Mike Driver
Game of Thrones Daily
ojovivo
noise dept.
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Cosmic Funnies
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
The Bright Sessions
Love Begins
NASA
KIROKAZE
if i look back, i am lost
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Today's Document
shark vs the universe
hello vonnie
oozey mess
titsay
almost home
Origami Around
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@morninglorydlc
Art has no purpose, except the transformation of human experience.
Debbie Millman’s wonderful interview with legendary graphic designer Milton Glaser.Â
Also see Glaser on art, technology, and the secret of life, then revisit William Faulkner on the purpose of art.Â
(via explore-blog)
There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Sara Teasdale, “There will come Soft Rain”
It Takes A Taxi To Tell / From Little Chance to Little America
Wyoming
It was no easy decision. There was a heavy amount of pressure on both ends. I had traveled with Evan half way across the country to strum on guitars and sing into microphones for those that would be so kind as to attend the string of shows that we had scheduled in North Dakota, Illinois, Iowa and Wisconsin, the first of which clocked us at steering the wheel of a Subaru Outback a little over 20 hours before we would/could even sing a note. The weather in Grand Forks was nothing like I had expected, the breeze mild. The temperature tolerable. We did as we always do, loaded in, set up and sound checked. During the last part of the process I noticed an overwhelming pain shooting through the index finger of my left hand when I would play certain chords. There was no question of WHY there was pain shooting through my finger, seeing as how I had nailed a sharp 2 ½” piece of metal through it only days before the trip, but I had the best of plans for it to heal before the tour, but it appeared my body and her sporadic (slow) way of healing had OTHER plans.            We played the show with the annoyance of the lightning storm that was comfortably hiding inside of my finger and took the rest of the night letting her (my finger) take a break from strings and strumming. There was no late night for us two Utahan boys, not after the trek that we had just been on across the Midwest, it was time to rest.            The morning greeted us early with the sounds of our alarm clocks buzzing from across the room, it was Wednesday and we had a show in Des Moines, Iowa, which just so happened to be 8.5 hours away by car. It was my turn to drive and as I slipped into the seat and turned the key I noticed the swelling of my finger had gotten worse, I took note but didn’t think too much of it. As we made it south through Minneapolis the swelling and pain didn’t subside. It seemed that playing guitar on it had NOT served it well and that it was in a state of rebellion against its owner (if that is what I am). We made it to Des Moines safely and loaded in, as we began to sound check the dull ache that I had experienced during the drive quickly elevated to sharp, glassy shots of pain extending into my hand. I wasn’t sure what I was to do. Do I keep on playing? Do I try and push through the rest of the tour with the pain that I was experiencing? Could this damage my hand? Will I go blind? Extreme thought? MAYBE, but MAYBE not. We played the show in Des Moines after which I asked Evan what he thought. We both agreed that the healing of my hand/finger would take precedence over the last 4 shows in the Midwest. We slept and headed out first thing the next morning for Utah.            If you have never driven across Interstate 80 that leads you through the flat, cold and windy state of Nebraska then you have never experienced the sheer joy of what the human mind is capable of conceiving when given nothing but prairie dust and pavement to look at for 10 hours. The drive felt never-ending, exhausting and heartbreaking, the latter due to the fact that we had just made the entire drive out to the eastern side of the Midwest for a mere 2 shows, only to return with a head hung low and a swollen finger to cover it up with. The hour was getting later and the drive, though arduous and relatively un-eventful had treated us with weather conducive to management of a vehicle in only the safest of fashions. As we entered into Wyoming there was a dark gang of clouds stretched out over the western front, Evan was behind the wheel and as one might assume there are necessary stops to relieve one’s body and even more often, mind. We got back into the car after a quick stop in Wamsutter and the snow was falling hard. We checked 511 and WYDOT for updates on road conditions as to not lead ourselves into situations that we JUST MIGHT NOT recover from. The wind and snow was getting worse and our hopes of making it back to the Salt Lake valley that night was quickly being swept away with the whipping wind. We were 80 miles outside of Evanston, traveling at a speed of 50 miles per hour when hit it. A patch of black ice caught us off guard; Evan ferociously spun the wheel right with a site of fear…
“DON’T HIT THE BRAKES! …LOOK OUT…LOOK OUT!!” The car was being swept from left to right and then began to spin into the small section of snowy land that separated us from the oncoming traffic. It happened so quickly and with no forewarning. I saw the quickly approaching headlights of two diesels as we slid toward the wires that separated us from what I was sure would be the demise of our vibrantly functioning bodies. As quickly as this may have happened I had a hundred images race frantically through the forefront of my brain.
…death…CRASH…Ollie..Emma….Millie…CRASH… ..life….CRASH…death…CRASH…no singin…no hearbeat..no more..CRASH…
The car hit the wires and supporting steel beam at a speed that surely should have broken the barrier, but didn’t. The diesels whistled by and Evan and I sat there in the metal box that had set out to end us but changed its mind when the action came within its grasp. I was alive. WE were alive. Neither of us hurt. Intact. Safe. ALIVE. We slowly made it back onto the interstate and made it to the next exit where Little America was waiting with a hotel room and handful of minutes with which we could contemplate our lives.
It’s funny the things that my mind devotes itself to throughout the course of a morning, an evening, a day, a year, a lifetime. I am still alive. We are both still alive and I am grateful.
Grateful to breath. Grateful to be. To see and to hear. To walk, run, break and buckle. To touch and bruise. Kiss and kick. Grateful to sing and scream. To watch things grow. For all unknown. I am GRATEFUL to be ALIVE.
To HELL with everything else.
Joshua Fred James
Grateful
...for all unknown...I am grateful to be alive...
But, now again to weave the tale begun, All nature, then, as self-sustained, consists Of twain of things: of bodies and of void In which they're set, and where they're moved around. For common instinct of our race declares That body of itself exists: unless This primal faith, deep-founded, fail us not, Naught will there be whereunto to appeal On things occult when seeking aught to prove By reasonings of mind. Again, without That place and room, which we do call the inane, Nowhere could bodies then be set, nor go Hither or thither at all- as shown before. Besides, there's naught of which thou canst declare It lives disjoined from body, shut from void- A kind of third in nature. For whatever Exists must be a somewhat; and the same, If tangible, however fight and slight, Will yet increase the count of body's sum, With its own augmentation big or small; But, if intangible and powerless ever To keep a thing from passing through itself On any side, 'twill be naught else but that Which we do call the empty, the inane. Again, whate'er exists, as of itself, Must either act or suffer action on it. Or else be that wherein things move and be: Naught, saving body, acts, is acted on; Naught but the inane can furnish room. And thus, Beside the inane and bodies, is no third Nature amid the number of all things- Remainder none to fall at any time Under our senses, nor be seized and seen By any man through reasonings of mind. Name o'er creation with what names thou wilt, Thou'lt find but properties of those first twain, Or see but accidents those twain produce. A property is that which not at all Can be disjoined and severed from a thing Without a fatal dissolution: such, Weight to the rocks, heat to the fire, and flow To the wide waters, touch to corporal things, Intangibility to the viewless void. But state of slavery, pauperhood, and wealth, Freedom, and war, and concord, and all else Which come and go whilst Nature stands the same, We're wont, and rightly, to call accidents. Even time exists not of itself; but sense Reads out of things what happened long ago, What presses now, and what shall follow after: No man, we must admit, feels time itself, Disjoined from motion and repose of things. Thus, when they say there "is" the ravishment Of Princess Helen, "is" the siege and sack Of Trojan Town, look out, they force us not To admit these acts existent by themselves, Merely because those races of mankind (Of whom these acts were accidents) long since Irrevocable age has borne away: For all past actions may be said to be But accidents, in one way, of mankind,- In other, of some region of the world. Add, too, had been no matter, and no room Wherein all things go on, the fire of love Upblown by that fair form, the glowing coal Under the Phrygian Alexander's breast, Had ne'er enkindled that renowned strife Of savage war, nor had the wooden horse Involved in flames old Pergama, by a birth At midnight of a brood of the Hellenes. And thus thou canst remark that every act At bottom exists not of itself, nor is As body is, nor has like name with void; But rather of sort more fitly to be called An accident of body, and of place Wherein all things go...
Lucretius - “Nothing Exists Per Se Except Atoms And The Void” -  (Book I - Part 04 )Â
“Sometimes the best and worst times of your life can coincide. It is a talent of the soul to discover the joy in pain—-thinking of moments you long for, and knowing you’ll never have them again. The beautiful ghosts of our past haunt us, and yet we still can’t decide if the pain they caused us out weighs the tender moments when they touched our soul. This is the irony of love.”
― Shannon L. Alder
Jesus said: Blessed is he who was before he came into being. If you become disciples to me (and) listen to my words, these stones will minister to you. For you have five trees in Paradise which do not change, either in summer or in winter, and their leaves do not fall. He who knows them shall not taste of death.
from the Coptic Gospel of Thomas
The question becomes… “What’s worth doing, even if I fail?” … I don’t leap for the landing – I leap for the experience in the air. Because you can’t predict the landing.
Brené Brown in a creatively electrifying conversation with Elizabeth Gilbert on Magic Lessons, the podcast companion to Gilbert’s Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear.
If you haven’t yet read Brown’s book on creative resilience, do your higher self a favor.Â
Going and Staying             I The moving sun-shapes on the spray, The sparkles where the brook was flowing, Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May, These were the things we wished would stay;     But they were going.             II Seasons of blankness as of snow, The silent bleed of a world decaying, The moan of multitudes in woe, These were the things we wished would go;     But they were staying.             III Then we looked closelier at Time, And saw his ghostly arms revolving To sweep off woeful things with prime, Things sinister with things sublime     Alike dissolving. -- Thomas Hardy
Speaking in Hemingway | Charles Bane Jr.
About six months ago, I had a heart attack. I’m not going to dwell on it; I thought, while undergoing tests, about money: had I left enough behind? And, am I straight with my extended family? I was. Everybody connected to everybody in my family is happy with each other, and blissfully non-neurotic.
I had some creative regrets. I had wanted to write a poem in the voice of Sappho. I did as soon as I was well and sent, for the first time in my career a work I thought might be ridiculed, to a poetry editor at a journal who described herself under the Masthead as “a New York-native living in Bedford–Stuyvesant….love to talk to you about fourth-wave feminism, the tattoo of the vagina on her finger, or the Oxford comma.” The poem was snatched up.
But above all, I had wanted to write– and this is the wrong word– a “sequel” to For Whom The Bell Tolls. I wanted to explore whether or not the art of a novel could be relived, not as caricature, but as an inhabited role.  I wanted to experience the author’s rhythms, mastery of craft and profound link to nature; and create something akin to performance art that echoed, however softly, a gifted individual’s voice. And it was suddenly personal: I wanted to body surf, now that I was alive and recovered, on the waves of Hemingway’s narrative genius.
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Hacking the Nervous System
by Gaia Vince, Mosaic Science
When Maria Vrind, a former gymnast from Volendam in the Netherlands, found that the only way she could put her socks on in the morning was to lie on her back with her feet in the air, she had to accept that things had reached a crisis point. “I had become so stiff I couldn’t stand up,” she says. “It was a great shock because I’m such an active person.”
It was 1993. Vrind was in her late 40s and working two jobs, athletics coach and a carer for disabled people, but her condition now began taking over her life. “I had to stop my jobs and look for another one as I became increasingly disabled myself.” By the time she was diagnosed, seven years later, she was in severe pain and couldn’t walk any more. Her knees, ankles, wrists, elbows and shoulder joints were hot and inflamed. It was rheumatoid arthritis, a common but incurable autoimmune disorder in which the body attacks its own cells, in this case the lining of the joints, producing chronic inflammation and bone deformity.
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Neil Gaiman on what stories do for the human spirit and how they last for generations.Â
But someday I’m going to find somebody and love him and love him and never let him go.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night (via perfect)
Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go. --Mary Oliver In Blackwater Woods
The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are… —- Fernando Pessoa
(via morninglorydlc)
Side one, feels like the only side Because responding, is not the same As an offering And sometimes a flower fades while waiting on friendship to bloom Even under the rain… Dawn L. Canright, “Here"
The essential problem of ongoingness is that one must contemplate time as that very time, that very subject of one’s contemplation, disappears.
[…]
The best thing about time passing is the privilege of running out of it, of watching the wave of mortality break over me and everyone I know. No more time, no more potential. The privilege of ruling things out. Finishing. Knowing I’m finished. And knowing time will go on without me.
Sarah Manguso in Ongoingness
Song: “Little More Time” by Asaf Avidan & The Mojos
BandCamp :: Amazon :: Back to Brain Pickings
The essential problem of ongoingness:
From these seeds, new touchscreens and solar cells may grow. Duke University chemists are working with copper oxide nanoparticles–each in the pic above is less than a micron wide–to grow copper nanowires. The process could one day allow transparent conductive films made of copper nanowires to supplement or replace the more expensive material now used in touchscreens and photovoltaic solar panels.Â
“The fact that Cu [copper] is only 6 percent less conductive than the most conductive element, Ag [silver], and yet is 1,000 times more abundant, makes it a particularly attractive element from which to grow nanowires for a diverse range of applications that require high electrical conductivity,” wrote the authors of study published in the journal Small.
When placed in the right solution, the octahedral cuprous oxide (Cu2O) seeds shown above sprout nanowires within minutes. The Duke team’s work is continuing efforts to control the length of nanowire growth to improve their performance in different applications.
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