Navigation | Category » Fiction & Art
July 18, 2007
Fiction & Art, History & Society, In Other Words
(An indictment of the sedentary class, excerpted from an 1862 essay by Henry David Thoreau in The Atlantic)
I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least—and it is commonly more than that—sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements. You may safely say, A penny for your thoughts, or a thousand pounds. When sometimes I am reminded that the mechanics and shopkeepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them—as if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon—I think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago.
I, who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring some rust, and when sometimes I have stolen forth for a walk at the eleventh hour, or four o’clock in the afternoon, too late to redeem the day, when the shades of night were already beginning to be mingled with the daylight, have felt as if I had committed some sin to be atoned for—I confess that I am astonished at the power of endurance, to say nothing of the moral insensibility, of my neighbors who confine themselves to shops and offices the whole day for weeks and months, aye, and years almost together. I know not what manner of stuff they are of, sitting there now at three o’clock in the afternoon, as if it were three o’clock in the morning. Bonaparte may talk of the three-o’clock- in-the-morning courage, but it is nothing to the courage which can sit down cheerfully at this hour in the afternoon over against one’s self whom you have known all the morning, to starve out a garrison to whom you are bound by such strong ties of sympathy.
Filed by The Editor on July 18th, 2007
May 19, 2006
Fiction & Art
(continued from scene one…)
ON SCREEN:
An empty document window. Letters are spilling forward like the crest of a rolling wave.
Unfocused. Unsatisfied. Underwhelmed.
But it was never as bleak as all that. In fact, it all sounded pretty cool. Building a cottage. Writing a script. Traveling the world. Then back to work. 100 hour weeks. $100,000 contracts. A day at the spa. A night in Vegas. All-nighters spaced between social preoccupations like the worn-out discs of a middle-age spine.
Unable to make meaningful decisions.
He grabs a sweating beer from his desk and downs the whole thing. It’s gonna be a long night.
After a the last sumptuous gulp, his fingers suddely spring to life again with a short bust of inspiration.
“Humanity is distraction.”
The cursor blinks patiently as his mind folds back into a deep and profound thought…
(continued)
Filed by The Editor on May 19th, 2006
April 17, 2006
Fiction & Art
INT. TOWNHOUSE ANTECHAMBER – NIGHT
Forty-something guy in a suit is just getting home from work. It’s already dark, and the house is empty. First things first: a beer from the fridge. Next, a tug at the knot of his tie.
He checks his watch, then reaches back into the fridge and grabs another coldie, two peanut butter oatmeal bars and a jar of fresh Nutella.
INT. TOWNHOUSE LOFT
The room is massive. 12′ ceilings. A wall of shaded glass, leading out to a two-story terrace. The blinds are halfway drawn, and light from the city paints the room in two.
He places his dinner on a long glass desk. The monstrous display in front of him jumps back to life, but he continues over to the window and shuts off a nearby light.
For some reason, he can’t lower the blinds all the way. A glance outside through the 3″ gap reveals nothing out of the ordinary. The streets are empty, and he’s clearly in a nice part of town.
He looks up and sees a small knot tied a few inches above the end of the string. Loosening the knot between his teeth, the blinds glide shut with a single effortless stroke.
Starting back toward the computer, he tosses his blazer on the back of an leather recliner, pulls off his tie completely and unfastens the top button.
Three bites later, the oatmeal bars are gone, and he licks the superfluous Nutella from his manicured fingertips.
Next, a quick hand wash, followed by a few loud tunes on the stereo.
Before he even sits down, the keyboard is already rumbling…
(continued)
Filed by The Editor on April 17th, 2006
January 10, 2006
Fiction & Art, Travel & Life
2005 was a turning point of sorts; more sideways than forward, but welcome in every sense of the word. Writing became a very important priority, and it looks to remain so for quite some time. As I continue to explore the real reason I’m here, in this place, at this time, with ideas that are still begging for a place among the white pages of history, I’ve come to realize something important: thought itself is fleeting without action. In fact, when left alone to brood and fester, thought is the very essence of inertia, like a cold and unmoveable stone, tied to the ankle of every great idea you’ve ever had.
(more…)
Filed by The Editor on January 10th, 2006
November 11, 2005
Fiction & Art, Politics & World Affairs
in afghan fields, the poppies blow
beneath the mountains, row on row
that mark our peace; and in the skies
the army, bravely singing, flies
scarce heard amid their guns below
we are the dead, short days ago
we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow
loved, and were loved, and now we lie
in afghan fields
take up our quarrel with the foe:
to you, from failing hands we throw
the torch, be yours to hold it high
if ye break faith with us who die
we shall not sleep, though poppies grow
in afghan fields
Filed by The Editor on November 11th, 2005
August 5, 2005
Fiction & Art, Science & Technology
Math is truly a beautiful thing. It’s a simple and elegant truth that isn’t distracted by words or feelings, and at the same time, explains virtually everything we see and hear and feel. In some cases, it’s simplicity is downright brilliant, and in other cases, it’s brilliance is surprisingly simple. That’s not to suggest that math doesn’t have its inherent complexities — as well as some extremely unusual by-products — but deep at the heart of it all, there’s always some important underlying truth.
In the case of fractal geometry, that truth is inherently beautiful, both in its underlying mathematical functionality, and in its tremendous visual appeal. Every spiraling swirl you see in these stunning Julia Sets is a marvel of algebraic innovation. Loosely defined, the pictures represent “a set of points…for which nearby points do not exhibit similar behaviour under repeated iterations…” And yet, with all this dissimilar behaviour, the images produced seem anything but random at all. In fact, they seem distinctly organized.
As computers grew to prominence through the end of the last millennium, interested observers have finally been able to gawk at the brilliance of their complex algebra, and at the same time, marvel at the natural beauty it creates. So what exactly are these “fractals” anyway?
(more…)
Filed by The Editor on August 5th, 2005
August 1, 2005
Fiction & Art, Travel & Life
(this is an exerpt from a short story i wrote way back in high school, inspired by the appauling lack of creativity that’s left in the world)
I gaped, my mouth drawn wide by the magnificence of the building, and wondered why I had never been there before. The incessant sheet of rain falling aimlessly to the ground struck my face as I gazed at the gentle rainbow of light streaming in through the panes of stained glass. It was as if the light was being choked by the air outside, and was only allowed to travel freely once it passed through those coloured walls. Impatient as always, I shook off the spell and pushed open the building’s imperial doors, which swung open easily at the simplest touch, almost encouraging me to enter.
As I closed the doors behind me, I felt, if only for a moment, that I didn’t belong in that place. Walking towards the end of the small antechamber, I realized that my shoes were soaking wet, so I dried them off on the mat and proceeded inside. It was strange that I had decided to wipe my feet because I had never developed that habit in my youth. I guess I just didn’t want to dirty the place; it was incredibly beautiful and well kept.
I passed through another set of doors that led me into a large room with seats spread throughout, and as I looked around I wondered where everybody was. I knew that places like this weren’t very popular these days, but oddly, I didn’t feel out of place. There was a kindness that I detected before anyone even entered the room, and it was only enhanced when a man in uniform approached from behind a small door and introduced himself to me.
“Hello there,” he said cheerfully.
“Hello to you to…sir,” I said, unsure of how the man should be addressed.
“That’s not necessary here, friend. Just call me Alex.”
“Fair enough…Alex.”
“So, to what do I owe the honour?”
I could tell this was going to be a long conversation.
(more…)
Filed by The Editor on August 1st, 2005
July 5, 2005
Fiction & Art, Travel & Life
my, how time flies…
may 7, 2005
may 28, 2005
june 7, 2005
june 14, 2005
june 15, 2005
june 15, 2005
june 21, 2005
june 23, 2005
june 29, 2005
august 12, 2005
august 17, 2005
august 31, 2005
Filed by The Editor on July 5th, 2005
June 25, 2005
Fiction & Art, Science & Technology
on tonight’s program, we marvel at the incredible life of the fishfly. that’s right…the fishfly.
fish-fly
A noun
1 fish_fly, fish-fly
similar to but smaller than the dobsonfly; larvae are used as
fishing bait
Category Tree:
entity
╚object; physical_object
╚living_thing; animate_thing
╚organism; being
╚animal; animate_being; beast; brute; creature; fauna
╚invertebrate
╚arthropod
╚insect
╚neuropteron; neuropteran; neuropterous_insect
╚fish_fly
while the internet has yet to embrace this particular woodland creature, if you’ll indulge me for the next few minutes, it would be my absolute pleasure to introduce you all to the reigning king of insect love.
first and perhaps most importantly, this heroic tale begins with a rather crippling disability. you see, the common fishfly is actually born without a mouth, and thus, has no physical way of ingesting any additional energy over the course of its brief but productive life. now given this cruel evolutionary twist of fate, what’s a poor fishfly to do?
in a tribute to modern darwinism, this crafty little insect eventually found a way to use what little life he was given to make the most of his genetic stock. “but how?” you might ask. “the damn thing can’t eat!”
what follows is a sample of the fishfly’s first few thoughts as it finally hatches from its deliciously slimey larvae and realizes the painful irony of its existence:
okay. no mouth. that really sucks.
plan b: gotta make babies. lots and lots of babies.
hmm. this could be fun…
(more…)
Filed by The Editor on June 25th, 2005
June 19, 2005
Fiction & Art, Language & Literature
one word: distraction.
three times a second.
everywhere.
and all of them, in some way, important.
it seems impossible sometimes.
making time to capture your thoughts.
what a simple pleasure that is:
having the freedom to write.
whenever you feel the need
to put down, on paper,
for decades and centuries to come,
the precise constitution of your mind
at a specific point in time,
at some a specific place,
in some specific way.
sometimes it’s a power cord.
sometimes, a cellphone.
sometimes, even an in-law.
whichever leash you’re wearing,
be sure it isn’t strong enough
to hold you back.
because the writer’s struggle isn’t one of words;
it’s one of ideas.
words are his tools; ideas are his chores.
ideas are his hobbies.
ideas,
inevitably,
become his life.
so wherever you lie,
on that great spectrum of creativity,
we all have something in common.
we all want to share our story with the world.
we all want to create.
we all want to survive;
for longer than our bodies.
but never than our minds.
ah, the mind.
the only eternal element.
that patron of the soul.
that elusive inner beast.
that keeper of your real self-image.
that beacon of all that you are.
the mind.
that steward of the heart.
that elusive inner song.
that keeper of your real desires.
that shepherd of all that you need.
the mind.
that sceptre of the body.
that elusive outer shell.
that keeper of your real abilities.
that leader of all that you feel.
deep,
in the vast creative ether of the mind,
lies the writer’s greatest struggle.
lies his one unscaled peak.
lies his gentle inspiration.
in the mind.
that always gets…
so…
…
…
distracted.
Filed by The Editor on June 19th, 2005
June 15, 2005
Fiction & Art
(the following is an exerpt from a script i wrote “way back in the day”, when i was still “working” with the swissies at that big investment bank…)
so…24 years later…it all comes down to this. looking back at a solid foundation of academics, family-life and social identify, everything seems good and right in the world. everything is as it very well should be. the world actually makes sense. and perhaps more importantly, your place in the world makes sense.
and then, one day, it happens. the world begins to shift…right there under your feet, ripping out the foundations it took you a whole lifetime to build. and you stand there…in your adolescence…in your mid-20s…in your middle-age, in your golden years — whenever that shift takes place — and you suddenly realize that you’re naked to the world. naked as the day you were born. naked…but this time, conscious. conscious of the fact that you’re starting over again. conscious of the fact that you might be all alone. conscious of that fact that your very soul is hanging in the balance, at the mercy of your next big decision…at the mercy of your very next step.
so you stand there. at the crossroads. petrified. unable to move. unable to think. unable to breathe. unable to take that next small step, that next big chance, that next great leap of secular faith.
and then, one day……you jump…
Filed by The Editor on June 15th, 2005
June 2, 2005
Fiction & Art, Language & Literature
One day, many years after the rise of modern man, life suddenly decided that it wanted “love” to be written down, once and for all. “But,” said life, “a writer needs great inspiration to create something so beautiful; and inspiration equally needs a writer’s gentle touch to bring its own subtle poetry into being.”
So life conspired to bring both of these elements into the world, in the hopes that they might someday meet, and together, explore the true meaning of the word “love” for one final time.
Whether and when they would meet was in no way certain. In fact, it was distinctly uncertain. But life wanted “love” to inspire, and “love” only inspires when it’s shared.
So one day, the two lovers met. They didn’t know it at the time, but their love was actually a gift; as though the world conspired to bring them together, if only to share that love with the world.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget that it takes more than one person to accomplish our dreams, to achieve our full potential, to pass on our good fortune and to discover our true destiny. But love always reminds us that doing things alone is never as satisfying as doing them with someone else; someone who shares our deepest and innermost desires and our highest personal dreams; someone who understands the power and beauty of trust; someone whose purpose in life is somehow tied to your own; and someone whose purpose in love is somehow tied to your heart.
And when the two lovers finally met — when the writer was finally inspired and that inspiration was finally written down — only then was life content. Only then was “love” first understood. Only then was the world at peace.
Filed by The Editor on June 2nd, 2005
May 25, 2005
Fiction & Art, History & Society
the same snow falls on everything.
it falls on the wealthy
it falls on the weak
it falls on the silent and begs them to speak
to speak…
about snow, and then nothing more
not money or power or wisdom or war
because, in the end
the same snow falls on everything.
Filed by The Editor on May 25th, 2005
