01-00-04-----------------------------a new record in updating gaps. wow.
Now I suppose I could fill you in on my recently ended job (coding HTML. Which I learned from using geoshitties, strangely) or my residence stuff (roommate is teh Brittany Weaver, residence Lambton), but it wouldn't be prudent.
Why do I have an online log for intellectual stuff (this), a log for mildly amusing drivel (soapy-badger), a log for comments (blackabsynthe), and a log for fake comments(tristesse)? I better stop upchucking over the internet.
Once more, I have to express my anger at the change in Wallpaper* magazine. Being at what must be the most radioactively cool bookstore (the one by Wyndham St. in Guelph... Chomsky galore! Mmm!), and I go, now with considerably more hesitation, for my usual wallpaper* run.
So if you don't know already what it is, this is what the OLD magazine looked like:
As you can see, it's a fairly lovely glossy design number. The articles/photography were amazing; even the high-profile ads were a treat... If Coldplay were a magazine, this would be it. Even in the logo you can tell it's got that kind of quality (with such good use of the barcode... magazines just aren't compiled like that anymore!) Wallpaper*'s like a machine-- A restrained graceful, elegant machine, which is what the accessing of such information should be like. I was in love.
Okay. Most people don't know this, but I am a groupie of Wallpaper*. It sings! Well, the old Wallpaper*, anyway. You see, late in 2002, Canadian creator/editor Tyler Brule (it's a British magazine) quit and sold the thing in its entirety to Time Warner, citing frustration with censorship or something or other. So who did they get to replace him? The bloody Teen People editor. So this is what it looks like now. They've mainstream'd it up, cramming wierd scripty spot colour fonts into its pages, making their fashion section look more like an American-style photo shoot, their new computer-generated gaudiness forever corrupting that wonderful, smooth, virgin page space... the change doesn't look that drastic, but if you read it, it is.
(yes, I'm stealing Amazon's bandwidth. suck it up.)
Okay okay. You know all this already. So, out of habit, I still occasionally pick up a copy of W* whenever the articles aren't too floozy or the graphic design (which changes regularly, now) isn't too loose or insipid. I must say that the magazine hasn't totally degraded, but only because they aren't the only magazine that does the design/fashion thing any more. But, for some reason, I couldn't find it this time. Lots of magazines of half-naked people, but that's it. This is wierd for this bookstore, says I. But then my dad starts smirking and hands me, yes, the June 2004 edition of Wallpaper*.
Yep. This is what has happened to my beautiful magazine. "Size Matters", it quipps. Standing right in front of me I had missed it amongst all the Maxims and Sports ILLustrateds and all of the crap that people originally ran away from to relish in something elite and intelligent, maybe? No. Instead we're stuck with yet another pseudo-provocative, depthless assembly-line kind of publication, once again. I was ready tocry. . Guess I'll have to content myself with back issues, once again. HArrumph! Uncivilized colonists!
Did you know that BOTH Anne-Marie McDonald and Bret Easton Ellis are gay? Neither did I! This comes as a pleasant surprise somehow...
Have you ever wanted to be one of those spiritual girls that dresses in gypsy rags and has her room painted that really dark Vincent Marcone red, and authentically believes in paganism and loves oil paint and plays some really obscure sixteenth-century stringed instrument?
Yeah. That's not me. I wear plaid and cook ants with magnifying glasses. But for some reason, people pin me down as some sort of ornate, lyrical girly writer. This is untrue. This kind of tirade happens until they see my round, defeated face hidden behind a copy of Manufacturing Consent and a stack of Eberhard-Faber pens. I have to write an imagist poem for Tuesday, which means that, once again, the old cliches and cheap literary tricks have to be dragged out and pinned down. I'm not a poet. I wonder how long I can last this way.
Whenever people make obviously false positive comments about these things, I have to imagine them three kids and forty pounds in the future, eating cheesecake and watching Fox News.
12-05-04------------Smells like teemed spirit
So apparently some lucky guy painted Helen Mirren for London's National Portrait Gallery. And then I go to the site to check it out?
And it appears it's been hacked.
In case it's been fixed by the time you read this, it simply had the text: boa_de_kama_deita_e_dorme_hehe Esse EH Pra Vc!.. N1rvana OWNZ - SORRY ADMIN
...It's the bloody National Portrait Gallery, people! Those heartless multinational corporations have fancy security, so now you crackers have to take it out on the National Gallery?! That's just a useless corruption of your purpose of ripping the system, as it were...
I have a suggestion: Crack Geocities.
me + adademics = ascendancy. And i don't plagarize, like some of you mismanagers
If you're interested in attending, I'm giving a nifty little lecture on propaganda tomorrow morning. You know where. Oh, and I got this as spam this morning:
Any swamp can trade baseball cards with tape recorder beyond squid, but it takes a real hockey player to from briar patch. But they need to remember how the barely-graduated cylinder gets stinking drunk. guardian angel beyond fall in love with ruffian around mastadon, and ski lodge beyond eat diskette related to.
transferor court quartet breech
I think part of my tactics to make sure this site never gets read is to make the text as hard to read as possible. Nine point wingdings, here I come.
Okay, I really want to produce a Toxic Badgers album called A Rush of Snot to the Nose, and then have a wireframe drawing of the interior of a nostril, and the text'll be black, with the usual stock Moody Band Photos in the (lyricless) liner notes, and they'll be taken at the train tracks and at my hangout (the old slaughterhouse) in Ayr, and the entire thing will be recorded in said hangout (great acoustics, what with the corrugated metal walls) and it shall be all quite rivethead, which is specifically what The Toxic Badgers aren't.
So I got into here, and here as well. Nothing from this place, yet, although Kirsty told me that they don't even bother doing conditional acceptance letters until, like, late june. And I think it's a foregone conclusion that I'll end up at silly little Guelph anyway. So much for postsecondary independence. But at least I'm staying in rez.
07-04-04---- And the second...
guide to having a conversation with N.K.
1. find out what "ragamuffin" means
2. Wear shoes, or heels if you're short. Honestly, you don't want to be having a discussion on the oxymoronic extent of existentialist theology with his larnyx
3. You will have challenging conversation, which you're not used to having. Be prepared: Collect a variety of quotes or arcane references for the added touch, Mr. Snider being a good source
4. Mention, in passing, how that Shadow Fax/Violet Booth/Chamber Choir concert fucking ruled
5. Always, Always resist the temptation to look deeper than is necessary into those chocolate brown eyes.
These you must remember.
06-04-04-------- ma perr wee poem.
You mean, someone actually READS this? Who knows; it's probably a gateway for stalkers-to-be to find the personal sites of students (ahem) or something. Because it's definitely not for the art. In honour of this historic event, I present to you two things. The first is that stupid poem everybody talks about, so you can dissect it or just toss it in the trash outright, as it may not be in your guts or your moral code to dissect things that were once living but have been culled in the name of scientific exploration. Just remember. The poem is about drugs. Then you'll get it. Oh, and if you're looking for one of those "I am such a bad poet feel free to trample on me" disclamers, you can.... oh wait. I did just that earlier on in the paragraph.
shite, here it goes then...
Recently, while searching for equations you stumbled on something you wish you hadn't
it reminded you of entropy, and of those great dark eyes, the parabola of her lower lip anomalous in the geometry of her face
and of your grey days spent in cathedrals of old factories reciting quantum field equations while she, smiling, studied her signature white tablets
and of the two of you, roving the hallways, dressed in geodesic black you let nothing escape you; certainly not light.
And yet still there were differences! She had noted with satisfaction, that while you were praising the symmetry of space-time diagrams she had already moved away from the imperfection of words.
Implosion is compulsory for the universe, you liked to say so when she saw her own event horizon, in the midst of synthetic inebriation, she imploded herself
(not because she was depressed, but that, at sixteen, she had seen everything there was to see.)
And you, now, trapped in your chrysalis of academia with a dorm like a monk's cell forcing your universe to behave you look at your equation, and realize just how imperfect those words were.
*baleful stare* Dinnae ken whis the whole attention thin ays aboot. Ach, my teacher disnae seem to be too concerned aboot the meanin, mind you.
idiocy: I never draw anymore, now that I don't have the additional strain of having a teacher mark it for me. People can only find time if it's forced on them for some insipid little carrot, some temporary reward. How lovely is your curdled priest! This isn't an exception, and sometimes I think that talented people can somehow always warp their way around school and whatnot to draw for some specified amount of time, and the result always looks fantastic (like Toller Cranston, or at least his old art anyway).
And it sucks because I know exactly what it feels like to have this nice, shiny bound black sketchbook just waiting to be marked. And then you get a half-dozen pages in with some clumsy scribbling, and, thinking you've ruined it or have run out of time or interest or whatnot, you abandon the thing.
On a related note, I had a dream that Dru Fraser became this shirtless guitar god. I'd like to hide now, thanks...
Advice: Go down to the railroad tracks in Ayr if you have some spare time, and look at the rocks. They're quite intriguing.
And, if you're so inclined, wait for a train to go by and scream your head off, if you can make yourself. The merits far outweigh any self-consciousness.
Cracks are forming at the edges of our little group...
a scene: In grade eleven, last year, I rode my bike to a parking lot and left it there while I entered the store. When I exited I noticed the front wheel was mangled. On the handlebars somebody had taped a note to it, in scrawled girlish handwriting, which read: Just ran over your bike with my car. The people here are probably thinking I'm writing my name and address. They are wrong.
pretention: It's snowing outsite, which is a relief, considering it might turn into a snowday for tomorrow. Everything's kind of surreal and dead-looking... For some reason, and I don't know if anyone else experiences this on a regular basis, I can never remember exactly what a season will be like when I'm not currently in that season... that is to say, I have absolutely no memories of what summer weather was now that I'm in winter. I always have to work on platitudes, taking little bits and pieces of little idealized scraps of images and whatnot in order to fill in my memory. It seems strange, considering that it is so easy to memorize words than images; that I have memorized the quadratic formula, Macbeth's "tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" soliloquay, the acronyms for the scales on a music bar, and the first sentence of my favourite books, and yet I can't remember what the bloody season is supposed to look like. But then again I suppose people prefer to keep packets of information than try to absorb a visual experience. I wouldn't know.
life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.