Here's the skinny.
Posts
It’s like morphine, language is. A fearful habit to form: you become a bore to all who would otherwise cherish you. Of course, there is the chance that you may be hailed as a genius after you are dead long years, but what is that to you? There will still be high endeavor that ends, as always, with kissing in the dark, but where are you? Time? Time? Why worry about something that takes care of itself so well? You were born with the habit of consuming time. Be satisfied with that.
The text for the left brain reads:
“I am the left brain. I am a scientist. A mathematician. I love the familiar. I categorize. I am accurate. Linear. Analytical. Strategic. I am practical. Always in control. A master of words and language. Realistic. I calculate equations and play with numbers. I am order. I am logic. I know exactly who I am.”
And for the right brain:
“I am the right brain. I am creativity. A free spirit. I am passion. Yearning. Sensuality. I am the sound of roaring laughter. I am taste. The feeling of sand beneath bare feat. I am movement. Vivid colors. I am the urge to paint on an empty canvas. I am boundless imagination. Art. Poetry. I sense. I feel. I am everything I wanted to be.”
Congratulations - Blue October feat. Imogen Heap
One of my favourite songs
Stay Away From Lonely Places
Ron Terada, 2006Currently at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago.
Late night July, Minnesota,
John asleep on the glassed-in porch,
Bob Dylan quiet on a cassette
you made from an album
I got rid of soon after
you died. Years later,
I regret giving up
your two boxes of vinyl,
which I loved. Surely
they were too awkward,
too easily broken
for people who loved music
the way we did. But tonight
I’m in the mood for ghosts,
for sounds we hated: pop,
scratch, hiss, the occasional
skip. The curtains balloon;
I’ve got a beer; I’m struck
by guilt, watching you
from a place ten years away,
kneeling and cleaning each
with a velvet brush before
and after, tucking them in
their sleeves. Understand,
I was still moving then.
The boxes were heavy.
If I had known
I would stop here
with a husband to help me
carry, and room—too late,
the college kids pick over
your black bones on Mass. Ave.,
we’ll meet again some day
on the avenue but still,
I want to hear it,
the needle hitting the end
of a side and playing silence
until the arm gives up,
pulls away.
… you may in fact be reading these words on a digital e-book reader, or a super-intelligent telephone, or a beam of pink light that implants short stories and medical advice directly in your brain. The future will be full of crazy stuff like that! I would never discriminate against your preferred book-input port. Please just know that there was once a time when people made books with their hands, out of paper and ink, and handed them directly to one another, and read them with their eyes, and held them to their hearts. It was sweet.
Audio
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Strawberry Whiplash - In The Blink Of An Eye121 plays
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let-us-dance-in-the-sun: Congratulations - Blue October feat. Imogen Heap One of my favourite songs367 plays
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geeuh: “Accident Prone” by Boldstar NU 107 Rock Awards Best New Artist, 200241 plays
Recent tracks
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Help I'm Alive by Metric5 days ago
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Under Pressure by Queen5 days ago
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The Promise by When in Rome5 days ago
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Sun Down by Nik Freitas5 days ago
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Lost Coastlines by Okkervil River5 days ago
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The Scientist (Coldplay cover) by Willie Nelson6 days ago
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Up Up Up by Givers6 days ago
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Punching In A Dream by The Naked And Famous6 days ago
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Help I'm Alive by Metric6 days ago
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Brother Sparrow by Agnes Obel6 days ago
Top artists
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Posts
Here I am stressing about things that I would ordinarily regard as banalities; things that are of little or no importance. For the past hour (or two, I am not keeping count), I find myself asking questions like, "Should I wear the white pants and the frilly top tomorrow?" "Or my gray pencil skirt paired with the light pink blazer, perhaps?" "Hair up or hair down?" "If they ask what my nickname is, do I stick with just Bev or do I say Bang (which almost always ends up morphing into Bebang, often used by closest of friends and kin but I find ugly anyway)?" "How, by the way, am I going to keep up with the impeachment trial now?"
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by Reina María Rodríguez
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Not for the first time, I find myself staring at a blank page, at a loss for words. A solitary coherent statement painstakingly takes me five to ten minutes to compose, my clauses deciding to take a detour every once in a while. I digress and digress and digress until I lose sight of the specific resolution I originally meant to articulate. Everytime I try to write, I end up facing a wall.
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my back against another:
I am looking at myself
Looking at you.
I ran away in floods of shame. I'll never tell how close I came. But I'll be home, lover, I'll be home in a little while. — Mumford & Sons, (Lover I'll Be) Home // [Because here I am crawling right back to Livejournal and moving entries from the other blog in pieces.]
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(Read more ...)Yesterday I was told that there is little relevance between my employment history and the post I was hoping to land. When I got home I had an admonition waiting for me on Twitter: "Life hands you what you want. But first you gotta know what it is you want." What they forget to tell you is that life never hands it to you on a golden platter.
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The tour guide asked, do you know what the Japanese word 'shinyo' means?
It means 'shake the ocean'.
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I expect to be a penniless bum soon (in approximately one week, actually) which means I'll finally be able to update this journal more often with entries in which I talk about:
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At half past midnight on a Tuesday night which is really Wednesday morning, this room is still stifling. Heavy with the oppressive weight of sticky heat, you're almost made to believe you may only be imagining the incessant murmur of the airconditioning unit. Ah, but this is summer in the Philippines. In a couple of months or so, the colorful umbrella you keep stored under the staircase would be protecting you from rain, in place of the scorching summer sun.
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It's the last day of my so-called one-week sabbatical before beginning my final week at the current job and starting at the new one next week. I'm taking time to breathe today. Ah, good ol' R&R. This is how I am, currently:
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One year, six months and one week. Not that I kept count. I had always imagined the end to be glorious -- the sky would be a fiery orange, and I would barge out of the room with a thunder in my voice, "I cannot take it anymore! I have lost to disinterest.", and never come back again with my post-its and notebooks and plastic tumbler in tow. Outside, I would cast my eyes upward, feeling like I was looking freedom in the eye. Instead, and in truth, I am making my exit quietly. The closest to high drama I ever came to was that talk with the b-i-t-c-h, (she lay claim to the term herself, mind you) in which I pictured knocking some sense into her in my head, literally (if I only weighed more, which is short of a miracle).
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The system clock reads 1:53 in the afternoon where I am (which is in front of my slightly cluttered office desk) and I tell myself I will get down to serious business by 2 o' clock. In seven minutes I will stop lollygagging, will close the Google Reader window, will have posted this to LJ.
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Do you write better when you're sad? Lots of people do.
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Loved Songs
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Brains by Lower Dens7 days ago
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// TWENTY-SOMETHING FIVE-YEAR-OLD. AUDIOPHILE. WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING. HELLO, WELCOME TO MY ATTENTION SPAN. //