Blitzen Trapper — Might Find it Cheap
Rap Lyrics, Part III
“The world seems to me increasingly incomprehensible, and there are times when I feel there isn’t anything that I know for certain. For me, making photographs (or painting, or whatever) is necessary to translate the unintelligible reality of being into a more coherent form. Or at least to illustrate my best guesses. There is vastly more nothing in the universe than something, and I try to create images that recognize the grace by which anything at all exists.”
Bottled History (by Smith Journal)
Nice App of the Day: Fartscroll.js
If there is anything that today’s websites are lacking, it is fart noises. Yesterday afternoon, The Onionreleased the fartscroll.js script on Github, which can be installed on any web page to produce gassy noises while you’re scrolling up and down the browser. For more of a completely immersive experience, you can download the Chrome browser extension for cruise control on every webpage.
Now this is an app I can get into.
Col. Chris Hadfield: “Safely home - back on Earth, happily readapting to the heavy pull of gravity. Wonderful to smell and feel Spring.”
Read about Canadian Space Agency astronaut Chris Hadfield’s return to Earth following historic five-month mission here: http://www.asc-csa.gc.ca/eng/media/news_releases/2013/0513.asp
Just awesome. Just plain awesome.
The Future of Gaming
“Here Is Today.”
A little perspective never hurt anyone.
Here is a video of children tasting things for the first time in slow motion
This is fantastic.
There are three deaths: the first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.
So you wait in this lobby until the third death. There are long tables with coffee, tea, and cookies – you can help yourself. There are people here from all around the world, and you can try to strike up a conversation with whomever you’d like. Just be aware that your conversation may be interrupted at any moment by the Callers, who call out your conversations partner’s name to indicate there will never again be another remembrance of him by anyone on the Earth. Your partner slumps out, face like a shattered and re-glued plate, saddened even though he’s kindly told by the Callers that he’s off to a better place. No one knows where that better place is, or what it offers, because no one exiting through that door has returned to tell us. Tragically, many people leave just as their loved ones arrive, since the loved ones were the only ones doing the remembering. We all wag our heads at that typical timing.
The whole place looks like an infinite airport waiting area, but the company is terrific. There are many famous people from history books here. If you get bored, you can strike out in any given direction, past aisles and aisles of seats. After many days of walking, you’ll start to notice that people look different, and you’ll hear the tones of foreign languages. People congregate amongst their own kind, and what one sees is the spontaneous emergence of territories that mirrors the way they were set up on the surface of the planet. With the exception of the oceans, you’re traversing a map of the Earth. Along with no oceans, there are no time zones either. No one sleeps here, even though they mostly wish they could. The place is evenly lit by fluorescent lights.
Not everyone is sad when the Callers shout out their names, when they call as though announcing the next flight departure. On the contrary, some people beg and plead when the Callers enter. They prostrate themselves at the Callers’ feet as the next names are read out. These are generally the folks who have been here a long time, too long, and especially those who are remembered for unfair reasons. For example, take the farmer over there, who drowned in a small river 200 years ago. Now his farm is the site of a small college, and the tour guides each week tell his story. So he’s stuck and he’s miserable. For the more his story is told, the more it drifts. He is utterly alienated from his name; it is no longer identical with him, but continues to bind. The cheerless woman across the way is praised as a saint, even though the roads in her heart were convoluted. The gray haired man at the vending machine was lionized as a warhero, then demonized as a warlord, and finally canonized as a necessary firebrand between two moments in history. He waits with aching heart for his statues to fall. And that is the curse of this room: since we live in the heads of those who remember us, we lose control of our lives and become who they want us to be.
This is an excerpt from Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives by David Eagleman, a fantastic and [sadly] quick read. Two things:
- Read it. It’s a good one to keep next to your bed and pick up every now and then.
- Banksy is often quoted as saying something very similar to the bolded beginning of this excerpt. Is it weird that I’m so bothered by mis-accreditation of material? This is tumblr after all, and it (and the entire internet) has severe issues with crediting sources. With all of its connectedness, I still worry about the democratization of knowledge causing it (the internet) to lose connection with the real world.