June 2012
Believing Makes It Easy
Shearwater
“Believing Makes It Easy” by Shearwater
Play
1 / The Curve of Forgotten Things
Things slowly curve out of sight
until they are gone. Afterwards
only the curve
remains.
—Richard Brautigan
To quote a practical case: when a person complains that he is always
on bad terms with his wife or the people whom he loves, and that there
are terrible scenes or resistances between them, you will see when you
analyze this person that he has an attack of hatred. He has been living in
participation mystique with those he loves. He has spread himself over
other people until he has become identical with them, which is a viola-
tion of the principle of individuality. Then they have resistances natu-
rally, in order to keep themselves apart. I say:Of course, it is most regrettable that you always get into trouble, but
don’t you see what you are doing? You love somebody, you identify
with them, and of course you prevail against the objects of your love
and repress them by your very self-evident identity. You handle
them as if they were yourself, and naturally there will be resistances.
It is a violation of the individuality of those people, and it is a sin
against your own individuality. Those resistances are a most useful
and important instinct: you have resistances, scenes, and disap-
pointments so that you may become finally conscious of yourself,
and then hatred is no more.
The Psychology of Kundalini Yoga By Carl Jung
“Joy wants the eternity of all things, wants deep, deep, deep eternity!”
—Uncle Friedrich
“People are so alienated from their own soul that when they meet their soul they think it comes from another star system.”
—Terence McKenna
“Abstraction is everybody’s zero but nobody’s nought. Museums are tombs, and it looks like everything is turning into a museum. Painting, sculpture and architecture are finished, but the art habit continues. Art settles into a stupendous inertia. Silence supplies the dominant chord. Bright colors conceal the abyss that holds the museum together. Every solid is a bit of clogged air or space. Things flatten and fade. The museum spreads its surfaces everywhere, and becomes an untitled collection of generalizations that mobilize the eye.”
—
Robert Smithson, Some Void Thoughts On Museums
via toniiu, voidologist
“Motherfucker.”
—Sigmund Freud
Someone calculated the points of every Whose Line cast member:
davethebrave:equivoque:icantfeelmyarms:edfreemaybe:
Wayne Brady: 50,072,587,425
Ryan Stiles: 11,113,372,791.5
Colin Mochrie: 3,012,399,040.5
Chip Esten: 2,004,047,000
Greg Proops: 1,001,122,117
Brad Sherwood: 1,071,980.5
Denny Segal: 1,059,560
Karen Maruyama: 1,004,450
Kathy Greenwood: 59,810
Stephen Colbert: 12,000
Kathy Griffin: 5,000
Ian Gomez: 4,000
Jeff Davis: 3,300
Josie Lawrence: 3000
Whoopi Goldberg: 2,500
Patrick Bristow: 1,000
Robin Williams: 1,000
Kathy Kinney: 50The points mattered to someone
OH MY GOD <3
Esten beat Proops?! Travesty. But Stiles and Brady have always been the true champs, it’s undeniable.
To further contextualize these numbers I have a few calculations to share.
11113372791.5 + 3012399040.5 + 2004047000 + 1001122117 + 1071980.5 + 1059560 + 1004450 + 59810 + 12000 + 5000 + 4000 + 3300 + 3000 + 2500 + 1000 + 1000 + 50 = 17134168599.5
17134168599.5 + 50,072,587,425 = 67206756024.5
50,072,587,425 / 67206756024.5 = 0.7450528844
(NERO and CALIGULA appear in one person: he has only one left arm, raised and bent at right angles.)
N. AND C. (menacingly)
K’youllen sewern der
Travelled light
Past Thursday
Fry rip what I left half-baked.
(He congeals with a noble gesture, then sings; during the singing the SECOND STRONGMAN exits.)
I eat dog
And white feets
Fried meat cake
Croaked potato
Space is limited
Print to be silent
Zheh Sheh Cheh
(A TIME TRAVELLER rides onstage on airplane wheels; on him there are pages with the inscriptions Stone Age, Middle Ages, and so forth…NERO is in space.)
Listen
Terence McKenna caught in a great story from his time in La Chorrera, Panama. This is from a workshop called “The Rites of Spring” from ‘86. A good Terence year.
Now my desires no more, alas,
Summon my soul to my eyelids’ brink,
For with its prayers that ebb and pass
It too must sink,
To lie in the depth of my closéd eyes;
Only the flowers of its weary breath
Like icy blooms to the surface rise,
Lilies of death.
Its lips are sealed, in the depths of woe,
And a world away, in the far-off gloom,
They sing of azure stems that grow
A mystic bloom.
But lo, its fingers—I have grown
Pallid beholding them, I who perceive
Them traces the marks its poor unblown
Lost lilies leave.
And I know it must die, for its hour is o’er;
Folding its impotent hands at last,
Hands too weary to pluck any more
The flowers of the past!
“Aquarium” by Maurice Maeterlinck
