Did I do something to offend the cosmic order or something?
I should of been nicer to all those priests.
I won’t bore you with the details of my life being fucked. But needlesstosay things may become increasingly sporadic around here.
Normal broadcasting may resume at some point in the near future.
For those not paying attention
I’m taking a break from the blog to concentrate on writing.
I’ll be back.
I used to live there, so I know it’s true.
Instead of using my time to write I piss about online and ignore housework. I listen to music. I seek out new and ingenious ways to waste time. My problem is a lack of focus, a slavery to my sensorium, A disorderly consciousness and a refusal to take hold of the reigns. Even now I write a pointless blogpost instead of doing what I know needs to be done. I am a bad boy and I need to be punished.
I took this photo years ago using an actual film camera.
I love writing. I love photography. I love blogging – and I love my subscribers. Not in a creepy The Bodyguard kinda way, but in a platonic appreciative fashion. To celebrate this love I’d like to send you a little something in that anarchronism of the physical world: The Postal Service. A print of one of my pictures with a custom poem/bit of prose on the back, ABSOLUTELY FREE. All you have to do is be one of the first 5 people to comment on this post and then email me your address to weateart AT gmail DOT com. As soon as I can I will send your personalised print/poem through teh snail mail. You never know, someday I might be famous and then it’ll be worth, like, actual money. Regardless, it’s always fun to get something unique and random in the mail. Why not get in on some of this action?
I’ve just reached 1000 ‘likes’ here on EITHER/OR/BORED. If I knew where you all lived I’d track you down and kiss each and every one of you.
Something weird happened yesterday.
I saw it there in my stats, a referral, from google translate. Not necessarily weird, right? But this so was. The translation sought was from english to french. The post in question was an english translation of a Charles Baudelaire poem, originally written in french.
For some reason this gives me quite a thrill.
It’s that long lost tuesday all over again…
There be kittens in the house. Everybody loves kittens. Music by KAATSKILL MOUNTAINS.
So, true to my word, i took myself off to the library to make notes from Psychological Types for the next installment of my series on Jung’s models and theories. I’ve had a thing for mister Gustav since i first learned of his ideas of the collective unconcious and synchronicity when i was but a wild eyed highschool student and have the vague intention of owning and studying his complete works at some point. I have a few volumes but that fucker sure did write and think alot! I’m thinking also of writing a general outline of Psychological Types because I feel like there isn’t enough on jung online that draws directly from his work. There’s alot in that book that explores the idea of psychological types through different lenses and from different perspectives of philisophical history. What do you think?
I worked without gloves. It was hard to see. The mirror helps, but it also hinders — after all, it’s showing things backwards. I work mainly by touch. The bleeding is quite heavy, but I take my time — I try to work surely. Opening the peritoneum, I injured the blind gut and had to sew it up. Suddenly it flashed through my mind: there are more injuries here and I didn’t notice them … I grow weaker and weaker, my head starts to spin. Every 4-5 minutes I rest for 20-25 seconds. Finally, here it is, the cursed appendage! With horror I notice the dark stain at its base. That means just a day longer and it would have burst and …
At the worst moment of removing the appendix I flagged: my heart seized up and noticeably slowed; my hands felt like rubber. Well, I thought, it’s going to end badly. And all that was left was removing the appendix … And then I realised that, basically, I was already saved.
via First-person account from surgeon who removed his own appendix – Boing Boing.