the calm after the storm
Apologies for last week's atrocious behaviour. I fully rescind any derogatory statements regarding the book of face apart from the part about alternative creations, selfish megalomaniacs and society's inevitable plunge into idiocy.
Having seen a photo of one of the Thai 'Red Shirt' leaders using facebook to share political ideologies after his government shut down his website, I now believe that the social networking phenomenon can be used for good. How effective this communication is, I have no gauge on and can only speculate on the efficacy of other people's behaviour when I have spent this fine Thursday morning sleeping, eating and waiting to do a poo.
Having seen a photo of one of the Thai 'Red Shirt' leaders using facebook to share political ideologies after his government shut down his website, I now believe that the social networking phenomenon can be used for good. How effective this communication is, I have no gauge on and can only speculate on the efficacy of other people's behaviour when I have spent this fine Thursday morning sleeping, eating and waiting to do a poo.
rant in F major
facebook is rubbish.
instead of talking to people and discussing ideas, feelings and stories we now feel obliged to communicate through meaningless abbreviated cliches, OMGROFLLMAO! if i wanted to spend my life drooling monosyllabic crap, pretending that I'm something that I'm not, desperately trying to fit in, I would have joined the marketing industry. look at what social networking could be used for - collaboration, saving time, effective networking etc. and look at what it is primarily used for.
a film about facebook is revolting garbage, the kind that we dump in small african villages through fly-by-night corporate-directed small businesses. why would anyone want to spend their free time paying homage to geeky, selfish megalomaniacs who have cursed our society with the gift of unburdenable idiocy? because it's cool. it's cool and we've got plenty of time and money to splurge on bullshit, rather than creating something ourselves or reading a book or, perhaps even more enlightening, shooting yourself in the face. Why not combine all three and create a situation of having a book inside your face? Damien Hirst eat your heart out and stud it with diamonds.
instead of talking to people and discussing ideas, feelings and stories we now feel obliged to communicate through meaningless abbreviated cliches, OMGROFLLMAO! if i wanted to spend my life drooling monosyllabic crap, pretending that I'm something that I'm not, desperately trying to fit in, I would have joined the marketing industry. look at what social networking could be used for - collaboration, saving time, effective networking etc. and look at what it is primarily used for.
a film about facebook is revolting garbage, the kind that we dump in small african villages through fly-by-night corporate-directed small businesses. why would anyone want to spend their free time paying homage to geeky, selfish megalomaniacs who have cursed our society with the gift of unburdenable idiocy? because it's cool. it's cool and we've got plenty of time and money to splurge on bullshit, rather than creating something ourselves or reading a book or, perhaps even more enlightening, shooting yourself in the face. Why not combine all three and create a situation of having a book inside your face? Damien Hirst eat your heart out and stud it with diamonds.
The Conjurer
Let's just say, if complete and utter chaos was lightning, he'd be the sort to stand on a hilltop, in a thunderstorm, wearing wet copper armour and shouting, "All gods are bastards!"
Not my words, just the thoughts of one madman to another.
Not my words, just the thoughts of one madman to another.
Death and Taxes
There lies in this land a leviathan, a brutally blood-thirsty beast as old as the oak trees. And every night it devours its subjects' sacrifices and every morning it screams at its own dismal suffering.
It sends its minions far and wide, searching in squadron formation as they scour the desolate land for scraps and salvage. But herein lies no salvation, for they will never escape their bondage, forever lying at the bottom of the pecking order. The only species beneath them are the dullard people of South Glamorganshire, who busy themselves hording anything that cannot be eaten, muttering all the while to themselves and drinking spirits that would sell their soul to be called moonshine.
I may be mad, I may stand alone, but I will not pay homage to the King of the Seagulls!
It sends its minions far and wide, searching in squadron formation as they scour the desolate land for scraps and salvage. But herein lies no salvation, for they will never escape their bondage, forever lying at the bottom of the pecking order. The only species beneath them are the dullard people of South Glamorganshire, who busy themselves hording anything that cannot be eaten, muttering all the while to themselves and drinking spirits that would sell their soul to be called moonshine.
I may be mad, I may stand alone, but I will not pay homage to the King of the Seagulls!
Intellectual Mercenaries
I am not a hand for hire. To the highest bidder I will pimp my brain. Smiling costs extra.
To anyone who thinks intellectual property is an assortment of rulers, compasses and finely sharpened pencils, you need not apply for my services. For I am a thinker. Thinking is what I do, and what I do best. I do not work. People pay me to do their thinking for them, or in some cases the pretence of thinking. And when I have finished pretending to think, those thoughts can be yours, for a price.
I do not lurk in the shadows, dagger clenched between teeth as I scale your drainpipe, I do not guard your illegitimately gained possessions by shooting the occaional passer by. What I do, as an intellectual mercenary is far more sinister. If you have a 'problem' that needs solving then you know where I am, or not.
To anyone who thinks intellectual property is an assortment of rulers, compasses and finely sharpened pencils, you need not apply for my services. For I am a thinker. Thinking is what I do, and what I do best. I do not work. People pay me to do their thinking for them, or in some cases the pretence of thinking. And when I have finished pretending to think, those thoughts can be yours, for a price.
I do not lurk in the shadows, dagger clenched between teeth as I scale your drainpipe, I do not guard your illegitimately gained possessions by shooting the occaional passer by. What I do, as an intellectual mercenary is far more sinister. If you have a 'problem' that needs solving then you know where I am, or not.
The Mathematician's Arsenal
A shabbily dressed man with a hole in his jacket, having just returned from a morning walk to the shops, sat down in his study. On the walls, star charts and maps studded the darkness of the wooden walls and the musty light trickled through the blinds. He sat alone, with a befuddled expression on his unshaven face. One of the morning newspapers had printed an image of a school teacher presenting a proof of the quadratic formula. Not only was the proof incomplete but it was poorly written, as if the publisher had tried to portray their own artistic expression of the infallible equations. It leered out of the page at him, mocking his capabilities, jeering him into action. And so, on the morning of Saturday the 23rd August 1958, the war began.
The battle ground was set, troops were manoeuvred, supplies were brought forward and an emergency economy was established. The housekeeper was informed not to disturb these urgent matters unless in the case of a fire or lunch. The mathematician would leave the study either in a state of brief content or in a coffin. He wielded the pencil with a flourish, like a fanfare of trumpets; setting to work with all the effortless enthusiasm of one who is blissfully unaware of things to come. Now, there are various tools available to the experienced campaigner and the mathematician soon realised that he would have to think outside the box if he was to emerge victorious. The first battle had been fought and lost, with heavy casualties on both sides but no clear victor. A thin wisp of smoke lingered as he extinguished his first cigarette. The light danced treacherously amongst the darkness. Each theorem that was flung headlong into the fray was foiled, each reorganisation of the troops simply met with further calamity. Lunchtime came and went without a pause. The mathematician sat back with a sigh and let his mind wander, out across the garden, over the rolling hills of the South Downs, through the tall trees filled with life and longing. It was in this moment that his felt quite singular; an unknown in a uniform field; as though he had broken through this plane of unity to find himself transposed into another dimension. He felt his personal pressures evaporate and the divisive struggle of survival to diminish to the point of no return. It was in this frame of mind that he knew best what he had to offer the world.
Returning to his mathematical conundrum he realised that the hour was late. The maths was simple and elegant. He added to both sides, giving generously and in the same fell swoop simplifying the sides with one common denominator. The troops turned their guns into telescopes, balance was preserved and the mathematician left the study with the glimmer of a smile on his chops and a twinkle in his eye.
The battle ground was set, troops were manoeuvred, supplies were brought forward and an emergency economy was established. The housekeeper was informed not to disturb these urgent matters unless in the case of a fire or lunch. The mathematician would leave the study either in a state of brief content or in a coffin. He wielded the pencil with a flourish, like a fanfare of trumpets; setting to work with all the effortless enthusiasm of one who is blissfully unaware of things to come. Now, there are various tools available to the experienced campaigner and the mathematician soon realised that he would have to think outside the box if he was to emerge victorious. The first battle had been fought and lost, with heavy casualties on both sides but no clear victor. A thin wisp of smoke lingered as he extinguished his first cigarette. The light danced treacherously amongst the darkness. Each theorem that was flung headlong into the fray was foiled, each reorganisation of the troops simply met with further calamity. Lunchtime came and went without a pause. The mathematician sat back with a sigh and let his mind wander, out across the garden, over the rolling hills of the South Downs, through the tall trees filled with life and longing. It was in this moment that his felt quite singular; an unknown in a uniform field; as though he had broken through this plane of unity to find himself transposed into another dimension. He felt his personal pressures evaporate and the divisive struggle of survival to diminish to the point of no return. It was in this frame of mind that he knew best what he had to offer the world.
Returning to his mathematical conundrum he realised that the hour was late. The maths was simple and elegant. He added to both sides, giving generously and in the same fell swoop simplifying the sides with one common denominator. The troops turned their guns into telescopes, balance was preserved and the mathematician left the study with the glimmer of a smile on his chops and a twinkle in his eye.
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