Funky Forest
Doug Jones
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@theuncannycollection-blog
Funky Forest
The delicious
You can hear I’ve begun intoning word-like fragments to the melody to get a sense of what it wants. Nonsense for the time being. Place holders. I took a long walk today and started honing in on the first five syllables. There are a lot of possibilities with this pattern. I kept coming back to “a capital crime.” I don’t think this is it but it fits. It might take me a year to get something. What I need is a particle of something true. Something with barbs on it so it can snag other ideas flowing down stream, and they gather until they dam up the river and there’s your song.
Andrew Bird
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/05/31/untamed-melody/?_r=0
Xul Solar
I don't remember who the artist of these series that I really liked was so if anyone knows, let me know!
Babies and hiccups
What if you never had to worry about food again? Free yourself from the time and money you spend on food today, get healthy, and reduce your environmental impact!
Every time I look at my face in a magnified mirror in a hotel bathroom, I jump back in surprise. Seen closely, my skin looks like the surface of a strange planet. Ridges and canyons pock my chin and lips. Forests of tiny hairs grow from my ear lobes. Unnoticed pimples rise from my nose like volcanoes. A sheen of oil coats the landscape. I half expect to see alien creatures living in minute settlements in my dimples or roving the great plains of my cheeks — and could I look at higher magnification, I would see exactly that.
Brian Jay Stanley's "I Am Not This Body"
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/05/06/i-am-not-this-body/
How to eat chicken wings
Hugo Barros' Architectural Collages
We live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom: our body.
Marcel Proust
"Why do they congregate in groups of four
Scatter like a billion spores
And let the wind just carry them away?"
Andrew Bird's Imitosis
A picnic. Picture a forest, a country road, a meadow. Cars drive off the country road into the meadow, a group of young people get out carrying bottles, baskets of food, transistor radios, and cameras. They light fires, pitch tents, turn on the music. In the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that watched in horror through the long night creep out from their hiding places. And what do they see? Old spark plugs and old filters strewn around... Rags, burnt-out bulbs, and a monkey wrench left behind... And of course, the usual mess—apple cores, candy wrappers, charred remains of the campfire, cans, bottles, somebody’s handkerchief, somebody’s penknife, torn newspapers, coins, faded flowers picked in another meadow.
Arkady and Boris Strugatsky's Roadside Picnic
Alejandro Jodorowsky's The Holy Mountain