From another Mike hero on twitter, this time Mike Lisk:

I have a bad new habit. When I have to get the attention of someone wearing earphones in public, I treat them like furniture or dumb animals. I wave at them or grasp them firmly by the shoulders and move them out of my way as if they were inanimate objects. Sometimes they get lippy, but by then I’m just a memory; a memory convulsed by laughter.
—Mike Lisk’s twitter

Not sure if that semicolon was punctuationally appropriate, though.

The closest I’ve come to getting a handle on all this is something painter Eric Fischl has talked about. Imagine calling two pets, one a dog, the other a cat. Asking a dog to do something is an amazing experience. You say, “Come here, Fido,” and Fido looks up, pads over, puts his head in your lap, and wags his tail. You’ve had a direct communication with another species; you and Fido are sharing a common, fairly literal language. Now imagine saying, “Come here, Snowflake” to the cat. Snowflake might glance over, walk to a nearby table, rub it, lie down, and look at you. There’s nothing direct about this. Yet something gigantic and very much like art has happened. The cat has placed a third object between you and itself. In order to understand the cat you have to be able to grasp this nonlinear, indirect, holistic, circuitous communication. In short, art is a cat.

From “The Whole Ball of Wax” by Jerry Saltz.

Before I began life this time
I took a crash course in Counter-Intelligence
Once here I signed in, see name below, and added
Some words remembered from an earlier time,
“The intention of the organism is to survive.”
My earliest, & happiest, memories pre-date WWII,
They involve a glass slipper & a helpless blue rose
In a slender blue single-rose vase: Mine
Was a story without a plot. The days of my years
Folded into one another, an easy fit, in which
I made money & spent it, learned to dance & forgot, gave
Blood, regained my poise, & verbalized myself a place
In Society. 101 St. Mark’s Place, apt. 12A, NYC 10009
New York. Friends appeared & disappeared, or wigged out,
Or stayed; inspiring strangers sadly died; everyone
I ever knew aged tremendously, except me. I remained
Somewhere between 2 and 9 years old. But frequent
Reification of my own experiences delivered to me
Several new vocabularies, I loved that almost most of all.
I once had the honor of meeting Beckett & I dug him.
The pills kept me going, until now. Love, & work,
Were my great happinesses, that other people die the source
Of my great, terrible, & inarticulate one grief. In my time
I grew tall & huge of frame, obviously possessed
Of a disconnected head, I had a perfect heart. The end
Came quickly & completely without pain, one quiet night as I
Was sitting, writing, next to you in bed, words chosen randomly
From a tired brain, it, like them, suitable, & fitting.
Let none regret my end who called me friend.

(via Claire)

Better get over there in a hurry… Woman who phoned in the complaint said he was painted up like an Indian… Said she never saw a kid do what he was doing: chewing the bark off a tree.

Continuous Partial Attention (CPA) is the trend of stretching our ‘attention bandwidth’ to cope with the myriad demands on our concentration posed by technology. The term was coined by the writer Linda Stone, formerly of Apple and Microsoft, who describes CPA as ‘the behavior of continuously monitoring as many inputs as possible, paying partial attention to each’. According to Stone, CPA is ‘post-multitasking behavior’. If multitasking is ‘motivated by a desire to be more productive and more efficient’, CPA is ‘motivated by a desire to be a live node on the network’. Anxious to connect and desperate not to miss an opportunity, CPA ‘contributes to a feeling of overwhelm, over-stimulation, and a sense of being unfulfilled’. Indeed, the ‘always on’ character of technology (emails, PDAs, IM, VOIP) compromises ‘normal’ social interactions (checking your BlackBerry or cell during lunch) and, in Stone’s analysis, ‘has created an artificial sense of constant crisis’. Like wild animals in a continuous state of alert, an ‘adrenalized fight or flight mechanism kicks in’. Of the hundreds of emails received each day, Stone asks, how many are ‘tigers’, requiring immediate action, and how many are merely ‘mice’? (Most, in fact, are likely to be spam.) Faced with this profusion of inputs we increasingly turn to filters (TiVo) and blocks (iPods) to find a signal amidst the noise.

Stone suggests that ‘the world may continue to be noisy, but our yearning and fulfillment are more likely to come from getting to the bottom of things, from stillness, and from opportunities for meaningful connection’.

From Schott’s Almanac 2007

The dirty sludge of paint your eyes feel when drunk, as though they brush through the thick air, but aware of their own over-elaborate metaphor, feel as shit, neither painting nor seeing much anything of importance.

Milk. Just like the sign said before you obliterated it. Fresh, wholesome milk.

I don’t know really. September has always been the time, that’s all. I always seem to work into some kind of trouble every September. I don’t know what it is. It always seems to be the best time. September… it’s always September.

I heard the title Vampire Weekend and I thought, “Oh, man, that’s gonna be great. I gotta see it.” And there are these guys with little Gap T-shirts on and I’m going, “What happened to the balls in rock ‘n’ roll? Why are American bands so wimpy?”
—Alice Cooper

(via Pitchfork)

What’s next?

Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper turning its pages on his bared knees.  Something new and easy.  No great hurry.  Keep it a bit.  Our prize titbit.  Matcham’s Masterstroke.  Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers’ club, London.  Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer.  Three and a half.  Three pounds three.  Three pounds thirteen and six.

Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column, and yielding and resisting, began the second.  Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone.  Hope it’s not too big bring on piles again.  No, just right.  So.  Ah!  Costive one tabloid of cascara sagrada.  Life might be so.  It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat.  Print anything now.  Silly season.  He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell.  Neat certainly.  Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally.  Hand in hand. Smart.  He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds thirteen and six.

Ineluctable modality of the visible…

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.