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Map
I think this:
When I die, they cut open my head,
to put my brain in a machine
so they can map out my
trainofthoughthopesdreamsfears(I like to think of a wide-eyed intern, hardly daring to breathe out “the soul” for fear of mockery)
On the 3D scan
there will be bright dots burning furiously.
I can see it now. Holographic fairy lights,
little jeweled pixels embedded across the cerebrum
like looking out the window of a plane.These will be your fault.
Your hands, light, fleeting, on my waist
in greetings, in goodbyes,
in see-you-soons and hey-good-jobs.
A hundred, small pin-sharp breaths
each time a minute re-calibration as
sensation is filed away. Hoarding them for winter.I think of them mapping my store
across my temporal lobe, the hippocampus.
A dark spatter tattooed on the amygdala
where electricity once sparked like a startled rabbit.
What other proof will I have?
That someone used to put his hands on me
just because he could.- VLH
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Weight of Her Love - Nathan Hartono
Nathan falls down a lot. Comfort him by checking out his video.
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Five and a Half Minutes - performed by Katie Thompson
Song by Kait Kerrigan and Brian Lowdermilk.
Extraordinary.
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Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.- William Ernest Henley
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Though I’m no fan of the phrase, “not my job,” I am always cautious to not allow myself (or others) to depend on those people who happen to be good at many things to do everything. I’ve worked at too many places where the electricians are competent riggers, so suddenly they’re rigging up scenery as well as lighting fixtures, or where the scene shop has people who know electrical wiring, who are suddenly electrifying all the props and practicals for every show—in most cases, either at the expense of the work they were hired to do (i.e., hanging lights or building scenery), or more often, at the workers’ expense, as they end up putting in significant hours trying to accomplish both sets of tasks.
Rich DionnePosted on May 22, 2012 with 5 notes
Source: theatreface.ning.com
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The Fukang Pallasite. Pallasites are a type of iron meteorite, quite rare, made out of large olivine crystals in an iron-nickel matrix. Olivine is a a magnesium iron silicate quite common in our planet’s subsurface, but which weathers fast when exposed to the surface. An anonymous finder recovered a 1003 kg specimen near Fukang, China in 2000. These extra-terrestrial gemstones mirror the stellar beauty of the cosmos. The Fukang Pallasite is a specimen that clearly out shines all meteorites of its class. See more photos here.
(via 14-billion-years-later)
Posted on May 19, 2012 via Stress Face with 3,833 notes
Source: meteoritelab.com
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That’s the scary thing about theatre—it doesn’t live on. But that’s actually the most beautiful thing about it, too. That’s why it’s more beautiful than film and certainly more beautiful than television, because it’s like life. Real life. Any picture that you take or any video that you make of yourself is not really you, it’s only an image that represents the experience you had. In theater, the process of it is the experience. Everyone goes through the process, and everyone has the experience together. It doesn’t last—only in people’s memories and in their hearts. That’s the beauty and sadness of it. But that’s life—beauty and the sadness. And that is why theatre is life.
Sherie Rene Scott (via norbertleosbutt)(via thebackstagebadger)
Posted on May 19, 2012 via Mais je suis un artiste. with 1,802 notes
Source: american-whore-story
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What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?
Posted on May 19, 2012 via this isn't happiness. with 1,874 notes
Source: newshelton.com
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Posted on May 19, 2012 via this isn't happiness. with 1,450 notes
Source: nevver
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It starts, as I said, around 10 p.m., when something ticks over in my mind, as if someone had walked into a shuttered cabin and flipped all the switches in the fuse box to “on.” For the first time all day, I get interested in writing. My normal indiscipline, the ADHD-ish inability to keep my head inside my work, finally drops away. For the next few hours, I write steadily, cleanly. If my body is producing a drug during that time, it is a natural methylphenidate—a dose of pure focus, side-effect-free and sweet.
Catch-all. Junk drawer. Magpie nest.
More traditional rambles here:
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