Basically, this is my digital junk drawer, into which I throw the best and worst bits of my work and also the world.
Install Theme
new-aesthetic:

“The “love” necklace displays an entire year of tweets by a person. The lengths of the beads indicate the number of tweets in a month. The shorter lengths indicate how often she used the word “love” that month. I can do the same for any word. Along the sides of every other bead you’ll see a single laser-etched tweet for that period. They’re visible if you hold up the beads to the light, and are partially public, partially private. I like to think of them as little reminders, memories, almost like a 21st Century locket.”
The Data Necklace | Indiegogo

new-aesthetic:

“The “love” necklace displays an entire year of tweets by a person. The lengths of the beads indicate the number of tweets in a month. The shorter lengths indicate how often she used the word “love” that month. I can do the same for any word. Along the sides of every other bead you’ll see a single laser-etched tweet for that period. They’re visible if you hold up the beads to the light, and are partially public, partially private. I like to think of them as little reminders, memories, almost like a 21st Century locket.”

The Data Necklace | Indiegogo

millionsmillions:

#LitBeat: The Common in the City

by Tiffany Gibert

Let’s be honest: if The Dog House Band, the most well-known literary musical ensemble, is headlining an event, many of the guests will attend just to watch critic James Wood rock out on the drums. Luckily, the band plays quite worthwhile events, such as last Wednesday night’s benefit for The Common, a non-profit print and online magazine, which aspires to publish writing and art that “embody particular times and places both real and imagined; from deserts to teeming ports; from Winnipeg to Beijing; from Earth to the Moon.”

With only three issues in its lifespan, The Common is still young, but the editorial board boasts names like Mary Jo Salter, Claire Messud, Richard Wilbur, Jim Shepard, and Wood himself. When it comes to literature, they’re a trustworthy bunch, and the small event space in Manhattan filled with guests happy to spend $50 to support the magazine—a small sum for the opportunity to snack on imported cheeses and roasted fiddlehead ferns and to share a signature cocktail with Dog House Band guitarist (and writer) Sven Birkerts.

In addition to selecting a fine caterer, the benefit committee also gathered a number of covetable items for the evening’s silent auction, including a Maine vacation package and a first edition of Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, inscribed to “a supporter of The Common.” I can only hope that one benevolent guest won both items, will spend a week this summer reading O’Brien by a lake in Maine, and, generosity being circular, will then write about that place and moment for the magazine.

After allowing for mingling and ogling the guest wearing the infamous book dress from Zero + Maria Cornejo, Jennifer Acker, The Common’s editor, took the microphone to describe, with great sincerity, the magazine’s purpose: “We have more tools than ever to experience the world,” she said, “but we experience and notice it a little bit less.” Acker hopes the magazine will encourage readers to begin, again, finding the extraordinary in common life. Writer Stephen O’Connor followed Acker with his story from Issue 03, “Double Life”—a surprising vignette that conjures a summer spent in “a big gray house on Fire Island.” Even award-winning novelist Zadie Smith—whose brief appearance caused a ripple of elation through my circle of friends—appeared rapt by O’Connor’s words.

The Dog House Band played on, and, before long, even the most reticent guests began to sway. Skirts swung and spun, wine warmed us, we twirled around the room, and I believe that The Common succeeded in its mission. Not only to raise money to support the magazine’s continuation but to make us more aware and more present in every moment. I left the revel with a snapshot of the evening in my head: blue and red paper garlands, O’Connor’s voluminous white hair, a guitar riff, and the faces of my fellow guests, thrilled to just be there.

compendium-of-beasts:

[Five animal form compositions : snail, iguanas, giraffes, zebras, frogs.] ([c1928]) 
via NYPL

compendium-of-beasts:

[Five animal form compositions : snail, iguanas, giraffes, zebras, frogs.] ([c1928])

via NYPL

Oh man, look at this hilarious sentence:
tmagazine:

T Magazine talks to Ryan McGinley about his shift in focus from youthful nudity to exotic animals.

Oh man, look at this hilarious sentence:

tmagazine:

T Magazine talks to Ryan McGinley about his shift in focus from youthful nudity to exotic animals.

It is one of the defects of my character that I cannot altogether dislike anyone who makes me laugh.

W. Somerset Maugham, The Moon and Sixpence (via millionsmillions)

Still losing my shit over this book, even though, or perhaps (if I’m honest with myself) especially because, it’s so much a book about how women are one way and men another, but in a subtly drawn and totally unstable way.

No matter how much we learn, the vision science offers — of ourselves and of the universe — will always be incomplete and consequently imperfect. Stories of gods, angels and rainbow horses will persist in the gaps.

Maud Newton, “My Son Went to Heaven and All I Got Was a No. 1 Bestseller” (via millionsmillions)

Call this another reason to heart Newton. Not that I needed another one.

(via millionsmillions)

thenewinquiry:

The Pulitzer-winningStenographerAsks the Poet LaureateFor a dance.
The Composer of the Year’sEars are talked offBy the Most ValuablePlayer while,
In a darker corner,The First Violinist’s breastsAre pressedBy the Professor Emeritus.
The words “Stockholm”And “Wimbledon”Ribbon throughThe midsummer night’s air.
Lannanites, MacArthurians,Struggle in vainTo explainHow they did it.
An ancient pairOf Nobel Prize winnersSuffocateIn each other’s perfume
And in a tiny chairbehind the bandstand,Last year’s Booker finalist,Looks ever so lost,
A silk tie in his hand.
“To The Victor,” an unpublished poem by Teju Cole on awards and not awards.
Read More.

thenewinquiry:

The Pulitzer-winning
Stenographer
Asks the Poet Laureate
For a dance.

The Composer of the Year’s
Ears are talked off
By the Most Valuable
Player while,

In a darker corner,
The First Violinist’s breasts
Are pressed
By the Professor Emeritus.

The words “Stockholm”
And “Wimbledon”
Ribbon through
The midsummer night’s air.

Lannanites, MacArthurians,
Struggle in vain
To explain
How they did it.

An ancient pair
Of Nobel Prize winners
Suffocate
In each other’s perfume

And in a tiny chair
behind the bandstand,
Last year’s Booker finalist,
Looks ever so lost,

A silk tie in his hand.

“To The Victor,” an unpublished poem by Teju Cole on awards and not awards.

Read More.

prettycolors:

#fffcf4

prettycolors:

#fffcf4

Oh gosh, GIFS are just gifts without tees.

Also, the combination of these two memes has effected a sort of sublime transfiguration of each component, don’t you think?

lanadelreydancing:

(Source: operattack)

(Source: nevver, via akratic)

librarising:

self-knowledge
the reader

librarising:

self-knowledge

the reader

(Source: gothsuptrees)