Tweet, by Oyl Miller



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I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by brevity, over-connectedness, emotionally starving for attention, dragging themselves through virtual communities at 3 am, surrounded by stale pizza and neglected dreams, looking for angry meaning, any meaning, same hat wearing hipsters burning for shared and skeptical approval from the holographic projected dynamo in the technology of the era, who weak connections and recession wounded and directionless, sat up, micro-conversing in the supernatural darkness of Wi-Fi-enabled cafes, floating across the tops of cities, contemplating techno, who bared their brains to the black void of new media and the thought leaders and so called experts who passed through community colleges with radiant, prank playing eyes, hallucinating Seattle- and Tarantino-like settings among pop scholars of war and change, who dropped out in favor of following a creative muse, publishing zines and obscene artworks on the windows of the internet, who cowered in unshaven rooms, in ironic superman underwear burning their money in wastebaskets from the 1980s and listening to Nirvana through paper thin walls, who got busted in their grungy beards riding the Metro through Shinjuku station, who ate digital in painted hotels or drank Elmer's glue in secret alleyways, death or purgatoried their torsos with tattoos taking the place of dreams, that turned into nightmares, because there are no dreams in the New Immediacy, incomparably blind to reality, inventing the new reality, through hollow creations fed through illuminated screens. Screens of shuttering tag clouds and image thumbnails lightning in the mind surfing towards Boards of Canada and Guevara, illuminating all the frozen matrices of time between, megabyted solidities of borders and yesterday's backyard wiffleball dawns, downloaded drunkenness over rooftops, digital storefronts of flickering flash, a sun and moon of programming joyrides sending vibrations to mobile devices set on manner mode during twittering wintering dusks of Peduca, ashtray rantings and coffee stains that hid the mind, who bound themselves to wireless devices for an endless ride of opiated information from and Google on sugary highs until the noise of modems and fax machines brought them down shuddering, with limited and vulgar verbiage to comment threads, battered bleak of shared brain devoid of brilliance in the drear light of a monitor, who sank all night in interface's light of Pabst floated out and sat through the stale sake afternoon in desolate pizza parlors, listening to the crack of doom on separate nuclear iPods, who texted continuously 140 characters at a time from park to pond to bar to MOMA to Brooklyn Bridge lost battalion of platonic laconic self proclaimed journalists committed to a revolution of information, jumping down the stoops off of R&B album covers out of the late 1980s, tweeting their screaming vomiting whispering facts and advices and anecdotes of lunchtime sandwiches and cat antics on couches with eyeballs following and shockwaves of analytics and of authority and finding your passion and other jargon, whole intellects underscored and wiped clean in the total recall 24/7 365 assault all under the gaze of once brilliant eyes.

Via Riley Dog.

Morning Poem

Sometimes when the mind is burning brightand all is lost but for the moment one see's how that moment is what binds a life together not this bric-a-brac day to day. The iron only lives when it is hot.

Found thoughts.

You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes... - Boring Boring Boring

“You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander. We build this place with the sand of memories; these castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible. So part of us believes that when the tide starts coming in, we won’t really have lost anything, because actually only a symbol of it was there in the sand. Another part of us thinks we’ll figure out a way to divert the ocean. This is what separates artists from ordinary people: the belief, deep in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won’t wash them away. I think this is a wonderful kind of person to be.”

— Anne Lamott

On Seeing

Photography is about the art of seeing the everyday as the new. Everyone can see and more and more with today's technology anyone can take a picture. But the best photographs make you think, "I have never looked at that like this before." So keep looking.

Thoughts on a young girl's Birthday.

There are those who are needlessly open and forever wonder why bad things happen to good people. There are those who the world has hammered shut and wonder what it is like to not be lonely and afraid.

Be neither when you set out.

Be wise.

Coffee and Poetry

In the vain of, "Do Something Different, Start Today" I figured maybe I'll do something I have not done for many years here and post some poetry. I used to do it all the time in the way back archives. What is something that is possibly particular to me is that I cannot write shit at the computer. I need a good sitting spot some coffee and the outdoors to write anything decent. So when I get sucked up into computer land I fail to write anything at all. But anyhow, Here is a coffee time ditty I wrote this morning:

big fluffy fast moving clouds shoot past the breaks in the trees the newly planted garden glistens with fresh water all deep earth black with hopeful green hands reaching up to the clouds like so much cotton candy

Do something today.

::: wood s lot ::: "the fitful tracing of a portal"

An Old Man

At the noisy end of the cafe, head bent over the table, an old man sits alone, a newspaper in front of him.

And in the miserable banality of old age he thinks how little he enjoyed the years when he had strength, eloquence, and looks.

He knows he's aged a lot: he sees it, feels it. Yet it seems he was young just yesterday. So brief an interval, so brief.

And he thinks of Prudence, how it fooled him, how he always believed - what madness - that cheat who said: "Tomorrow. You have plenty of time."

He remembers impulses bridled, the joy he sacrificed. Every chance he lost now mocks his senseless caution.

But so much thinking, so much remembering makes the old man dizzy. He falls asleep, his head resting on the cafe table.

Poems by Orhan Veli Translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat

Wood S Lot, one page you really should go to everyday.

Morning Coffee web readings...

whiskey river

Sin The worst part is failing to kiss the ground each morning. Or the cold pot of resentment stirred and simmered well into the evening. Everything else comes from this, grows. It wouldn't be so bad if such immense portions of good fortune weren't squandered each hour, minutes the long dead would ransom eternity to regain. Even now, ripe apples lie rotting casually about the floor, single bites taken from each - there is no worm, no snake . . . only this failure to praise. - Dane Cervine

Whisky River is one of my daily must reads. So many gems here that can really make your day.

In Praise of Boredom

[Paleopsych] Joseph Brodsky: Listening to Boredom

Boredom is your window on the properties of time that one tends to ignore to the likely peril of one's mental equilibrium. It is your window on time's infinity. Once this window opens, don't try to shut it; on the contrary, throw it wide open. For boredom speaks the language of time, and it teaches you the most valuable lesson of your life: the lesson of your utter insignificance. It is valuable to you, as well as to those you are to rub shoulders with. "You are finite," time tells you in the voice of boredom, "and whatever you do is, from my point of view, futile." As music to your ears, this, of course, may not count; yet the sense of futility, of the limited significance of even your best, most ardent actions, is better than the illusion of their consequences and the attendant self-aggrandizement.

Savor your boredom