostly empty now. Now the strange moment. The kid cranes his neck around the packages and looks up at the guy as he starts to walk away: ‘Mister?’ the kid says. ‘Are you Jesus?’ ‘Don’t I wish,’ the ex-bureaucrat says over his shoulder, walking away, as the kid shifts the packages and frees one little hand to wave Bye at the guy’s topcoat’s back as the camera, revealed now as mounted on the 0816’ s rear, recedes from the platform and picks up speed.
Photo edit by Christine Rueter.
Blog: tychogirl on wordpress
The poem is from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. The original photo, of Saturn’s moon Daphnis, was taken by Cassini.
May I gain the mastery over the great and mighty word which is in my body in this my place, and by it I will remember and I will forget. Let me go forward on my journey, and let me plough. I am at peace in the divine city,(65) and I know the waters, cities, nomes, and lakes which are in Sekhet-hetep. I exist therein, I am strong therein, I become a _khu_ therein, I eat therein, I sow seed therein, I reap the harvest therein, I plough therein, I make love therein, I am at peace with the god Hetep therein. Behold I scatter seed therein, I sail about among its Lakes and I come forward to the cities thereof, O divine Hetep. Behold, my mouth is equipped with my horns [for teeth], grant me an overflowing supply of the food whereon the _ka_s and _khu_s [live]. I have passed the judgment of Shu upon him that knoweth him, so that I may go forth to the cities thereof, and may sail about among its lakes and may walk about in Sekhet-hetep; and behold, Ra is in heaven, and behold, the god Hetep is its double offering. I have come onward to its land, I have put on my girdle(?), I have come forth so that the gifts which are about to be given unto me may be given, I have made gladness for myself. I have laid hold upon my strength which the god Hetep hath greatly increased for me. O Unen-em-hetep,(66) I have entered in to thee and my soul followeth after me, and my divine food is upon both my hands, O Lady of the two lands,(67) who stablishest my word whereby I remember and forget; I would live without injury, without any injury [being done] unto me, oh, grant to me, oh, do thou grant to me, joy of heart. Make thou me to be at peace, bind thou up my sinews and muscles, and make me to receive the air. O Un[en]-em-hetep, thou Lady of the winds, I have entered in to thee and I have opened (_i.e._, shown) my head. Ra falleth asleep, but I am awake, and there is the goddess Hast at the gate of heaven by night. Obstacles have been set before me, but I have gathered together what he hath emitted. I am in my city.”
Len Wein, co-creator of Wolverine, dies at 69. Cause of death unknown as of 5 a.m.
My first contact with comic books happened when my cousin introduced me to Wolverine comics back in 1992. I immediately started reading every issue from then on, and a couple of years later I was lucky enough to receive from an old time collector a box with all his comics, which included earlier Wolverine and X-Men releases.
I grew up with those stories. Alongside Spider-Man, Wolverine was the base grounds for my personal education. Well I have my flaws, but so do the characters I looked up to.
Wolverine’s anger comes from caring and trying to protect the people he loves. Even being too young to a real identification with such persona, it did inspire me: who doesn’t want to be at least as heroic as that? And who doesn’t feel the need to see your fears and hatreds and whatnot in their favorite comics or books or films?
I’m pretty sure that just as it did to me those comics have being a great part of many other peoples lives, be that on childhood, adolescence or adult life.
And we are grateful to Len Wein. My heart goes out to his family & friends & fans.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
So Pluto has official designated names for some of its regions and key spots, which means that not only you are unable to move there right away no matter how much you want to but also now you can easily locate the places you are not moving into and even give them to your current acquaintances here on Earth since fortunately they won’t be able to locate you there (though on the less fortunate hand they probably are still able to find you here). But let’s stay optimistic and say that maybe in a near future we can get our asses down (up?) there, so here are those names:
Tombaugh Regio honors Clyde Tombaugh (1906–1997), the U.S. astronomer who discovered Pluto in 1930 from Lowell Observatory in Arizona.
Burney crater honors Venetia Burney (1918-2009), who as an 11-year-old schoolgirl suggested the name “Pluto” for Clyde Tombaugh’s newly discovered planet. Later in life she taught mathematics and economics.
Sputnik Planitia is a large plain named for Sputnik 1, the first space satellite, launched by the Soviet Union in 1957.
Tenzing Montes and Hillary Montes are mountain ranges honoring Tenzing Norgay (1914–1986) and Sir Edmund Hillary (1919–2008), the Indian/Nepali Sherpa and New Zealand mountaineer were the first to reach the summit of Mount Everest and return safely.
Al-Idrisi Montes honors Ash-Sharif al-Idrisi (1100–1165/66), a noted Arab mapmaker and geographer whose landmark work of medieval geography is sometimes translated as “The Pleasure of Him Who Longs to Cross the Horizons.”
Djanggawul Fossae defines a network of long, narrow depressions named for the Djanggawuls, three ancestral beings in indigenous Australian mythology who traveled between the island of the dead and Australia, creating the landscape and filling it with vegetation.
Sleipnir Fossa is named for the powerful, eight-legged horse of Norse mythology that carried the god Odin into the underworld.
Virgil Fossae honors Virgil, one of the greatest Roman poets and Dante’s fictional guide through hell and purgatory in the Divine Comedy.
Adlivun Cavus is a deep depression named for Adlivun, the underworld in Inuit mythology.
Hayabusa Terra is a large land mass saluting the Japanese spacecraft and mission (2003-2010) that performed the first asteroid sample return.
Voyager Terra honors the pair of NASA spacecraft, launched in 1977, that performed the first “grand tour” of all four giant planets. The Voyager spacecraft are now probing the boundary between the Sun and interstellar space.
Tartarus Dorsa is a ridge named for Tartarus, the deepest, darkest pit of the underworld in Greek mythology.
Elliot crater recognizes James Elliot (1943-2011), an MIT researcher who pioneered the use of stellar occultations to study the solar system – leading to discoveries such as the rings of Uranus and the first detection of Pluto’s thin atmosphere.
I can’t shake the hatred off. Convincing ourselves that people aren’t as bad as they are is an ongoing job that takes a lot out of anyone.
Everyone will hang with you as long as they feel the need to.
Everyone will leave you to your grave if they think your corpse will stink.
It’s being quite a thrill to feel comfortable enough to be as honest and open and direct as I have been more and more to anyone. And I felt trust in return. But still…
I’ve been used as a bridge, as all else have; as a cry-on, as all ears have, and undoubtedly as a a scapegoat.
Most of my friends are just the gone-off sheep of the lovefueled heart entrust I’ve come to know I shall never have.
I need to love and I choose to and I choose who. You need to forget everything once in a while and choose me as a brother-in-arms so you feel secure and also ensure that someone else’s to blame. For whatever it is you want to put out as you hang with me.
I’ve surely done the same to people here and there. Of course I never led them to believe in my heart-felt heart-meant heart-tied companionship and evercaring.
But that’s just me. And I’m the urban spaceman, if you know the twist
I’m such a blind fool for love
flying here and there
to follow my heart
they call me
You such a Pygar,
with your angel like
eyes and your angelical smile
Leo Dias is a brazilian artist living in Porto Alegre, south of Brazil. He’s done cover art for Sepultura and many horror sculptures well noticed here and throughout the world.
It ain’t without reasons that I decided that, when I have my own Sandman mask handmaid, he’s the one I’ll thrust with the request. Just look at how amazing is his artwork when a friend of his request art with a theme he knowingly enjoys: I am one who hasn’t seen more than three or four Hellraiser movies and I’ve only played chess when I got myself into a rehab clinic, yet I want this chess set more than I want peace on Earth for all good people. This is the result of professionalism and the technique acquired after years of learning and making art. Just try to imagine how honored I feel to have been a barely grown kid alongside him in the streets of my hometown. You may follow him on facebook and keep track on his work: Leo Dias.
Não é à toa que o dia em que quiser uma máscara de Sandman, a única pessoa em quem confiarei pra fazê-la é o Leo Dias. Olha o tipo de trampo que esse cara faz por uma encomenda amiga e com uma temática de seu gosto: eu que só vi três ou quatro filmes da série Hellraiser e só aprendi e joguei xadrez durante uma internação hospitalar to querendo esse set mais do que quero paz na Terra à gente de bem. Profissionalismo e muita, muita técnica de anos de aprendizado e construção. Ces não imaginam a honra que sinto por já ter “molequeado” com esse cara nos tempos de Osvaldo e Escaler.
“The feeling is why I want to. The feeling is the reason I want to die. I’m here because I want to die. That’s why I’m in a room without windows and with cages over the lightbulbs and no lock on the toilet door. Why they took my shoelaces and my belt. But I notice they don’t take away the feeling do they.”
‘Well this–she gestured at herself–‘isn’t a state. This is a feeling. I feel it all over. In my arms and legs. (…) ‘All over. My head, throat, butt. In my stomach. It’s all over everywhere. I don’t know what I could call it. It’s like I can’t get enough outside it to call it anything. It’s like horror more than sadness. It’s more like horror. It’s like something horrible is about to happen, the most horrible thing you can imagine–no, worse than you can imagine because there’s the feeling that there’s something you have to do right away to stop it but you don’t know what it is you have to do, and then it’s happening, too, the whole horrible time, it’s about to happen and also it’s happening, all at the same time.’
“Mario is basically a born listener. One of the positives to being visibly damaged is that people can sometimes forget you’re there, even when they’re interfacing with you. You almost get to eavesdrop. It’s almost like they’re like: If nobody’s really in there, there’s nothing to be shy about. That’s why bullshit often tends to drop away around damaged listeners, deep beliefs revealed, diary-type private reveries indulged out loud (…)”
“Boy, I get a smell of happiness off their upset, however. I think they enjoy getting outraged and vilified and unjustly ignored. (…) We gave it to them too easy, boy. I mean their Daddies. Men that I was youths with. And these youths today are *pissed off*. They ain’t never once had to worry or hurt or suffer in any real way whatsoever. They do not know Great Depression and they do not know desolation. (…) We’re taking away folks’ suffering here at home through these careful domestic programs, boy, without giving them nothing to replace it. Take a look at them dancing across over there, boy, shouting *fuck you* like they invented both fucking and me. (…) I see some animals that need to suffer, some folks that need some suffering to even be Americans inside, boy; and if we don’t give them some suffering, why, they’ll just go and hunt up some for themselves.”
‘Lyndon’, short story, is part of the book “Girl with Curious Hair”
#literature #quotes #quote #suffering #davidfosterwallace #lyndonjohnson