certain things have to stop happening

I need to stop telling people to "Have a nice night" when it is 12:50 in the afternoon.

like a striped bee in one's bonnet

I was doing some research for the aptly-named "Shag Blog" when I came across this photo of a room contained within The Mark Hotel in Manhattan.

The image made me think of this…

…as well as how goddamn depressed I was when Patrick McGoohan died the year before last, two days after my birthday.

Made me think 'bout this too:

And this...

Please deliver me from this time period.

meine Liebe

WHY

Why?

space

When One made love to Zero, spheres embraced their arches and prime numbers caught their breath.

(clockwise, from the top: Leonard Baskin, Gustave Doré, Max Beckmann; Louise Nevelson, Odlion Redon; Rembrandt van Rijn, Anna Gaskell [I know....]; Max Ernst; Robert Rauschenberg, Franciszek Starowieyski, Ralph Steadman; Lovis Corinth, Paul Klee; R. Crumb, Francis Bacon; Giovanni Battista Piranesi)

Promote My Friend's Album!

P.S. I illustrated the cover. Angela Miles (www.carpediemconstruction.com) is responsible for the beautiful design and resplendent packaging.

rainbow pyre foofaraw

The Philadelphia Film festival will be commencing on the 14th of October. Marvelous! I'm excited to see the newest picture by Godard. And The Kings of Pastry. That too.

I'm at work, and something smells like it's burning. I think I'm imagining it. In an effort to distract myself and maintain something reminiscent of mental stability, I have voluntarily become mesmerized by the following visuals:

I discovered these images in the process of unearthing material for my store's blog (The aptly-named Shag Blog), which I am now semi-in-charge of updating. The things you will discover when you Google the titles of Jack Lemmon films are astounding.

it shakes my teeth

antonomasia day

Holy crap.

http://miniaturechurch.blogspot.com/

This morning's events have introduced a new, lamentable current into my life. I can tell myself that I should have behaved more wisely, or at least looked into the precautions that one must take in order to maintain composure in such situations, until the cows come home. I couldn't control myself; self-control was not an option, for once. I will continue to view my circumstances as a gift.

Stay.

Good job, Enbridge Inc.


I dread what is to come.

And to think that she wouldn’t exist, except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.

: )

The team used a tuna head on a stick to attract the creatures, which live beyond the reach of sunlight.

Today was interesting.

I applied for a job at UArts.

Additional circumstances contributed to the generation of a more or less beguiling twenty-four hour period.

Also, a concept worth a tittle of expatiation may or may not have assembled itself in my head. It might cause my Rand-villifying efforts to soil their trousers. We'll see...

frjá-dagr

My paramount aspiration is to become a Jarl on the Isle of Unst.

They wear pants... Life has become impossible.

This made me laugh.



“A new form will always seem more or less an absence of any form at all, since it is unconsciously judged by reference to the consecrated forms.” - Alain Robbe-Grillet

Holy smokes, I hope this works.

Box One/ Book One: North Carolina Denial/Parole (Who really read the chapter about Saussure [pillowcases] anyway?)

. . .

mauvelilacroselemon

Andrei Tarkovsky took these resplendent polaroids. They sure are something else.






http://film.guardian.co.uk/gall/0,8544,1226197,00.html

machine-pricking done here

the days are vessels

I am continuously encountering ideas of questionable quality. I started writing a play about Ayn Rand's doppelganger; a woman who, because of her devotion to selfless behavior, is condemned to a life of suffering. Unlike the real Ayn Rand, who was able to surround herself with lavish Art Deco opulence despite her complete lack of talent, this woman is an exceptionally brilliant individual. The project mocks Rand's treatment of the doppelganger myth in her own work. I feel as though it is falling apart. Perhaps it is turning into a story. Or just a series of images. Or, ideally, nothing at all.

My Childhood, in a Shakily Recorded Nutshell

Language is the mother of thought, not its handmaiden.

These days, I consider myself lucky if I am able to maintain a sleep-schedule consisting of two nights of slumber per week. If PBS released a miniseries based on the present state of my life, it would be called (in Allison Foley's words) "Three Months, No Bed". The dark, scurrying creatures that I tend to see out of the corners of my eyes when I have missed a night of rest are now in my line of vision at all times, even when my sleep-deficit manages to reach something reminiscent of a lull. Adorn one of the aforementioned beings with a Noh mask and, well, you would quite possibly end up with this:



The trivial aspects of my life have acquired a novel significance. I don't know if that has anything to do with a general lack of sleep. I'd like to think that the two are somehow related; I really need to unearth a reason to justify my refusal to go to bed, as I must continue to do so in order to survive this semester. I have been gleaning mirth from simple things, such as the notion that I can watch "Stripes" online, for free, over and over again, until I pass out.