The Egg The Egg By: Andy Weir You were on your way home when you died. It was a car accident. And that’s when you met me. “What… what happened?” “You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. “There was a… a truck and it was skidding…” “Yup,” I said. “I… I died?” “Yup. You looked around. “More or less,” I said. “Are you god?” “Yup,” I replied. “My kids… my wife,” you said. “What about them?” “Will they be all right?” “That’s what I like to see,” I said. You looked at me with fascination. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Oh,” you said. “Neither,” I said. “Ah,” you said. “All religions are right in their own way,” I said. You followed along as we strode through the void. “Nowhere in particular,” I said. “So what’s the point, then?” “Not so!” I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. “How many times have I been reincarnated, then?” “Oh lots. “Wait, what?” “Well, I guess technically. “Sure.
One Hundred Million Seeds of Porcelain Contemplation by Trent Gilliss, senior editor Ai Weiwei holds porcelain seeds from his Unilever installation titled “Sunflower Seeds.” (photo: Peter Macdiarmid/Getty Images) Chinese artist Ai Weiwei’s latest installation at the Tate Modern is an incredible feat: one hundred million hand-painted pieces of porcelain that resemble the shells of sunflower seeds. One finds oneself moved to understand its meaning, to grasp its scale, to contemplate the immense amount of energy and ability of so many artisans to produce something this massive — and oh-so delicate — all so that can be walked on, laid on, picked up, thrown, raked, or what have you in the midst of the minimal gray landscape of Turbine Hall. A close-up view of some of the porcelain husks used in “Sunflower Seeds.” Nothing appears to be what it seems. A girl and her mother sit and toss some of the 100 million porcelain seeds in the Turbine Hall of the Tate Modern in London.
kenopsia The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows is a compendium of invented words written by John Koenig. Each original definition aims to fill a hole in the language—to give a name to emotions we all might experience but don’t yet have a word for. The author's mission is to capture the aches, demons, vibes, joys and urges that roam the wilderness of the psychological interior. ▸ visit the facebook page to hear the backstory behind each word ▸ follow on twitter (@obscuresorrows) for whatever reason ▸ send me a tumblr message describing emotions you need words for ▸ send me an email via obscuresorrows@gmail.com JOHN KOENIG is a designer and commercial director who lives in St. He is currently writing a book version of The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. Copyright © 2013 John Koenig.
How Long Does Bill Murray Spend in Groundhog Day? It seems like almost every day someone approaches me and asks, “How long did Bill Murray spend trapped in the film Groundhog Day?” And I always say, “Hmmm, that's not the most timely of questions, but I'll do my best to answer it.” Actually, Groundhog Day was on TBS yet again and a wave of Geek OCD hit me. I was compelled to count the days and find just how many days Phil Connors spent in Punxsutawney. There are, at least, 36 separate days shown in the movie including his multiple death scenes. Follow up: In the first half of the movie, the only other truly time consuming event was the the robbery. Which puts us at the grand total of 3176 repeated Groundhog days, or 453 weeks, or 105 months, or 8.7 years. Groundhog Day Update Harold Ramis responded to this blog.
I Like Your Flaws I like how you mispronounce words sometimes, how you fumble and stammer and stutter looking for the right ones to say and the right ways to say them. I appreciate that you find language challenging, because it is, because everything manmade is challenging. Including man, including you. When you sleep on your side, I like to map the constellations between your beauty marks freckles pimples, the minuscule mountains that sprinkle your back. I like the way your skin dies in the middle of the night, how you die from embarrassment the next morning; how you writhe in the snake casing you’ve left behind. I enjoy seeing you insecure, vulnerable. The burns, the scars, the black and blues on your face body heart, I want to know their stories. I appreciate your ability to get inappropriately angry as much as I appreciate your willingness to apologize afterward. I like how you can’t dance, how you have pedestrian taste in music, how the worst song on every album is your favorite.
Lovesick and Tired: Unnecessary Romance in YA There's nothing wrong with Young Adult romances. After all, first loves and hormones are all part of the teenage experience. However, looking at the last couple of years of YA novels, it seems that romance has shifted from being a genre trend to a genre requirement -- and the genre has suffered for it. I've since come to treat the YA romantic subplot as the pit in the center of the narrative peach -- an awkwardly placed and inevitable annoyance to be endured and avoided while enjoying the otherwise interesting plot. For every one YA novel with a well-integrated and beautiful romantic element, there seem to be three where a romance or, worse, a love triangle is gracelessly shoehorned into a story that neither requires nor develops it. These tropes are particularly noticeable in the subgenres of science fiction, fantasy, and dystopian YA novels, where there's already a "serious plot" that requires the lion's share of the narrative -- leaving little enough room for a romance.
Imagine there is a bank… 8:04am | Aug 30th, 2011 “Imagine there is a bank account that credits your account each morning with $86,400. It carries over no balance from day to day. Every evening the bank deletes whatever part of the balance you failed to use during the day. What would you do? Draw out every cent, of course? stumble Tumblr This Is Why You're My Best Friend We’re best friends because you get it. I’m not sure what that means (it’s all so vague) but whatever it is, you have it. I don’t need to explain anything to you or worry if you’ll get the joke. You already got it and are on your way to making the next one. Thanks, babe! You really make socializing a lot easier for me. We’re best friends because you love me even when I’m terrible. We’re best friends because I can take you anywhere and you’ll adapt. We’re best friends because you never make me uncomfortable. We’re best friends because we can go for long stretches of time without talking and it won’t damage the relationship. We’re best friends because you don’t get resentful or jealous if I get into a relationship or land an amazing job. You’re my best friend because you’re not afraid to call me out on my crap or disagree with me. We’re best friends because you make feel less alone in this psycho, flaky world.
Zen Moments “Great moments often catch us unawares….” By Kent Nerburn There was a time in my life twenty years ago when I was driving a cab for a living. It was a cowboy’s life, a gambler’s life, a life for someone who wanted no boss, constant movement and the thrill of a dice roll every time a new passenger got into the cab. What I didn’t count on when I took the job was that it was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a rolling confessional. We were like strangers on a train, the passengers and I, hurtling through the night, revealing intimacies we would never have dreamed of sharing during the brighter light of day. And none of those lives touched me more than that of a woman I picked up late on a warm August night. I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town. When I arrived at the address, the building was dark except for a single light in a ground-floor window. So I walked to the door and knocked. After a long pause, the door opened.
i like my body by E. E. Cummings Share i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite a new thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which I will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs, and possibly i like the thrill of under me you quite so new "i like my body" by e.e. cummings from . © Liveright Publishing, 1991. It's the birthday of poet and essayist , ( books by this author ) born in New York City (1949), whose parents were political activists and encouraged her to write angry letters to newspapers when she was just a little girl. It's the birthday of short-story writer , ( books by this author ) born Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp in Wellington, New Zealand (1888). my father moved through dooms of love E.E.
Will Allen - Post Postmod Love in Much Ado Benedick: And I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?Beatrice: For them all together, which maintain’d so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?Benedick: Suffer love! A good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.— Much Ado About Nothing, Act V, Scene II Joss Whedon’s depiction of this most playful Shakespearean comedy is a sheer delight. First the rebuke. More significantly, Whedon, who recently directed the 143-minute The Avengers, adjusts his focus here from mega- to human-scale, gently teasing out details in Shakespeare’s story that, when highlighted, bring the whole to eminently enjoyable life. Then, too, the quiet elegance of Jay Hunter’s black-and-white cinematography harks back to an era of more human-scale movie adventures.