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Wednesday
Sep212011

Five things that I for some reason know.

 

  1. Cashew nuts are, in their natural state, poisonous to humans.
  2. Alexander Graham Bell did not invent the telephone, but was rather a thieving bastard.
  3. An actor once rescued Robert Todd Lincoln (the son of Abraham Lincoln) from being run over by a train. His rescuer? Edwin Booth, brother of John Wilkes Booth.
  4. Mongolia has a growing neo-nazi movement.
  5. The female humpback whale's genitalia is usually fully surrounded by barnacles.

These are just a fraction of the pieces of pointless trivia rattling around in the ol' noggin'. How any of this will ever be of use to me I do not know, but I remember it all the same. Absorbed it like a sponge I did. Yet for some reason I appear to unwittingly deem it unnecessary to recollect directions to any place via car. Like some sort of subconscious environmental activist.


With autumn comes new ideas and the wilting, withering death of old ones.

Sunday
May152011

As the stars are falling...

...you have to wonder what else we might be missing.

Tuesday
Nov092010

Naturally in our nature.

Nature is not beautiful.

What do I mean by this statement? Am I somehow claiming that there aren't appealing patterns in the scales, skins, fur, fluff or feathers of fauna? Nor any gorgeous colours and shapes permeating the natural landscape? And that the only semblance of beauty can be found in the monstrous clumps of concrete that we call a modern city? No, of course not. What I am saying however is that it is we, us human beings, that make our world beautiful. We seldom go out and actually physically reshape nature into something more appealing to our sensibilities. What we do go out and do is interpret nature. Through our minds and imaginations and the skills that we have learned. Things that are wondrous in their very existence. To say nothing about the fruits that they sometimes produce. In whatever art-form that may be. This is far more scintillating than any actual piece of fruit.

There is no universal truth that states that nature is categorically beautiful in and of itself. It's when we pick out a part of nature, see it in our own unique way and try to share this with other human beings, that we make it into an endless source of beauty. It becomes enchanting when a painter paints a swaying field of gold onto a canvas. A babbling brook is inspiring when described and penned into a narrative by a writer. Blades of moist grass touch a nerve of nostalgia when photographed with the light bouncing off of them, just so. It is in these feelings and thoughts about snippets of nature and how they are conveyed to others that we find beauty. Without us our ecosystem would be nothing more than a whole bunch of stuff. Spread around. Esthetically speaking. Clumsily written.

Inside of every strung out tramp dwells a poet. In every bloodthirsty dictator an artist. Every human being on the planet has the potential to reinterpret reality and our world into something that tickles the spirit, elates the soul and smashes down the doors of perception. So no, nature is not beautiful. Nature - just is.

Listening to: Boards of Canada - Dayvan Cowboy
Reading: Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk: A Modest Bestiary by David Sedaris
Watching: The Venture Bros. Season 4

Wednesday
Nov032010

Reiterating an irritation.

There are days when everything annoys you. Every little occurrence and thing makes you uncomfortable at best. Angry at worst. Sounds are too loud. Lights are too bright. Every single fiber in the fabric of your clothes chafe against your skin. And all other things rub you the wrong way.

Smiling faces become smirking masks. A handshake become a crushing, yet somehow disgustingly sweaty and clammy, vice-like grip. A hug transforms into a human straitjacket. Any morsel of food tastes like cardboard pulp with a splash of Styrofoam garnish. Your loving and previously beloved pet is now a leech on your life force. The best of friends change into complete twats. That favorite track you've been listening to all week now sounds banal and you can't for the life of you remember what it was about it that you found so lovely. Delete it. Regret it. Download it again.

Buttons won't button. Clicks won't connect. Programs crash at the most inopportune moments. Why is the spacebar sticking in the keyboard? Words won't fit properly into any sentence you utter. Be it through your mouth or via the tips of your fingers. Both of which seem to be detached from any reasoning part of that lump of clay you call your brain. You forget important things. Dwell on the inconsequential. Speak when you shouldn't. Remain silent when you mustn't. You lose the plot. And your favorite pen. You stub your toe and spit on your lapel/collar. Shit. A thousand times; shit!

A feeling utterly inhabits you. Becomes your very essence. A feeling of malaise moving through molasses. But don't worry. As soon as your head hits the pillow those jarring thoughts will begin to deconstruct. They gradually shift from coherent narratives and concepts into incoherent flights of fancy without you ever noticing. Slowly slipping you into the comfortable World of Dreams. I'll meet you there. We'll ride a unicorn together.

Listening to: Broken Social Scene - Meet Me In The Basement
Reading: Last Exit to Brooklyn
Watching: The Walking Dead