Mia: Don’t you hate that? Vincent: Hate what? Mia: Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it’s necessary to yak about bullshit? In order to be comfortable? Vincent: I don’t know. That’s a good question.”</h1> <article> <h1>Mia: Don’t you hate that? Vincent: Hate what? Mia: Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it’s necessary to yak about bullshit? In order to be comfortable? Vincent: I don’t know. That’s a good question.”</h1> <p>Sun, 05 Feb 2012 23:27:24 +0000</p> <p>― Pulp Fiction, Mia and Vincent discuss speaking unnecessarily over awkward silences after a pause in their own conversation at Jackrabbit Slim’s. Quit yacking bullshit, embrace the silence.</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> <article> <h1>“We learn … that when one looks for too long at reality through critico-ideological glasses, one gets a strong headache: it is very painful to be deprived of the ideological surplus-jouissance.”</h1> <p>Sun, 29 Jan 2012 19:13:59 +0000</p> <p>― Denial: The Liberal Utopia, by Slavoj Žižek.</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> <article> <h1>I will plant my hands in the gardenI will grow, I know, I know, I knowand swallows will lay eggsin the hollow of my ink-stained hands.</h1> <p>Mon, 26 Dec 2011 22:33:44 +0000</p> <p>― Another Birth, by Forough Farokhzad.</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> <article> <p>Wed, 21 Dec 2011 23:09:12 +0000</p> <p></p> <p> </p> <p>Whoever, to your face, such cheerful colours gave<br /> Patience and serenity for poor me can also save<br /> Whoever trained your hair so arrogantly to behave<br /> His grace, such injustice for poor me can also waive.<br /> I gave up my desires on the first day when<br /> Beloved took my heart’s rein and made me his slave.<br /> If there’s no golden treasure, at least satisfied I remain<br /> He who gave that to the king, made this the lot of the knave.<br /> This world, just like a bride, in appearance is glorified<br /> He who gave his life to this, has only dug his own grave.<br /> From now on, I spend my time in nature with rivers & trees<br /> While the breeze, of time of spring, would rant and rave. <p> Hafiz’s heart was brave, rode hardships wave after wave<br /> Though separations deprave, the King as our healer gave. </p> <p> </p> <p>― Ghazal 112, Hafez.</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> <article> <h1>“Keep the company of those who seek the truth – run from those who have found it.”</h1> <p>Mon, 19 Dec 2011 03:52:41 +0000</p> <p>― In memory of playwright, essayist, poet, dissident, and politician, Václav Havel (5th of October 1936 – 18th of December 2011).</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> <article> <h1>when did everyone start acting like they’ve got ADHD?</h1> <p>Sat, 03 Dec 2011 03:35:09 +0000</p> <p>please, tell me. </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> <article> <h1>algorithms are incestuous. (results: go and fuck* ** yourself. see what happens)</h1> <p>Sun, 30 Oct 2011 19:30:06 +0000</p> <p>― an open plea for the widening of the algorithmic ‘gene-pool’ used by the usual suspects. i want the internet to broaden my view of the world, not limit it to an overly individualised experience.<br /> *since updated because apparently profanities are offensive.<br /> **since updated because, sometimes, profanities should be offensive.</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> <article> <h1>the entwined polarity of a simultaneous dark fear of, and sublime desire for, nature and technological progress. woman: a symbol of these entwined polarities.</h1> <p>Fri, 28 Oct 2011 21:15:41 +0000</p> <p><param name="movie" value="IE2U3ruRxcw"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent" ></param></object><br /> ― <a href="http://showstudio.com/contributor/ruth_hogben">Ruth Hogben</a> for Gareth Pugh SS12, by way of SHOWstudio</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> <article> <h1>NOTATEBENE EST. 2010</h1> <p>Fri, 28 Oct 2011 20:18:43 +0000</p> <p><a href="http://www.notatebene.co.uk"></a> <p> ― each item, made in the age of relentless mechanical reproduction, is made by hand in London for the note taker, for the appreciator of written accounts and the lover and wearer of objects with a conscious yet understated charm. </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> <article> <h1>Why I left the Facebook (closed-)network.</h1> <p>Wed, 26 Oct 2011 18:41:57 +0000</p> <p> <br /> Aside from being brilliant at keeping family, friends, and colleagues together in one place, and even more brilliant at confusing all three, Facebook makes/made <em>the internet</em> boring. B-o-r-i-n-g. And I passionately hate feeling bored. This isn’t some kind of subversive act (or maybe it is?), it’s simply a reaction to bordom and perhaps I’ll return when it ceases to be so. Perhaps that bordom ensued as a result of it closing in on itself (Facebooks attempt to contain the internet in a bid to compete with Google. Sheesh. AOL and Compuserve failed for a reason, and yet – lo and behold – it just keeps growing), or it’s a result of unintelligent algorithms reinforcing this boring online world around me, perhaps not. Or perhaps it really just means that I’m boring and unintelligent, perhaps not. But you know what? I don’t particularly have a desire to sit in front of the ‘mirror’ and stare at my own reflection. And you know what else? Once you finally make it <em>outside</em> you can see “all kinds of things you can’t see from the centre”, and you can see all kinds of things when you’re not simply seeing a reflection of yourself.</p> <p> </p> <h2>“You think I’m insane?” said Finnerty. Apparently he wanted more of a reaction than Paul had given him.</h2> <p><h2>“You’re still in touch. I guess that’s the test.”</h2> </p> <p><h2>“Barely — <em>barely</em>.”</h2> </p> <p><h2>“A psychiatrist could help. There’s a good man in Albany.”</h2> </p> <p><h2>Finnerty shook his head. “He’d pull me back into the center, and I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.” He nodded, “Big, undreamed-of things — the people on the edge see them first.”</h2> <p>― ‘Player Piano’, 1952, by Kurt Vonnegut.</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </article> </main></body></html>