That others may dwell deep, deep within the ones they love, drink from the soft cup of at the creamy lake at the center of the Object of Passion, while I am fated forever only to intuit the presence of deep recesses while I poke my nose, as it were, merely into the foyer of the Great House of Love, agitate briefly, and make a small mess on the doormat, pisses me off to no small degree.
The Broom of the System, David Foster Wallace.
I know that when my number’s up
When I am called by God above
Don’t have my name inscribed into the stone
Just say:
Here lies love…here lies love…here lies love—
Just say:
Here lies love…here lies love…here lies love—
You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.
Winston Churchill (via theimpossiblecool)
Disappointed ★★
All it does is keep a log. I’ve already been doing that on google documents [sic]. There’s no timers nor does it even pull up the wod or have and [sic] demo videos. But timers are the biggest thing. Try doing a tabata with out [sic] timers… Just should have been more involved then [sic] just a log…
“Stefan King”, reviewing WOD.
All I have to say is duh, it’s supposed to do just logging. That’s the purpose of the app. That’s what it’s designed for and described as doing. You have a fucking stopwatch on your phone already.
“It doesn’t include movie reviews. I fucking hate it.”
Dear Casey Marshall,
Your application is now Ready for Sale.
— Apple.
(link coming soon; it’s not live in the App Store yet)
Fuller died on July 1, 1983, aged 87, a guru of the design, architecture, and ‘alternative’ communities, such as Drop City, the community of experimental artists to whom he awarded the 1966 “Dymaxion Award” for “poetically economic” domed living structures. During the period leading up to his death, his wife had been lying comatose in a Los Angeles hospital, dying of cancer. It was while visiting her there that he exclaimed, at a certain point: “She is squeezing my hand!” He then stood up, suffered a heart attack and died an hour later. His wife died 36 hours after he did. He is buried in Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
From the Wikipedia biography on R. Buckmister Fuller.
I saw a photo of his and his wife’s headstone, and thought it odd to see that his wife died 2 days after he did. So yeah, kind of odd, that.
All photographs are cropped. You are tearing an image from the fabric of reality.
It appears to me impossible that I should cease to exist, or that this active, restless spirit, equally alive to joy and sorrow, should only be organised dust — ready to fly abroad the moment the spring snaps, or the spark goes out which kept it together. Surely something resides in this heart that is not perishable, and life is more than a dream.
Mary Wollstonecraft
It’s about seven o’clock in the evening, mid January, the sun nothing but a cigar cherry as an old man’s weak piss of rain gives an oily shine to tinseltown. This morning, I woke up in a hospital. “So Mr. Garret, how you feelin’?” the doc says. “Numb” I say back. He chuckles a bit, tells me you can’t feel numb, ‘cause numb means you can’t feel. You can’t feel numb, you can only be numb, he tells me. He goes on, talkin’ some dopey bullshit about my dressing, about itching, about keepin’ it dry. But I wasn’t payin’ attention no more. Funny thing, my brain got locked on those two words: Be numb. Be numb. Be numb. Like some guru mantra, or a goddamn irregular heartbeat. Be numb. Be numb. Be numb. Good advice.
100 Bullets, issue 31: “The Counterfifth Detective, Part 1”
The sense I get is that if the view is right our souls will sing.