This shirt is alright; however the main appeal of this picture is, of course, its model, who has a wonderful and inviting neck.
12.28.2008
Artist: Jean Jullien
This guy is fun. Simple, clever art.
This shirt is alright; however the main appeal of this picture is, of course, its model, who has a wonderful and inviting neck.
This shirt is alright; however the main appeal of this picture is, of course, its model, who has a wonderful and inviting neck.
12.24.2008
Presents.
I bought some neat wrapping paper and wanted to post pictures of myself with the gifts I intend to give. I actually like that the pictures are inverted.
Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas.
12.17.2008
Ocular Adventures: Part II
This evening I sat in a Starbucks, fully clothed. A young woman walked in. She, too, was fully clothed. That she was a young woman was information delivered me with the help of my long-outdated contact lenses. Thanks to the same contact lenses, however, all other details were left to imagination. My imagination happens to be one of optimism, joy, and light, and so I assumed her to be a beautiful young woman. I was not compelled to verify this assumption.
Thus did our young, putatively beautiful, woman, earn the descriptor "beautiful" from whatever decision-maker calls the shots from within my consciousness. Furthermore, all she had to do to maintain this flattering moniker is to stay beyond a given radius from my eyeballs. Simple enough.
I glance up at her out of curiosity. She looks at me. I wonder if she knows that she sits fixed in an entirely safe, judgment-free orbit of my criticism. Everything outside five feet of my ken, herself included, constitutes an aesthetic Exosphere: the presumably delightful penumbra of the Unknown and the Unknowable. Her beauty, perhaps like that of Venus, is augmented and calcified by its unsearchable aloofness.
Yet.
Yet Yet Yet.
This stranger's purported beauty carries with it a disquiet. Experience has taught me to count such beauty as fleeting--meretricious.
Most women (on a -10 to +10 scale, where -1 counts as being slightly less pleasing to look at than whatever object happens to be at hand (a chair, say), +1 counts as being slightly more pleasing to look at than a chair, and 0 constitutes a toss-up between the object esteemed and any typical article of upholstery handy) are, after all, 1s or 2s, at best. Thus, though the bleary figure presently enjoys the benefits of beauty so-called, these benefits are offered loosely. Statistics color all such beauties dubious. Knowing, odds are, that should this specter of beauty waft into the yard's circumference of clarity afforded my peepers, she in all probability will do little more by way of garnering artistic acclaim than to recommend my gaze to nearby chairs, leads me to hold my breath with each appraisal ventured.
These thoughts are all the more relevant since recently my mother has offered to take me to the optometrist's.
The strange mode of critique in which guesswork, fantasy, probability, hope, and reality are each given equal representation, upon which now I thrive, will soon be an obsolete arena of expertise. My fluency in navigating the complicated interplay between world-as-nebulous-blob and world-as-ideal-projection will soon resign to the post of phantom parlor trick. Soon, I trade the impressionist-painting version of the world for the crisp-digital-photograph version.
Things will present themselves as they are. I'll remember that trees are made of up individual little leaves--Cool. And on the whole I'll have a little less to daydream in my frivolous and wordy way about.
Thus did our young, putatively beautiful, woman, earn the descriptor "beautiful" from whatever decision-maker calls the shots from within my consciousness. Furthermore, all she had to do to maintain this flattering moniker is to stay beyond a given radius from my eyeballs. Simple enough.
I glance up at her out of curiosity. She looks at me. I wonder if she knows that she sits fixed in an entirely safe, judgment-free orbit of my criticism. Everything outside five feet of my ken, herself included, constitutes an aesthetic Exosphere: the presumably delightful penumbra of the Unknown and the Unknowable. Her beauty, perhaps like that of Venus, is augmented and calcified by its unsearchable aloofness.
Yet.
Yet Yet Yet.
This stranger's purported beauty carries with it a disquiet. Experience has taught me to count such beauty as fleeting--meretricious.
Most women (on a -10 to +10 scale, where -1 counts as being slightly less pleasing to look at than whatever object happens to be at hand (a chair, say), +1 counts as being slightly more pleasing to look at than a chair, and 0 constitutes a toss-up between the object esteemed and any typical article of upholstery handy) are, after all, 1s or 2s, at best. Thus, though the bleary figure presently enjoys the benefits of beauty so-called, these benefits are offered loosely. Statistics color all such beauties dubious. Knowing, odds are, that should this specter of beauty waft into the yard's circumference of clarity afforded my peepers, she in all probability will do little more by way of garnering artistic acclaim than to recommend my gaze to nearby chairs, leads me to hold my breath with each appraisal ventured.
These thoughts are all the more relevant since recently my mother has offered to take me to the optometrist's.
The strange mode of critique in which guesswork, fantasy, probability, hope, and reality are each given equal representation, upon which now I thrive, will soon be an obsolete arena of expertise. My fluency in navigating the complicated interplay between world-as-nebulous-blob and world-as-ideal-projection will soon resign to the post of phantom parlor trick. Soon, I trade the impressionist-painting version of the world for the crisp-digital-photograph version.
Things will present themselves as they are. I'll remember that trees are made of up individual little leaves--Cool. And on the whole I'll have a little less to daydream in my frivolous and wordy way about.
Someone Up There Insists on Children's Books Being Adapted Into Hipster Movies.
In October 2009 you will get to see Where the Wild Things Are: THE MOVIE.
Reasons why I'm unreservedly looking forward to this movie (but nevertheless not peeing my pants):
1. Directed by Spike Jonze (Adaptation).
2. Screenplay written in part by Dave Eggers (McSweeney's, You Shall Know Our Velocity).
3. I wasn't a kid fanatic of the books, though I liked them. This means that they're not ruining any tender childhood attachment I have to the original. (Unlike the Nickelodeon-made Harriet the Spy, which was like a spiritual death for me.) Do what you like, boys!
4. This picture:
This makes me think about the long-time coming Fantastic Mr. Fox (November, 2009).
This movie will be a stop-motion movie adaptation of Roald Dahl's classic children's book by Wes Anderson. Which is enough for me to unreservedly pee my pants.
Reasons why I'm unreservedly looking forward to this movie (but nevertheless not peeing my pants):
1. Directed by Spike Jonze (Adaptation).
2. Screenplay written in part by Dave Eggers (McSweeney's, You Shall Know Our Velocity).
3. I wasn't a kid fanatic of the books, though I liked them. This means that they're not ruining any tender childhood attachment I have to the original. (Unlike the Nickelodeon-made Harriet the Spy, which was like a spiritual death for me.) Do what you like, boys!
4. This picture:
This makes me think about the long-time coming Fantastic Mr. Fox (November, 2009).
This movie will be a stop-motion movie adaptation of Roald Dahl's classic children's book by Wes Anderson. Which is enough for me to unreservedly pee my pants.
THANK YOU, COMMA!
In a previous post of mine, I wrote the following sentence:
"I returned to my computer, and, to my shock, I could see the little black letters from a full foot away."
Notice, that without commas this sentence becomes:
"I returned to my computer and to my shock I could see the little black letters from a full foot away."
Notice, that this would seem to indicate that I returned to my computer and returned to my shock, as if my shock were lounging next to the computer, waiting patiently, flicking a cigarette. My shock was not so engaged.
Also, the absence of commas, with the help of the aforementioned erroneous interpretation, turns the sentence into a gory, mangled fragment that seems to fall all over itself.
Commas. Helpful little tikes.
"I returned to my computer, and, to my shock, I could see the little black letters from a full foot away."
Notice, that without commas this sentence becomes:
"I returned to my computer and to my shock I could see the little black letters from a full foot away."
Notice, that this would seem to indicate that I returned to my computer and returned to my shock, as if my shock were lounging next to the computer, waiting patiently, flicking a cigarette. My shock was not so engaged.
Also, the absence of commas, with the help of the aforementioned erroneous interpretation, turns the sentence into a gory, mangled fragment that seems to fall all over itself.
Commas. Helpful little tikes.
Someone Up There Stands to Profit by My Demise.
What is it about Wes Anderson-directed commercials that refuse to stay on the internet? Note that in a previous post of mine, how the great little Wes Anderson commercial for some japanese cell phone (presumably; only the japanese really know what it was for) which included Brad Pitt in a pith helmet-like hat and yellow fleece, and France Gall's great song, poupee de cire, poupee de son, has been removed from youtube. This is just like that time when those terrific Wes Anderson-directed AT&T commercials disappeared in the middle of my posting them to my blog.
Well, I found this one someplace else on the big bad internet, and so am going to do you the favor of posting it again:
Who knows how long it will last.
Well, I found this one someplace else on the big bad internet, and so am going to do you the favor of posting it again:
Who knows how long it will last.
Ocular Adventures: Part I
This morning, immediately upon waking, addict that I am, I lurched over to my laptop where it lay ready and willing, adjacent to my bed (i.e., the couch), my arms wagging about in an awkward, insensate way, much like the arms of Frankenstein's monster might wag were he to reel angrily from blinding light. I pulled the laptop towards me, coddled it and fiddled with it in the appropriate confidential ways one must if one at all desires to persuade the thing to turn on.
And then I scoured the internet.
Tale as old as Time; Song as old as Rhyme.
But this morning something was different. I was missing something.
My glasses were gone. MIA. I was flying blind.
The absence of my glasses meant that I spent a good thirty minutes of my morning sprawled across the living room couch, as good as naked to any passersby uninterested in details, with my laptop's screen less than 2 inches from my face. Parents and siblings were busily preparing for an otherwise respectable and productive day in the world while Oh-That's-Jon-Please-Don't-Mind-Him flailed and moaned with pagan delight and pagan garb, squinting at unnecessary, diverting youtube videos.
From the middle of this ritual, I called out, as if to God or to a nameless servant, for my glasses. After an unpleasant wait of less than a minute, the glasses were tardily yet forcibly thrown at me from the blurry Beyond.
"Thank you, blurry Beyond."
Having put the glasses on, I sat back and gaped about me. I looked up at Jeff, my brother, who lives in ignorance of the fact that he lives but to fetch me my personal effects. He stood with an inexplicably testy look, as if waiting for something to render thanks. I looked to mother, who made some consoling remark touching on the hardships of her near-sighted progeny, which appeased my wrath and stayed my hand against my brother, whom I had thought to slay in equal parts cold blood and glee for standing there with that look on his face.
I returned to my computer, and, to my shock, I could see the little black letters from a full foot away. From farther, even.
I said aloud:
"I feel like a superhero. Superpower: vision. Superhero name: Jonathan Charles Wright."
Never had the gift of my technologically enhanced eyesight made itself felt more deeply. My life-degenerating habit was so much easier to engage in now with the ability to see words from this distance! What luck to live in this century! Hoorah!
And then I scoured the internet.
Tale as old as Time; Song as old as Rhyme.
But this morning something was different. I was missing something.
My glasses were gone. MIA. I was flying blind.
The absence of my glasses meant that I spent a good thirty minutes of my morning sprawled across the living room couch, as good as naked to any passersby uninterested in details, with my laptop's screen less than 2 inches from my face. Parents and siblings were busily preparing for an otherwise respectable and productive day in the world while Oh-That's-Jon-Please-Don't-Mind-Him flailed and moaned with pagan delight and pagan garb, squinting at unnecessary, diverting youtube videos.
From the middle of this ritual, I called out, as if to God or to a nameless servant, for my glasses. After an unpleasant wait of less than a minute, the glasses were tardily yet forcibly thrown at me from the blurry Beyond.
"Thank you, blurry Beyond."
Having put the glasses on, I sat back and gaped about me. I looked up at Jeff, my brother, who lives in ignorance of the fact that he lives but to fetch me my personal effects. He stood with an inexplicably testy look, as if waiting for something to render thanks. I looked to mother, who made some consoling remark touching on the hardships of her near-sighted progeny, which appeased my wrath and stayed my hand against my brother, whom I had thought to slay in equal parts cold blood and glee for standing there with that look on his face.
I returned to my computer, and, to my shock, I could see the little black letters from a full foot away. From farther, even.
I said aloud:
"I feel like a superhero. Superpower: vision. Superhero name: Jonathan Charles Wright."
Never had the gift of my technologically enhanced eyesight made itself felt more deeply. My life-degenerating habit was so much easier to engage in now with the ability to see words from this distance! What luck to live in this century! Hoorah!
12.13.2008
12.05.2008
Back to B&S.
For a long time I liked Belle & Sebastian.
Then for a long time I disliked Belle & Sebastian.
And today, I HAVE COME HOME.
but I still hate "The Life Pursuit".
Confession:
When I lazily scan old blog posts of mine the likes of which will probably never be read by others again, I edit them rigorously for grammar and clarity.
12.04.2008
Artist: Jorge Macchi
When I went to UTAustin to present at the SSP philosophy conference last winter, I stopped in the art gallery they have on campus, which was impressive in its own right. The main exhibit at the time was by Jorge Macchi. I remember chuckling to myself over several pieces. A strange thing happened though. I was taking my time, strolling, giggling, talking to myself out loud, (I might have jumped up and down once, actually), trying to appropriately enjoy what I could about the art.
In doing so, I attracted somebody's attention. A museum attendant (or whatever they're called) approached me and expressed appreciation for the way by which I looked at art. She (yes, 'she') said that most people don't spend enough time to really appreciate the exhibit. She was glad, impressed even, that I seemed so to be such an intentional viewer. So, in a way, she was appreciating my appreciation, which, of course, is the sort of thing that I, of all people, can appreciate.
We talked for a while about the art, about Capital-"A" Art, about Other Stuff, and about what to name our children. But I was a little put off. Quickly disillusioned. See: she thought that Macchi's art was Deep in some way that I didn't. I felt that she was reifying some weird aura of interest or beauty or meaning that I simply find spooky and implausible. She coached me in how to look at a few of the pieces (looking back I think it would have been more fun if she were coaching me in a direct and up-close way about how to hold a golf club or pool cue), what questions to ask, etc., and it was fun. It was enlightening, even. But I just intuited that she was trying to share some onus with me, that she was trying to get me to realize how necessary it was to "get" what was there. I, contrariwise, wanted to "enjoy" what was there. And maybe to think in a few new and different ways by enjoying it.
Alas, it wasn't meant to be. Oh well.
We'll always have Macchi.
(The second picture is called "Nocturno" and comprises a bunch of nails nailed into music sheets where the notes to a nocturne should be. The third picture is called "Hotel" and comprises a lamp surrounded by a wallpaper design that gradually fades and vanishes as it gets farther from the lamp. The first picture is called "Blue Planet" and is self-explanatory.)
All-or-nothing blogger.
When L&L made their pilgrimage down here to CA, where they intended to officially render thanks to the Deity in the company of their tribe, Lindsey commented to me in passing that I have a tendency to go for weeks without posting on my blog, after which I will spend an equal number of weeks reeling out of control on a veritable blog-posting binge. Drought or Monsoon--never pleasant drizzle. Never moderation. I remember smiling by way of assent, as I do, with my mouth slightly open, and, rather than registering her comment as complaint, instead mentally logging it away as an oblique compliment and subtle attribution of otherworldly idiosyncrasy and charm.
I actually try to respond this way whenever someone presents me with a descriptive statement about myself--regardless of social, vocal, and contextual evidence to the contrary, I interpret the statement as tacitly harboring implicature to the effect that, simply, I am a dazing anomaly that both demands inspection by my novelty yet refuses inspection by my imperscrutability. I reply "thank you" with the deigning cordiality of one recently wondered at. My eyes squint, simper, and glare in attempt to live up to their high calling as two diverting, blue-green enigmas.
Similarly, whenever any assumption about my behavior, great or small, is presented to me in conversation, great or small, I do my best to accept it without thought of question. It takes but thin rhetoric to convert me to any posture about my own person. These assumptions can be factual or theoretical in nature, and often do contradict. If one insists that I have a photographic memory, I blushingly admit it is the case; if another argues that I intermittently go with and without sleep at 25-hour intervals, I add "and without the comfort of lavender"; if one accuses me of being deep down in the dark and quiet alcoves of my black and festering heart a scoundrel and a cad, I smirk knowingly and try not to lick my chops; if another informs me that I am an emotionless, egotistical megalomaniac, my scoffing laugh agrees. When labeled a saint, I gently beckon to the children that they may be healed.
But Lindsey is really, truly right. I do not here agree by simple force of habit. It is true. I am an all-or-nothing blogger.
I actually try to respond this way whenever someone presents me with a descriptive statement about myself--regardless of social, vocal, and contextual evidence to the contrary, I interpret the statement as tacitly harboring implicature to the effect that, simply, I am a dazing anomaly that both demands inspection by my novelty yet refuses inspection by my imperscrutability. I reply "thank you" with the deigning cordiality of one recently wondered at. My eyes squint, simper, and glare in attempt to live up to their high calling as two diverting, blue-green enigmas.
Similarly, whenever any assumption about my behavior, great or small, is presented to me in conversation, great or small, I do my best to accept it without thought of question. It takes but thin rhetoric to convert me to any posture about my own person. These assumptions can be factual or theoretical in nature, and often do contradict. If one insists that I have a photographic memory, I blushingly admit it is the case; if another argues that I intermittently go with and without sleep at 25-hour intervals, I add "and without the comfort of lavender"; if one accuses me of being deep down in the dark and quiet alcoves of my black and festering heart a scoundrel and a cad, I smirk knowingly and try not to lick my chops; if another informs me that I am an emotionless, egotistical megalomaniac, my scoffing laugh agrees. When labeled a saint, I gently beckon to the children that they may be healed.
But Lindsey is really, truly right. I do not here agree by simple force of habit. It is true. I am an all-or-nothing blogger.
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