by the nefarious nipples of Nebuchadrezzar, HOW BEST TO BIND THESE BLOODY BOOKS.
Show goes up tomorrow despite it all; books are printed at least, covers incomplete, heart pounding.
Gah.
07 January 2007
06 January 2007
faith, vows and children.
My friend Flick told me yesterday about a friend of hers who repeats her marriage vows to her husband on the 22nd of every month (the date they got married), regardless of how faithful (or not) they may be feeling to them at the moment. This struck me as immensely beautiful. Not necessarily the marriage context. But this action of speaking out against our brains, or rather, in spite of our brains in any given moment. Our minds are so constantly distracted and chattering and concerned with the whims of now now now, which could be the product of anything from indigestion to an ill-timed comment, that there is something about stopping for a moment to repeat words that represent a greater truth.
Then we were talking about this relative to children. That most adults seem better able to bypass criticisms and self-absorbed whims of the moment when speaking with kids. It's rare to hear an adult say to a child "what *I* want is more important than what you want" or "I don't like you" (in the heat of a moment) or things like that.
Alot of us know when children are anxious, or when they need to hear something. When talking to a kid, it's easier to recognize when they are fearful or in pain or need attention.
If we dealt with other adults more often as if they were still children (proverbially speaking), I imagine we would get much further with each other. And be kinder, and perhaps even more honest.
Then we were talking about this relative to children. That most adults seem better able to bypass criticisms and self-absorbed whims of the moment when speaking with kids. It's rare to hear an adult say to a child "what *I* want is more important than what you want" or "I don't like you" (in the heat of a moment) or things like that.
Alot of us know when children are anxious, or when they need to hear something. When talking to a kid, it's easier to recognize when they are fearful or in pain or need attention.
If we dealt with other adults more often as if they were still children (proverbially speaking), I imagine we would get much further with each other. And be kinder, and perhaps even more honest.
laughing my way to crippledom.
The significance and/or oddity of this will only make sense to my closest of friends, but I finished the gutsplitting book posted about below this morning, and was laughing So hard my hands went numb. I KID YOU NOT. I had to perch the book in my lap. So weird.
Just One More.
I Promise. JUST ONE. (new readers, see a few posts down)
"They Call Me Naughty Lola" ladies and gentlemen, "They Call Me Naughty Lola"
I love the British SO FUCKING MUCH.
I'd like to dedicate this advert to my mother (difficult cow, 65) who is responsible for me still being single at 36. Man. 36. Single. Held at home by years of subtle emotional abuse and at least 19 fake heart attacks. Box no. 6207.
"They Call Me Naughty Lola" ladies and gentlemen, "They Call Me Naughty Lola"
I love the British SO FUCKING MUCH.
I'd like to dedicate this advert to my mother (difficult cow, 65) who is responsible for me still being single at 36. Man. 36. Single. Held at home by years of subtle emotional abuse and at least 19 fake heart attacks. Box no. 6207.
05 January 2007
The Oddities.
and now that this Christmas gift has at last found its owner, well, I can post it. Rife with errors, inconsistencies, misplaced copy, but still I was rather pleased that my year-long collection of the office emails made its way into a little book, which I fondly call the Brick Oddities.
208 pages. Holy Cow. We all, might I boast, give Very Good Email.
(click on picture to see back-cover copy.)
I have one lending copy in my library. Interested parties please contact me to borrow it.
But until then, I have garnered permission to publish some of the more recent missives, the ones that arrived after "publication". And until I am quieted, you, dear reader(s) shall reap the fruits of our daily labours.
from: managing editor
subject: Some Changes around here.
date: Thursday, January 4, 2007 3.27 PM
I have a letter from someone who signs himself so: Andy McDonald, B.A.
I find it so delightfully pretentious, that in future I shall sign myself (RSS), B.A. I expect you to address me as such (comme ca: "Rebecca, B.A., will you please pass me a cookie"). Also I expect the attendant heightened respect of my newly acknowledged credentials.
(You can do this too if you like. For instance: stef lenk, O.Y.O.U.B.D.O.F.R.U/R.O.S.L.E.A.U.T.A.F.B.F.E.I.B.P.F.B.E.W.N.B.L.C. (One Year of University Before Dropping Out For Reasons Unknown; Reams Of Subsequent Life Experience And Unparalleled Travel Adventures Followed By Formal Education In Book Publishing Followed By Employment With Nerdy But Loving Colleagues).
208 pages. Holy Cow. We all, might I boast, give Very Good Email.
(click on picture to see back-cover copy.)I have one lending copy in my library. Interested parties please contact me to borrow it.
But until then, I have garnered permission to publish some of the more recent missives, the ones that arrived after "publication". And until I am quieted, you, dear reader(s) shall reap the fruits of our daily labours.
from: managing editor
subject: Some Changes around here.
date: Thursday, January 4, 2007 3.27 PM
I have a letter from someone who signs himself so: Andy McDonald, B.A.
I find it so delightfully pretentious, that in future I shall sign myself (RSS), B.A. I expect you to address me as such (comme ca: "Rebecca, B.A., will you please pass me a cookie"). Also I expect the attendant heightened respect of my newly acknowledged credentials.
(You can do this too if you like. For instance: stef lenk, O.Y.O.U.B.D.O.F.R.U/R.O.S.L.E.A.U.T.A.F.B.F.E.I.B.P.F.B.E.W.N.B.L.C. (One Year of University Before Dropping Out For Reasons Unknown; Reams Of Subsequent Life Experience And Unparalleled Travel Adventures Followed By Formal Education In Book Publishing Followed By Employment With Nerdy But Loving Colleagues).
PEEING myself.
Today 231079, 443980, and i went a-wandering through Pages at lunchtime. So dangerous.
I picked up a book called They Call Me Naughty Lola.
Who wouldn't, really.
I opened it and was greeted with (real) personal ads taken from the London Review of Books, which some clever sort decided to amass between dustcovers.
Poor 231079.
I didn't have money on me. (This had been vaguely strategic planning, given the perilous dangers of a trip to Pages). 231079 decided, though, that I must have said book and purchased it for me, regardless of financial strife, regardless of the common sense knowledge that I SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO HAVE ANY MORE BOOKS. She even refused my attempts to compensate her, in that way of hers that causes So Much Reverence and only a slight (Slight) bit of worry.
And how did i repay her? sigh. By following her around the bookshop, reading endless passages of the wit of lonelyhearts and Howling Uncontrollably. So patient. So tolerant.
And I was Crying, I tell you. SO. FUNNY.
I am going to attempt to restrain myself from re-copying the whole book onto this blog. Especially since I am (believe it or not) aware that people probably do not share my excessive degree of mirth over these, or even my rather uptight and stodgy sense of humour in general.
I do appreciate that.
I do.
But sweet balls of Beelzebub, just a few.
Just a few. (This is what you get for reading blogs, you fools. Stuck with my idea of funny.)
Here we go:
You were reading the BBC in-house magazine on the Jubilee Line (12 November), I was coughing hot tea through my nostrils. Surely you can't have forgotten? Write now to smitten, weak-kneed, severely burned, bumbling F (32, but normally I look younger). I'll be quite a catch when my top lip has healed. And this brace isn't forever. Box no. 7432.
Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth. Box no. 7652.
Baste me in butter and call me Slappy. No, really. M, 35. Box no. 3175.
Are you Kate Bush? Write to obsessive man (36) at box no. 7363. Note: People who aren't Kate Bush need not respond.
Grave disappointment all round WLTM serious mistake in a nightie. Box no. 6453.
You are going to be alone this Christmas. That's because nobody likes you. I, however, will provide you with a basic meal and some pleasant company on the understanding that you do not criticise my collection of antique medical implements. Tidy man, 51. Size 9 slipper. Box no. 7314.
Take the last train to Clarksville and I'll meet you at the station.* Unless the 10.15 to Watney has been delayed. In which case I'll get the bus—meet me at Morrisons, by the front entrance. If you can't find your way there, get a taxi and I'll give you the fare when I arrive, but make sure you take some change with you. If you don't have any change, take a trumpet so that you can busk for some. Woman, 38, burdened by the need to make contingency plans, seeks well-ordered man to 45. Or woman to 50. Or anyone to 60. Write to box no. 3485. If you can't find stamps, place an ad here and I'll get back to you. If the office is closed, email it. If you can't write, send a taped voice message. Etc., etc.
*(This one had Footnotes!! The preceding is a lyric to an old Monkees single.)
I will end with saying that I do realize that there is a fine line between gut-splittingly funny and grievously sad. Sigh. All this really shows us is how many single people there are out there who (ahem) spend Far Too Much Time Reading.
I picked up a book called They Call Me Naughty Lola.
Who wouldn't, really.
I opened it and was greeted with (real) personal ads taken from the London Review of Books, which some clever sort decided to amass between dustcovers.
Poor 231079.
I didn't have money on me. (This had been vaguely strategic planning, given the perilous dangers of a trip to Pages). 231079 decided, though, that I must have said book and purchased it for me, regardless of financial strife, regardless of the common sense knowledge that I SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO HAVE ANY MORE BOOKS. She even refused my attempts to compensate her, in that way of hers that causes So Much Reverence and only a slight (Slight) bit of worry.
And how did i repay her? sigh. By following her around the bookshop, reading endless passages of the wit of lonelyhearts and Howling Uncontrollably. So patient. So tolerant.
And I was Crying, I tell you. SO. FUNNY.
I am going to attempt to restrain myself from re-copying the whole book onto this blog. Especially since I am (believe it or not) aware that people probably do not share my excessive degree of mirth over these, or even my rather uptight and stodgy sense of humour in general.
I do appreciate that.
I do.
But sweet balls of Beelzebub, just a few.
Just a few. (This is what you get for reading blogs, you fools. Stuck with my idea of funny.)
Here we go:
You were reading the BBC in-house magazine on the Jubilee Line (12 November), I was coughing hot tea through my nostrils. Surely you can't have forgotten? Write now to smitten, weak-kneed, severely burned, bumbling F (32, but normally I look younger). I'll be quite a catch when my top lip has healed. And this brace isn't forever. Box no. 7432.
Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth. Box no. 7652.
Baste me in butter and call me Slappy. No, really. M, 35. Box no. 3175.
Are you Kate Bush? Write to obsessive man (36) at box no. 7363. Note: People who aren't Kate Bush need not respond.
Grave disappointment all round WLTM serious mistake in a nightie. Box no. 6453.
You are going to be alone this Christmas. That's because nobody likes you. I, however, will provide you with a basic meal and some pleasant company on the understanding that you do not criticise my collection of antique medical implements. Tidy man, 51. Size 9 slipper. Box no. 7314.
Take the last train to Clarksville and I'll meet you at the station.* Unless the 10.15 to Watney has been delayed. In which case I'll get the bus—meet me at Morrisons, by the front entrance. If you can't find your way there, get a taxi and I'll give you the fare when I arrive, but make sure you take some change with you. If you don't have any change, take a trumpet so that you can busk for some. Woman, 38, burdened by the need to make contingency plans, seeks well-ordered man to 45. Or woman to 50. Or anyone to 60. Write to box no. 3485. If you can't find stamps, place an ad here and I'll get back to you. If the office is closed, email it. If you can't write, send a taped voice message. Etc., etc.
*(This one had Footnotes!! The preceding is a lyric to an old Monkees single.)
I will end with saying that I do realize that there is a fine line between gut-splittingly funny and grievously sad. Sigh. All this really shows us is how many single people there are out there who (ahem) spend Far Too Much Time Reading.
Shannon Gerard, you are the Coolest BookMaker on this Planet.
I am a subscriber to a series of books called "Stones and Ghosts", made by one Shannon Gerard, artist and bookmaker extraordinaire of Toronto. Her books are Unsurpassed. I encourage you, I harangue you, I Implore you; click here and look. Seriously.
It has been a short while since the last one arrived, Naturally, I thought, given the holidays and all manner of insanity.
Chatting with her in person a couple of days ago, she mentioned she had done another one, and that they were in her bag, no less.
And then today, in the mail, I got a 26 page hand-made book called "intermission", containing 26 drawings from Miz Gerard's latest venture interruptus, an illustration job of 500 (FIVE HUNDRED) drawings for a school phonics book, that needed to be completed in two months. TWO MONTHS.
I get my books in the mail without fail, even if we happen upon each other in real life, because this is the nature of the project. So, amidst the useless fliers, bills, and other atrocities with which we desecrate our postal system, are these tiny gems that arrive periodically.
And, not even just the scheduled subscription, it seems, but Glorious books made Above and Beyond the call of duty. Untold Glee, I tell you. And awe-inspiring. And bloggable gratitude. Everything.
It has been a short while since the last one arrived, Naturally, I thought, given the holidays and all manner of insanity.
Chatting with her in person a couple of days ago, she mentioned she had done another one, and that they were in her bag, no less.
And then today, in the mail, I got a 26 page hand-made book called "intermission", containing 26 drawings from Miz Gerard's latest venture interruptus, an illustration job of 500 (FIVE HUNDRED) drawings for a school phonics book, that needed to be completed in two months. TWO MONTHS.
I get my books in the mail without fail, even if we happen upon each other in real life, because this is the nature of the project. So, amidst the useless fliers, bills, and other atrocities with which we desecrate our postal system, are these tiny gems that arrive periodically.
And, not even just the scheduled subscription, it seems, but Glorious books made Above and Beyond the call of duty. Untold Glee, I tell you. And awe-inspiring. And bloggable gratitude. Everything.
see, it's stuff like this that makes me happy in the mornings.
SO Happy. Like chuckling to myself in an empty apartment at 8.46am happy.
not to mention that it anticipates lunch.
and i love lunch.
Today's Word: Borborygm (Noun)
Pronunciation: [bor-bê-'rig-êm]
Definition 1: The gurgling sounds made by the stomach after eating.
Usage 1: The plural is "borborygmi" and the adjective "borborygmic." Borborygmi form the gastromantic data base (see WotD Archives for "gastromancy"). "Borborology" is a both rare and archaic alternate with an unexpected meaning: profanity. However, it is difficult not to believe that gastromantics are students of borborology, not of profanity but of borborygmi.
Suggested Usage: Today we offer you a more presentable expression for the less acceptable "gut-rumblings." Use it judiciously, "The conversation around the campfire was accompanied by borborygmic remnants of the evening meal." Elizabeth Fenwick wrote in 'Long Way Down' (1959), "The room was very quiet, except for its borborygmic old radiator."
Etymology: Borrowed into English from Greek borbor-ugmos via French "borborygme." This is a clear example of Greek onomatopoeia, the imitation of a real sound in the sound of the word referring to it. It is odd the French and English did not simplify this word to "borborism" as the Greeks ultimately did. (We are grateful to suspected gastromantic Kate Johnson for today's postgastronomical term.)
not to mention that it anticipates lunch.
and i love lunch.
Today's Word: Borborygm (Noun)
Pronunciation: [bor-bê-'rig-êm]
Definition 1: The gurgling sounds made by the stomach after eating.
Usage 1: The plural is "borborygmi" and the adjective "borborygmic." Borborygmi form the gastromantic data base (see WotD Archives for "gastromancy"). "Borborology" is a both rare and archaic alternate with an unexpected meaning: profanity. However, it is difficult not to believe that gastromantics are students of borborology, not of profanity but of borborygmi.
Suggested Usage: Today we offer you a more presentable expression for the less acceptable "gut-rumblings." Use it judiciously, "The conversation around the campfire was accompanied by borborygmic remnants of the evening meal." Elizabeth Fenwick wrote in 'Long Way Down' (1959), "The room was very quiet, except for its borborygmic old radiator."
Etymology: Borrowed into English from Greek borbor-ugmos via French "borborygme." This is a clear example of Greek onomatopoeia, the imitation of a real sound in the sound of the word referring to it. It is odd the French and English did not simplify this word to "borborism" as the Greeks ultimately did. (We are grateful to suspected gastromantic Kate Johnson for today's postgastronomical term.)
04 January 2007
psychotic tendencies.
I have been on strike against my radio alarm for some time, due to its Astounding habit of starting my day with news of someone very far away committing atrocities and inhumane acts that I both am uninvolved with and can't do anything about.
Well, yesterday of course, the year proper started, and I had things that needed doing.
My radio was going for under thirty seconds and I heard the words crime, torture, and the name of some country in the Middle East. I turned it off.
Still feeling rattled ('coz that's just the way I am) I went to lunch and decided that Savage Love would be safely light reading, only to read about a woman who was raped by her boyfriend, and was writing in to see if she should forgive him, 'coz he was hospitalized with suicidal tendencies over the guilt of it all.
I was walking back to work when a friend of mine phoned me to apologize about getting a cheque to me a bit late; her brother had been shot and his friend killed in a drunken fight over the holidays, about four blocks away from where I live.
And then later, (this heard on another radio, where, I can't remember) was news of some woman posting videos of Saddam Hussein's execution for the general public to ogle on YouTube.
Somewhere, the poet Albert Goldbarth (alas, the only reference I found when googling it was my own allusion to this in my 2005 blog!) said that Eadweard Muybridge invented pornography. He was referring to Muybridge's clinical way of photographing the human form in all its revolutions; recording aspects of people that they are unable to see from all angles whilst actually engaged in said action. And all of this for other people to examine at their leisure, through the safety of distance.
Nowadays I wonder if he invented the news as well. People playing voyeur to extremes in which they will never be involved, but can watch or hear from the safety of their homes.
I doubt seriously that this passive engagement comes without consequence.
Well, yesterday of course, the year proper started, and I had things that needed doing.
My radio was going for under thirty seconds and I heard the words crime, torture, and the name of some country in the Middle East. I turned it off.
Still feeling rattled ('coz that's just the way I am) I went to lunch and decided that Savage Love would be safely light reading, only to read about a woman who was raped by her boyfriend, and was writing in to see if she should forgive him, 'coz he was hospitalized with suicidal tendencies over the guilt of it all.
I was walking back to work when a friend of mine phoned me to apologize about getting a cheque to me a bit late; her brother had been shot and his friend killed in a drunken fight over the holidays, about four blocks away from where I live.
And then later, (this heard on another radio, where, I can't remember) was news of some woman posting videos of Saddam Hussein's execution for the general public to ogle on YouTube.
Somewhere, the poet Albert Goldbarth (alas, the only reference I found when googling it was my own allusion to this in my 2005 blog!) said that Eadweard Muybridge invented pornography. He was referring to Muybridge's clinical way of photographing the human form in all its revolutions; recording aspects of people that they are unable to see from all angles whilst actually engaged in said action. And all of this for other people to examine at their leisure, through the safety of distance.
Nowadays I wonder if he invented the news as well. People playing voyeur to extremes in which they will never be involved, but can watch or hear from the safety of their homes.
I doubt seriously that this passive engagement comes without consequence.
02 January 2007
31 December 2006
Inadvertent immortality.
987056 told me about some strange archive site where supposedly some cyber-entity is archiving previous incarnations of websites all and sundry. I went there today, only to come face to face with archived pages from my websites, since the year of 2002. Eek. How would one blush on the internet?
That said, I found a page on a previous site where I had posted pictures of some of the choicest of my old mail art; I don't even know where that stuff is anymore! Probably lurking in a suitcase. But fascinating nonetheless.
That said, I found a page on a previous site where I had posted pictures of some of the choicest of my old mail art; I don't even know where that stuff is anymore! Probably lurking in a suitcase. But fascinating nonetheless.
30 December 2006
The Glorious and Scathingly Brilliant Who.
Mr. (Tom) Baker of course.
Presently 70 and living in Tunbridge Wells.
Hear him sing "How Soon is Now" here.
And whilst listening, read below for the pithy pleasures he entertained me with this evening. Be still my enamoured (although un-bescarfed) neck.
the Doctor (the Real one):
i've been tied to pillars by better men than you, captain.
good looks are no substitute for a sound character.
Bafflegab, my dear!
It's an economic miracle, of course it's wrong.
His compatriots:
do you mean they slammed him to the wall with "good vibrations"?
I'm concentrating on the doctor's mind, don't disturb me.
And the arch villains, occasionally rife with cleverness themselves. (Although not quite so dreamy. They don't wear the scarf, after all.)
you dare to lay the rotting fruits of your own incompetence at my door?
your manner appeals only to the homicidal side of my nature.
by the left frontal lobe of the fiery demon, Fibuli!
EXTERMINATE. EXTERMINATE.
(and this from the New Who)
go canoodle her spoon, or whatever it is you British do.
voice-mail dooms us all.
Presently 70 and living in Tunbridge Wells.
Hear him sing "How Soon is Now" here.
And whilst listening, read below for the pithy pleasures he entertained me with this evening. Be still my enamoured (although un-bescarfed) neck.
the Doctor (the Real one):
i've been tied to pillars by better men than you, captain.
good looks are no substitute for a sound character.
Bafflegab, my dear!
It's an economic miracle, of course it's wrong.
His compatriots:
do you mean they slammed him to the wall with "good vibrations"?
I'm concentrating on the doctor's mind, don't disturb me.
And the arch villains, occasionally rife with cleverness themselves. (Although not quite so dreamy. They don't wear the scarf, after all.)
you dare to lay the rotting fruits of your own incompetence at my door?
your manner appeals only to the homicidal side of my nature.
by the left frontal lobe of the fiery demon, Fibuli!
EXTERMINATE. EXTERMINATE.
(and this from the New Who)
go canoodle her spoon, or whatever it is you British do.
voice-mail dooms us all.
28 December 2006
assam and "Little Miss Disaster"
tea and the Damned.
What a Perfect way to start the morning.
Merci bien 073666.
What a Perfect way to start the morning.
Merci bien 073666.
one night stands.
i have of course told everyone who will listen about my latest little book project, rendering the whole idea banal and done with at best, but regardless, here is one of the drawings from my "one-night stands" book, which will be launching with my art window at Pages in January 2007. the project has been...highly enjoyable.
27 December 2006
magic.
Seeing as it is a spiritual time of year, i cast about for a bit of relevant reading yesterday, and re-introduced myself to some basic thoughts on magic, courtesy of Mr. Grant (thumpa thumpa) Morrison, of Invisibles fame.
He lays out his basic priniciples of sigil-making here; stuff which I paid A Whole Lot of attention to ( I went down to DisinfoCon in New York in 2000, specifically to hear Morrison speak.)
GM talks about two kinds of magic in his PopMagic manifesto (and in Pop Magic part two). There is your basic sigil-making-focusing-your-will stuff, and then there is what he calls "narrative hypersigils". For him, this was The Invisibles. Basically the man drew himself into a comic book existence to parallel one he wanted to see for himself.
Both are very similiar to principles of living well or being ones real self, it seems to me. Namely, one has to make a decision, strip it down to the essentials necessary for said decision to manifest itself, and then stop thinking about said decision and let the will run its course.
And if necessary, fake it 'til you make it.
I've struggle with this. I am an empiricist, and I trust the reality of what I see with my own eyes. I trust facts. I'm too aware of "faking" to do it well.
I have based my ideas of "truth" on these facts for a long long time, except for those unfortunate times when my emotions get in the way. More and more I am coming to understand that honesty means Squat when there is more than one person involved. There are as many kinds of honesty as there are people in the universe.
Lately I've been pondering the fact that the liars might be more trustworthy than those who tell "the truth".
When you listen to someone's lie, you listen to what they need/want/aspire too, unassailed by illusions of morality, insecurity, or responsibility to others. This, I admit, is dangerous. But everything in the right context, it seems to me.
He lays out his basic priniciples of sigil-making here; stuff which I paid A Whole Lot of attention to ( I went down to DisinfoCon in New York in 2000, specifically to hear Morrison speak.)
GM talks about two kinds of magic in his PopMagic manifesto (and in Pop Magic part two). There is your basic sigil-making-focusing-your-will stuff, and then there is what he calls "narrative hypersigils". For him, this was The Invisibles. Basically the man drew himself into a comic book existence to parallel one he wanted to see for himself.
Both are very similiar to principles of living well or being ones real self, it seems to me. Namely, one has to make a decision, strip it down to the essentials necessary for said decision to manifest itself, and then stop thinking about said decision and let the will run its course.
And if necessary, fake it 'til you make it.
I've struggle with this. I am an empiricist, and I trust the reality of what I see with my own eyes. I trust facts. I'm too aware of "faking" to do it well.
I have based my ideas of "truth" on these facts for a long long time, except for those unfortunate times when my emotions get in the way. More and more I am coming to understand that honesty means Squat when there is more than one person involved. There are as many kinds of honesty as there are people in the universe.
Lately I've been pondering the fact that the liars might be more trustworthy than those who tell "the truth".
When you listen to someone's lie, you listen to what they need/want/aspire too, unassailed by illusions of morality, insecurity, or responsibility to others. This, I admit, is dangerous. But everything in the right context, it seems to me.
a small piece of wisdom (possibly misquoted) from Mark Twain
"History doesn't repeat itself, it rhymes."
and what did i get for Christmas?
a tin monkey who solves problems with his feet and his groin.
I would say i was kidding.
but i'm not.
i Love it.
I would say i was kidding.
but i'm not.
i Love it.
clever little me.
well, i didn't make too many gifts this christmas, and i haven't yet given them all to their recipients, so some remain unspoken of. I did knit a pair of very lumpy armwarmers for one friend ("you gave her your time and your love! R said. ah yes, that is my time and love, crooked and lumpy, with strings hanging out everywhere.) gave a drawing from the past to another friend (said friend has suggested I should refer to my friends as numbers, so as to avoid privacy issues. so, to friend 163478, i gave a piece of history), and i...well, you will have to re-visit, dear readers if you want to know what friend 231079 got for Christmas.
But back to my armwarmers, I did redeem myself to their recipient with these what I thought to be rather clever t-shirt transfers, made by scanning scrabble letters into funny little tidbits relevant to their recipients. The first two for a couple dedicated to most persistent scrabble challenging, the third for a fellow fan of Jeannette Winterson's powerbook ("carbon-based primitive in a silicon world"), and for myself, 'coz i had some extra transfer paper, the last most timely warning.
But back to my armwarmers, I did redeem myself to their recipient with these what I thought to be rather clever t-shirt transfers, made by scanning scrabble letters into funny little tidbits relevant to their recipients. The first two for a couple dedicated to most persistent scrabble challenging, the third for a fellow fan of Jeannette Winterson's powerbook ("carbon-based primitive in a silicon world"), and for myself, 'coz i had some extra transfer paper, the last most timely warning.
"new you"
a message from above that little ad men tapped in tin onto the billboard across the street over the course of today. of course, from the angle I took the photo, the "you" is obscured. sigh.
24 December 2006
Harassment.
Having just posted nudey photos of my work cohorts (I got permission from them, dear reader(s)), i feel there can be no more apt time to move quite to the other end of the spectrum to rant endlessly about a rather uncomfortable situation I find myself in frequently these days, with nary a clear solution.
I work more than one job, dear reader(s), and my other place of employment finds most of my colleagues fairly consistently clothed. This is a great relief to me, specifically in the case of one gentlemen I occasionally find myself working alongside, who pays FAR TOO MUCH ATTENTION TO MY PERSONAL LIFE. FAR TOO MUCH.
It began sometime back with your average work chatter, what do you do, where do you live, etc etc. Not unusual. From most people, this kind of chatter I find both welcome and immensely edifying.
However, in this case, things graduated to a point where this gentleman, a self-confessed illiterate when it comes to computers, was reading my (previous) blog daily and visiting my (rarely changed) website regularly (or so it seemed, judging from the comments about it) At work he would comment on events in my life back to me in greater detail than I ever outlined in this silly cyber-preoccupation of mine.
I began to realize that something one-sided was going on, but how does one stop being amicable, with someone who is being "kind" and "considerate", by most peoples judgement?
When I printed my first comic, and threw away a badly coloured one, this man protested, grabbing the book and saying he would like to keep it, despite already owning a copy of the completed book. At the time I was indifferent to the matter.
A month or so later he confessed that every time he goes to one of the bookstores that carries them in the city, he buys a copy, so now I no longer know if my books are actually selling, or if they are piling up in this man's personal environs.
These days I cannot enter the room without being leered at, and somehow such things as orange juice appear for me on the lunch table when I'm sick, despite NOT asking for it, despite expressly insisting that I am not in need of anything.
A month ago I moved house. This gentleman has asked me where I live THREE times now. Specifically. He isn't content with "the west end" or any response like that. And he isn't content with "I moved TO A DIFFERENT ADDRESS" either.
When male friends visit me at work, there is an impromptu quiz about who they are, what they do, "my, (they are) handsome" etc etc.
For a long time I have tried to accomodate these questions with pleasant vaguaries, in the interest of keeping the peace (read: being passive agressive). This has been, of course, completely ineffectual.
My next step was to begin pointing out to this man that he pays far too much attention to my personal life. This was greeted with a chuckle on his behalf, along with some vage sort of disclaimer.
Finally, the other day, when he mentioned that he had read about a friend of mine in the latest uTOpia book (about culture and the arts in Toronto), identifying her by her first name, as if she was an acquaintance of his, i announced that she is NOT his friend, and HE REALLY PAYS FAR TOO MUCH ATTENTION TO MY PERSONAL LIFE.
His retort? "well, she's in (the book) for anyone to read about"
How do I argue this, dear reader(s)? Of course, nothing about her relationship with me is "in the book", but he remains staunchly oblivious to the inference that HE HAS CROSSED EVERY RESPECTABLE BOUNDARY ONE CAN CROSS WITH A COMPLETE STRANGER whose only shared connection is the workplace lunch table.
Now, all of this seems to imply a simple solution, non? Keep Away. Plain and simple. This man, rife with good intentions as he sees them (and they no doubt are), has absolutely NO intention of listening to my complete lack of interest in him, or my increasing discomfort with being constantly waylaid with attentions that even my ex-boyfriends wouldn't indulge in.
Now here, dear reader(s) is the problem. This gentlemen runs two of the machines I need to use to do my own book projects. And, try as I might, I cannot get him or anyone to teach me how to use them INDEPENDENTLY if I decide to use them off my own accord, it is pointed out that I am doing a far from perfect job, and this gentleman inevitably steps in to improve on it, Completely Ignoring my entreaty that I am not in fact Interested in doing a perfect job, I am interested in doing the project on my own. I have attempted to negotiate these jobs in trade, since the gentleman has an affection for scotch, but now my offer of compensation to ensure that the arrangement is seen as a business one is greeted with a voluble tirade that he WILL NOT help me if i purchase him anything of the sort.
The difficult thing is, I need to use the machines, I need help using them (at the moment) I am grateful for the help. These projects are SO important to me. I need to make the books. There isn't a question here. That is a mutual understanding. Unfortunately.
Good intentions, ladies and gentlemen.
"Good Intentions".
What's a girl to do?
I work more than one job, dear reader(s), and my other place of employment finds most of my colleagues fairly consistently clothed. This is a great relief to me, specifically in the case of one gentlemen I occasionally find myself working alongside, who pays FAR TOO MUCH ATTENTION TO MY PERSONAL LIFE. FAR TOO MUCH.
It began sometime back with your average work chatter, what do you do, where do you live, etc etc. Not unusual. From most people, this kind of chatter I find both welcome and immensely edifying.
However, in this case, things graduated to a point where this gentleman, a self-confessed illiterate when it comes to computers, was reading my (previous) blog daily and visiting my (rarely changed) website regularly (or so it seemed, judging from the comments about it) At work he would comment on events in my life back to me in greater detail than I ever outlined in this silly cyber-preoccupation of mine.
I began to realize that something one-sided was going on, but how does one stop being amicable, with someone who is being "kind" and "considerate", by most peoples judgement?
When I printed my first comic, and threw away a badly coloured one, this man protested, grabbing the book and saying he would like to keep it, despite already owning a copy of the completed book. At the time I was indifferent to the matter.
A month or so later he confessed that every time he goes to one of the bookstores that carries them in the city, he buys a copy, so now I no longer know if my books are actually selling, or if they are piling up in this man's personal environs.
These days I cannot enter the room without being leered at, and somehow such things as orange juice appear for me on the lunch table when I'm sick, despite NOT asking for it, despite expressly insisting that I am not in need of anything.
A month ago I moved house. This gentleman has asked me where I live THREE times now. Specifically. He isn't content with "the west end" or any response like that. And he isn't content with "I moved TO A DIFFERENT ADDRESS" either.
When male friends visit me at work, there is an impromptu quiz about who they are, what they do, "my, (they are) handsome" etc etc.
For a long time I have tried to accomodate these questions with pleasant vaguaries, in the interest of keeping the peace (read: being passive agressive). This has been, of course, completely ineffectual.
My next step was to begin pointing out to this man that he pays far too much attention to my personal life. This was greeted with a chuckle on his behalf, along with some vage sort of disclaimer.
Finally, the other day, when he mentioned that he had read about a friend of mine in the latest uTOpia book (about culture and the arts in Toronto), identifying her by her first name, as if she was an acquaintance of his, i announced that she is NOT his friend, and HE REALLY PAYS FAR TOO MUCH ATTENTION TO MY PERSONAL LIFE.
His retort? "well, she's in (the book) for anyone to read about"
How do I argue this, dear reader(s)? Of course, nothing about her relationship with me is "in the book", but he remains staunchly oblivious to the inference that HE HAS CROSSED EVERY RESPECTABLE BOUNDARY ONE CAN CROSS WITH A COMPLETE STRANGER whose only shared connection is the workplace lunch table.
Now, all of this seems to imply a simple solution, non? Keep Away. Plain and simple. This man, rife with good intentions as he sees them (and they no doubt are), has absolutely NO intention of listening to my complete lack of interest in him, or my increasing discomfort with being constantly waylaid with attentions that even my ex-boyfriends wouldn't indulge in.
Now here, dear reader(s) is the problem. This gentlemen runs two of the machines I need to use to do my own book projects. And, try as I might, I cannot get him or anyone to teach me how to use them INDEPENDENTLY if I decide to use them off my own accord, it is pointed out that I am doing a far from perfect job, and this gentleman inevitably steps in to improve on it, Completely Ignoring my entreaty that I am not in fact Interested in doing a perfect job, I am interested in doing the project on my own. I have attempted to negotiate these jobs in trade, since the gentleman has an affection for scotch, but now my offer of compensation to ensure that the arrangement is seen as a business one is greeted with a voluble tirade that he WILL NOT help me if i purchase him anything of the sort.
The difficult thing is, I need to use the machines, I need help using them (at the moment) I am grateful for the help. These projects are SO important to me. I need to make the books. There isn't a question here. That is a mutual understanding. Unfortunately.
Good intentions, ladies and gentlemen.
"Good Intentions".
What's a girl to do?
23 December 2006
WELL.
it's time. I am officially casting everything shamelessly aside to post naked pictures of my work colleagues on the internet.
Enjoy.
(ok. I have to add a disclaimer. I promised I would, and it's only fair. All of this silliness is photoshop. All of it Disarmingly seamless photoshop, but photoshop nonetheless. i have no idea who owns the bodies I have put my work colleagues heads upon. But here's a toast to them!)
Enjoy.
(ok. I have to add a disclaimer. I promised I would, and it's only fair. All of this silliness is photoshop. All of it Disarmingly seamless photoshop, but photoshop nonetheless. i have no idea who owns the bodies I have put my work colleagues heads upon. But here's a toast to them!)
19 December 2006
One of our staff gratuitous nudey shots for an eccentric old man in Patagonia
as a small token of thank you for the most Extravagant and Life-Changing Dinner I will ever be a part of. Permission to post the naked photos of my work colleagues on the internet are still pending approval. Stay tuned.
17 December 2006
ib thick.
Having been bested by a BLASTED cold, i find myself doing the useless meandering things one does when one doesn't even have the energy to eat a corn flake. This in my email, gratuitous time waster, but so funny...
Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.
The winners are:
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3 . Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when you die, your Soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.
The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are this year's winners:
1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house,which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very,very high.
5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extracredit.)
9. Karmageddon (n): its like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.
And the pick of the literature:
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.
The winners are:
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3 . Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when you die, your Soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.
The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are this year's winners:
1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house,which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very,very high.
5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extracredit.)
9. Karmageddon (n): its like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.
And the pick of the literature:
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
14 December 2006
The questionable state of The Golden Rule.
Although not always consciously, I have laboured much under this bloody thing as a basic tenet of living. Forever in fact. More and more in the last year or so though, i've been feeling like it's rubbish, since I don't treat myself half as well as I treat most people, and often I find myself spending alot of time treating many people like gold who, in my world anyhow, just aren't worth it.
Anyhow.
Today i was informed that the original version of this rule, before the good Jesus changed it, was in fact this: "What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor" - [Hillel to a heathen (Judaism)]
Think about it for a second. It's not the same thing at all. Where's the senseless sacrifice, the martyrdom, the servility?
Googling further into the matter, I discovered these examples from other eastern religions:
"Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful." (Udana-Varga 5:18) (Buddhism)
"This is the sum of the Dharma: Do naught unto others which would cause you pain if done to you" (Mahabharata 5:15:17) (Hinduism)
And this from Wikipedia: Older Eastern culture formulations (Confucius, Hillel) tend to be passive or negative, while in Western culture, it is most commonly rendered as an active or proscriptive form, beginning with "do", "love" or "treat."
And while it is a rare moment that i advocate the passive over the active, or the negative over the positive for that matter, I wonder in this case. I really really wonder.
Anyhow.
Today i was informed that the original version of this rule, before the good Jesus changed it, was in fact this: "What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor" - [Hillel to a heathen (Judaism)]
Think about it for a second. It's not the same thing at all. Where's the senseless sacrifice, the martyrdom, the servility?
Googling further into the matter, I discovered these examples from other eastern religions:
"Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful." (Udana-Varga 5:18) (Buddhism)
"This is the sum of the Dharma: Do naught unto others which would cause you pain if done to you" (Mahabharata 5:15:17) (Hinduism)
And this from Wikipedia: Older Eastern culture formulations (Confucius, Hillel) tend to be passive or negative, while in Western culture, it is most commonly rendered as an active or proscriptive form, beginning with "do", "love" or "treat."
And while it is a rare moment that i advocate the passive over the active, or the negative over the positive for that matter, I wonder in this case. I really really wonder.
13 December 2006
zen Osho.
A friend of mine recently introduced me to this tarot deck (or rather the real tarot deck, of which this link is the online version). It's not the conventional fool, kings and cups sort, but involves suits of cards that are the elements of nature and such.
Reading into it, it's super lovely, although I confess some of it I find a bit too ethereal for my liking. But I've felt that way about practically everything I've encountered in life that involves faith and belief, so whatever. And it is at times disarmingly accurate.
Anyhow.
Feeling rather faithless and anxious this evening, I indulged in one of their online multi card readings, and got this:
(warning: long and probably of little interest to anyone but me. Don't say i don't look out for you, dear reader[s])
TRANSFORMATION.
A master in Zen is not simply a teacher. In all the religions there are only teachers. They teach you about subjects which you don't know, and they ask you to believe because there is no way to bring those experiences into objective reality. Neither has the teacher known them - he has believed them; he transfers his belief to somebody else.
Zen is not a believer's world. It is not for the faithful ones; it is for those daring souls who can drop all belief, unbelief, doubt, reason, mind, and simply enter into their pure existence without boundaries. But it brings a tremendous transformation.
Hence, let me say that while others are involved in philosophies, Zen is involved in metamorphosis, in a transformation. It is authentic alchemy: it changes you from base metal into gold. But its language has to be understood, not with your reasoning and intellectual mind but with your loving heart. Or even just listening, not bothering whether it is true or not. And a moment comes suddenly that you see it, which has been eluding you your whole life. Suddenly, what Gautam Buddha called "eighty-four thousand doors" open.
Osho Zen: The Solitary Bird, Cuckoo of the Forest Chapter 6
Commentary:
The central figure in this card sits atop the vast flower of the void, and holds the symbols of transformation - the sword that cuts through illusion, the snake that rejuvenates itself by shedding its skin, the broken chain of limitations, and the yin/yang symbol of transcending duality. One of its hands rests on its lap, open and receptive. The other reaches down to touch the mouth of a sleeping face, symbolizing the silence that comes when we are at rest.
This is a time for a deep let-go. Allow any pain, sorrow, or difficulty just to be there, accepting its "facticity." It is very much like the experience of Gautam Buddha when, after years of seeking, he finally gave up, knowing there was nothing more that he could do. That very night, he became enlightened.
Transformation comes, like death, in its own time. And, like death, it takes you from one dimension into another.
OR SO I THOUGHT.
Then i realized i got the reading of the cards wrong, and that card was not in fact the "Me" representative card at all. This was: (and yes, there is more)
INNOCENCE.
Zen says that if you drop knowledge - and within knowledge everything is included; your name, your identity, everything, because this has been given to you by others - if you drop all that has been given by others, you will have a totally different quality to your being: innocence. This will be a crucifixion of the persona, the personality, and there will be a resurrection of your innocence. You will become a child again, reborn.
Osho Dang Dang Doko Dang Chapter 7
Commentary:
The old man in this card radiates a childlike delight in the world. There is a sense of grace surrounding him, as if he is at home with himself and with what life has brought. He seems to be having a playful communication with the praying mantis on his finger, as if the two of them are the greatest friends. The pink flowers cascading around him represent a time of letting go, relaxation and sweetness. They are a response to his presence, a reflection of his own qualities.
The innocence that comes from a deep experience of life is childlike, but not childish. The innocence of children is beautiful, but ignorant. It will be replaced by mistrust and doubt as the child grows and learns that the world can be a dangerous and threatening place. But the innocence of a life lived fully has a quality of wisdom and acceptance of the ever-changing wonder of life.
Rats. I think I preferred the first one. Isn't there something to be said for the significance of error, even in the art of reading...erm...online tarot cards?
Reading into it, it's super lovely, although I confess some of it I find a bit too ethereal for my liking. But I've felt that way about practically everything I've encountered in life that involves faith and belief, so whatever. And it is at times disarmingly accurate.
Anyhow.
Feeling rather faithless and anxious this evening, I indulged in one of their online multi card readings, and got this:
(warning: long and probably of little interest to anyone but me. Don't say i don't look out for you, dear reader[s])
TRANSFORMATION.
A master in Zen is not simply a teacher. In all the religions there are only teachers. They teach you about subjects which you don't know, and they ask you to believe because there is no way to bring those experiences into objective reality. Neither has the teacher known them - he has believed them; he transfers his belief to somebody else.
Zen is not a believer's world. It is not for the faithful ones; it is for those daring souls who can drop all belief, unbelief, doubt, reason, mind, and simply enter into their pure existence without boundaries. But it brings a tremendous transformation.
Hence, let me say that while others are involved in philosophies, Zen is involved in metamorphosis, in a transformation. It is authentic alchemy: it changes you from base metal into gold. But its language has to be understood, not with your reasoning and intellectual mind but with your loving heart. Or even just listening, not bothering whether it is true or not. And a moment comes suddenly that you see it, which has been eluding you your whole life. Suddenly, what Gautam Buddha called "eighty-four thousand doors" open.
Osho Zen: The Solitary Bird, Cuckoo of the Forest Chapter 6
Commentary:
The central figure in this card sits atop the vast flower of the void, and holds the symbols of transformation - the sword that cuts through illusion, the snake that rejuvenates itself by shedding its skin, the broken chain of limitations, and the yin/yang symbol of transcending duality. One of its hands rests on its lap, open and receptive. The other reaches down to touch the mouth of a sleeping face, symbolizing the silence that comes when we are at rest.
This is a time for a deep let-go. Allow any pain, sorrow, or difficulty just to be there, accepting its "facticity." It is very much like the experience of Gautam Buddha when, after years of seeking, he finally gave up, knowing there was nothing more that he could do. That very night, he became enlightened.
Transformation comes, like death, in its own time. And, like death, it takes you from one dimension into another.
OR SO I THOUGHT.
Then i realized i got the reading of the cards wrong, and that card was not in fact the "Me" representative card at all. This was: (and yes, there is more)
INNOCENCE.
Zen says that if you drop knowledge - and within knowledge everything is included; your name, your identity, everything, because this has been given to you by others - if you drop all that has been given by others, you will have a totally different quality to your being: innocence. This will be a crucifixion of the persona, the personality, and there will be a resurrection of your innocence. You will become a child again, reborn.
Osho Dang Dang Doko Dang Chapter 7
Commentary:
The old man in this card radiates a childlike delight in the world. There is a sense of grace surrounding him, as if he is at home with himself and with what life has brought. He seems to be having a playful communication with the praying mantis on his finger, as if the two of them are the greatest friends. The pink flowers cascading around him represent a time of letting go, relaxation and sweetness. They are a response to his presence, a reflection of his own qualities.
The innocence that comes from a deep experience of life is childlike, but not childish. The innocence of children is beautiful, but ignorant. It will be replaced by mistrust and doubt as the child grows and learns that the world can be a dangerous and threatening place. But the innocence of a life lived fully has a quality of wisdom and acceptance of the ever-changing wonder of life.
Rats. I think I preferred the first one. Isn't there something to be said for the significance of error, even in the art of reading...erm...online tarot cards?
small moment of petty, immature, gossipy Bliss.
When i was in publishing school two years ago, we had a class discussion towards the end of the year about the term assignments/workload etc. At the time we were putting together two issues of a 24 page magazine. I was happy and lucky enough to be art director of one of said issues, until I realized this meant collecting stuff from 40 different people who were also battling their own strained schedules, most of whom didn't know computers super well (including myself, at times) which created difficulties, whilst trying to please them all in terms of how the magazine looked, and doing 5 or whatever other classes and full-time work as well.
I suggested that perhaps the project could be structured differently in the future, since the work load was disparate, depending on the positions each student had.
One of my more clever "colleagues", who had procured herself the "magazine launch party" planning position, put up her hand and loudly announced to the whole class that I was obviously not capable of handling the work load because I had never finished university. I turned to her and said WHAT?!?! (font size indeterminably large), the whole class went silent, and then the teacher, a diplomatic sort, glossed over the whole thing and we moved on.
So tonight, there is no way for me to contain myself after somehow hearing that the impertinent cow just got a chin implant.
That's right. A chin implant. Of Course.
I Fucking Love It.
I suggested that perhaps the project could be structured differently in the future, since the work load was disparate, depending on the positions each student had.
One of my more clever "colleagues", who had procured herself the "magazine launch party" planning position, put up her hand and loudly announced to the whole class that I was obviously not capable of handling the work load because I had never finished university. I turned to her and said WHAT?!?! (font size indeterminably large), the whole class went silent, and then the teacher, a diplomatic sort, glossed over the whole thing and we moved on.
So tonight, there is no way for me to contain myself after somehow hearing that the impertinent cow just got a chin implant.
That's right. A chin implant. Of Course.
I Fucking Love It.
sweet balls of christ...
it's christmas in 11 days, and i haven't finished making even ONE of my christmas gifts yet. What's an overachiever to do?!? (sounds of stifled sobbing in the corner).
11 December 2006
and obviously i have yet to master posting pictures in beta blogger.
One of the things about gutting a place before moving in is you can personalize it in ways hitherto unthought of. Thanks to the remarkably clever idea of my assistant homewrecker/builder Ishmael (or so he is named for the purposes of this blog) this whole wall building conquest will be remembered when armageddon comes.
Was Scrooge a Zen Master?
now i am Infamous for my, how shall we say, parsimonious ways. but it was only today, putting up my very economical (and accordingly stunning) bookshelves, that i heard myself utter what is in fact my mantra when it comes to these things:
"They'll do. After all, i can't take 'em with me when i leave the country or when i die."
silly, really.
"They'll do. After all, i can't take 'em with me when i leave the country or when i die."
silly, really.
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