The grid is lame. We don't do stop motion here.
We do life motion.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
This just
might be one of my most favorite songs of all time.
I miss my sister.
I also miss having a clue.
I miss my sister.
I also miss having a clue.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
I
made the ringtone on my phone myself. See what I did was, I recorded the intro of this Modest Mouse song on the voice record option (yes, very 7th grade, I know) and then I made it into a ringtone. Easy as pie.
So now, whenever I get a call, a text message, or my phone alarm goes off, it all occurs to the wail of Isaac Brock's weirdly soothing voice yelling about how he's got pejoratives and the groom's rice and all that good stuff.
Sadly, this made me very happy. Actually, it made me so happy that every time someone called me, I let the ringer go off for quite a while. It was pretty amusing, and it was way better than my first homemade ringtone attempt, which was a voice record of MY VOICE quoting "I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby," in an acerbic tone a la Julia Stiles.
Why do I find this important enough to blog about? Well, perhaps it's because I (like many other half-Americans, or even many other people inhabiting this incredibly confusing sphere we call earth) am prone to escapism, especially during the summer months. I will argue that it is most definitely not a cause of boredom, as boredom would involve other things, like facebook. Which, honestly, must be terminated. That thing is the bane of my existence. I really don't care how many arguments or pros anyone can give me for it, it's gotta get lost.
If we're being honestly honest, I would admit, however, that my escapist tendencies make me a perfect candidate for Harry Potter fanaticism. When I write fanaticism, it is with the utmost affection, the likes of which I'm sure Madame Rowling can comprehend is unequivocally unlike the traditional branding of fanaticism (say, for example, justin bieber lovers or whatever).
No, this affection is much more deeply rooted and real. A true understanding of the melding and intricacies of her prose, of her imagination, of the emotional veracity within her characters. Oh yes, this is something great. Something Stephen King would call brilliant and way better than Twilight (I paraphrase here). But I digress. Basically what I'm getting at is, if I had one wish in the world, it'd probably be that the wizarding world of Harry Potter were real and that I were a witch. Oh and that everyone in my family and friends were also part of this wizarding world.
Is that too much to ask for? If Michael Bay can actually get people to watch his puerile garbage, then I should get my wish.
This is America, after all.
Well, almost.
So now, whenever I get a call, a text message, or my phone alarm goes off, it all occurs to the wail of Isaac Brock's weirdly soothing voice yelling about how he's got pejoratives and the groom's rice and all that good stuff.
Sadly, this made me very happy. Actually, it made me so happy that every time someone called me, I let the ringer go off for quite a while. It was pretty amusing, and it was way better than my first homemade ringtone attempt, which was a voice record of MY VOICE quoting "I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby," in an acerbic tone a la Julia Stiles.
Why do I find this important enough to blog about? Well, perhaps it's because I (like many other half-Americans, or even many other people inhabiting this incredibly confusing sphere we call earth) am prone to escapism, especially during the summer months. I will argue that it is most definitely not a cause of boredom, as boredom would involve other things, like facebook. Which, honestly, must be terminated. That thing is the bane of my existence. I really don't care how many arguments or pros anyone can give me for it, it's gotta get lost.
If we're being honestly honest, I would admit, however, that my escapist tendencies make me a perfect candidate for Harry Potter fanaticism. When I write fanaticism, it is with the utmost affection, the likes of which I'm sure Madame Rowling can comprehend is unequivocally unlike the traditional branding of fanaticism (say, for example, justin bieber lovers or whatever).
No, this affection is much more deeply rooted and real. A true understanding of the melding and intricacies of her prose, of her imagination, of the emotional veracity within her characters. Oh yes, this is something great. Something Stephen King would call brilliant and way better than Twilight (I paraphrase here). But I digress. Basically what I'm getting at is, if I had one wish in the world, it'd probably be that the wizarding world of Harry Potter were real and that I were a witch. Oh and that everyone in my family and friends were also part of this wizarding world.
Is that too much to ask for? If Michael Bay can actually get people to watch his puerile garbage, then I should get my wish.
This is America, after all.
Well, almost.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Today
And oh, she said,
Till the end of my days
I shall live always
in a dolorous haze.
I can't seem to shake this emotional state I'm in. It seems I'm always "a quiver with curiosity." Or is it listlessness? But it would seem it's the puerile kind that's not really firmly rooted enough to be requited.
Till the end of my days
I shall live always
in a dolorous haze.
I can't seem to shake this emotional state I'm in. It seems I'm always "a quiver with curiosity." Or is it listlessness? But it would seem it's the puerile kind that's not really firmly rooted enough to be requited.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Once again
procrastination.
On another note:
"We are all but kings or pawns, a man once said."
Let that sink in.
Maybe I'll put some of my poetry up later. It's deep. Really. Like an ocean. Tcha.
On another note:
"We are all but kings or pawns, a man once said."
Let that sink in.
Maybe I'll put some of my poetry up later. It's deep. Really. Like an ocean. Tcha.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
"You remind me
of the Bible."
"I don't understand."
No, most people don't. My mind isn't smart or cool or clever. I'm just really good at putting two an two together.
Finding random connections and parallels that no one else can.
Oh well. Someday hopefully there'll be a purpose for this kind of thing.
I am always inspired by the Bible.
Take this passage, for example. This is beautiful.
John 1
The Word Became Flesh
1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
2 He was with God in the beginning.
3 Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.
4 In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.
5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome[a] it.
6 There was a man sent from God whose name was John.
7 He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all might believe.
8 He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light.
9 The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world.
10 He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him.
11 He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him.
12 Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God—
13 children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God.
14 The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.
Why would we come up with this? Who? What would have been the motive for this preoccupation for a savior, a messiah, a christ? A "supreme being." Where did this originate?
You tell me.
"I don't understand."
No, most people don't. My mind isn't smart or cool or clever. I'm just really good at putting two an two together.
Finding random connections and parallels that no one else can.
Oh well. Someday hopefully there'll be a purpose for this kind of thing.
I am always inspired by the Bible.
Take this passage, for example. This is beautiful.
John 1
The Word Became Flesh
1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
2 He was with God in the beginning.
3 Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.
4 In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.
5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome[a] it.
6 There was a man sent from God whose name was John.
7 He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all might believe.
8 He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light.
9 The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world.
10 He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him.
11 He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him.
12 Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God—
13 children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God.
14 The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.
Why would we come up with this? Who? What would have been the motive for this preoccupation for a savior, a messiah, a christ? A "supreme being." Where did this originate?
You tell me.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Got
brouillons, brouillons...
Everything seems to want to tear my away from art history right now. Not that I don't love it, but my dear darling, writing papers is just tedium extraordinaire.
Ah well.
But alas, it must be endured. I'm sitting in the sun right now, by the window in the living room. It's streaming in beautifully, warming my popsicle-stick fingertips which never seem to manage warmth when I'm in my apartment. Place seems like the godammned Arctisk. I'm ready for it though, wrapped in my spidey blanket that I stole from home. I miss home. It calls to me with the fragrant sweetness of a rare wine. Sigh. Home is where the heart is, do they not say? Well, my heart is dead, petrified and preserved somewhere, but home I most definitely do yearn for.
My God the sun feels heavenly. I kid you not, my fingers remind me of Jack Skellington whenever I'm here. 'Twould behoove me to invest in gloves. But I'm stupid, because whenever I'm at a place where there ARE gloves, I somehow convince myself that I don't need them, that I need something else. Like a skirt, or a jacket. Which I have already.
Ok. Well I'd better get back to Bruegel and Poussin, I suppose. Poor old deceased souls are calling me up from the grave.
And then when I'm done with this stupid paper, I'll learn how to play this song, which is great.
Everything seems to want to tear my away from art history right now. Not that I don't love it, but my dear darling, writing papers is just tedium extraordinaire.
Ah well.
But alas, it must be endured. I'm sitting in the sun right now, by the window in the living room. It's streaming in beautifully, warming my popsicle-stick fingertips which never seem to manage warmth when I'm in my apartment. Place seems like the godammned Arctisk. I'm ready for it though, wrapped in my spidey blanket that I stole from home. I miss home. It calls to me with the fragrant sweetness of a rare wine. Sigh. Home is where the heart is, do they not say? Well, my heart is dead, petrified and preserved somewhere, but home I most definitely do yearn for.
My God the sun feels heavenly. I kid you not, my fingers remind me of Jack Skellington whenever I'm here. 'Twould behoove me to invest in gloves. But I'm stupid, because whenever I'm at a place where there ARE gloves, I somehow convince myself that I don't need them, that I need something else. Like a skirt, or a jacket. Which I have already.
Ok. Well I'd better get back to Bruegel and Poussin, I suppose. Poor old deceased souls are calling me up from the grave.
And then when I'm done with this stupid paper, I'll learn how to play this song, which is great.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
To-day
Ah. The worst part of it. I can’t really think of it right now. But I know there’s definitely a “worst” part. No doubt about that.
Lord.
Alright. So earlier today, then.
Stupidity of mine, I love to just walk in on people, confidently do I sidle up and expect something clever to just burst forth from those lips of mine.
So there I go, I see you, there’s naught else to do but to go for it. Right?
Right. So I go for it. La deeh dah. Creepy. That’s what I must seem. Silently do I walk up next to him, oh look, a look of confusion.
On my face, that is.
What are you doing here? You should be there, I say.
He says, why are you looking over there, I’m not there. I’m not there.
I’m not here. Lord God in heaven, I am slain from day one and still to this day I can’t push that away.
We talk. Useless, random words. Meaningless in their jargon, we try to seem elevated and soulful. We are intelligent, I grin, you smile. It’s easy and effortless, like breathing fresh air. It envelops your senses and makes you feel smart and calm and sly all at the same time. I am clever, but so are you. Ah wait, don’t play coy with me, those eyes say. The corner of the mouth smirks. I know what you want, I know what you’re doing. I’m not having it. And the timidity in my voice says, I want it. Longing and brutality.
Lord God in Heaven.
You’re so awesome. Is that what he said? I can’t be sure anymore, but I think I gave a nice loud and bewildered “why?” You tell me, little girl, is his condescending reply, dripping with whatever it is that gets me high off him. Can’t meet his eyes, that’s the worst part. I thought I was a big one, all talk and walk and strut and jump; not so. Not when I’m face to face with those things, I can barely breathe. Feel thirteen again. Feels stupid. But nice. Nice and oh so fine I want him to be mine.
And then, once again not sure of the how and why, but I remember he puts his hand on my face. Why? No clue. Consolation?
Perhaps. Ah yes, definitely. It’s all games. Role the die, blow on it, maybe you’ll get lucky. One step too close, maybe if I aim over here. I play. I’m ok. I could be better. I could be great. If only there wasn’t that little house-arrest factor that was like a goddamned brick sinking into the deep blue sea waiting to get lost in the sheer enormity of impossibility for me.
And thus, I am doubly slain. No pain no gain. Right?
Not really.
Lord.
Alright. So earlier today, then.
Stupidity of mine, I love to just walk in on people, confidently do I sidle up and expect something clever to just burst forth from those lips of mine.
So there I go, I see you, there’s naught else to do but to go for it. Right?
Right. So I go for it. La deeh dah. Creepy. That’s what I must seem. Silently do I walk up next to him, oh look, a look of confusion.
On my face, that is.
What are you doing here? You should be there, I say.
He says, why are you looking over there, I’m not there. I’m not there.
I’m not here. Lord God in heaven, I am slain from day one and still to this day I can’t push that away.
We talk. Useless, random words. Meaningless in their jargon, we try to seem elevated and soulful. We are intelligent, I grin, you smile. It’s easy and effortless, like breathing fresh air. It envelops your senses and makes you feel smart and calm and sly all at the same time. I am clever, but so are you. Ah wait, don’t play coy with me, those eyes say. The corner of the mouth smirks. I know what you want, I know what you’re doing. I’m not having it. And the timidity in my voice says, I want it. Longing and brutality.
Lord God in Heaven.
You’re so awesome. Is that what he said? I can’t be sure anymore, but I think I gave a nice loud and bewildered “why?” You tell me, little girl, is his condescending reply, dripping with whatever it is that gets me high off him. Can’t meet his eyes, that’s the worst part. I thought I was a big one, all talk and walk and strut and jump; not so. Not when I’m face to face with those things, I can barely breathe. Feel thirteen again. Feels stupid. But nice. Nice and oh so fine I want him to be mine.
And then, once again not sure of the how and why, but I remember he puts his hand on my face. Why? No clue. Consolation?
Perhaps. Ah yes, definitely. It’s all games. Role the die, blow on it, maybe you’ll get lucky. One step too close, maybe if I aim over here. I play. I’m ok. I could be better. I could be great. If only there wasn’t that little house-arrest factor that was like a goddamned brick sinking into the deep blue sea waiting to get lost in the sheer enormity of impossibility for me.
And thus, I am doubly slain. No pain no gain. Right?
Not really.
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