prosicated: (alice: stressed busy frantic)
A sad and woeful tale )

So, my Mac-friendly friends, which one of these data recovery companies have you been happiest with, OnTrack or Drive Savers? Any recommendations? (Other than, you know, not being a dolt & backing up my files more than once a year?)

rant, rant, rant )
prosicated: (sunny)
-e.e. cummings

a wind has blown the rain away and blown
the sky away and all the leaves away,
and the trees stand. I think i too have known
autumn too long

                          (and what have you to say,
wind wind wind—did you love somebody
and have you the petal of somewhere in your heart
pinched from dumb summer?

                                              O crazy daddy
of death dance cruelly for us and start

the last leaf whirling in the final brain
of air!) Let us as we have seen see
doom's integration . . . . . . . . . a wind has blown the rain

away and the leaves and the sky and the
trees stand:
                   the trees stand. The trees, 
suddenly wait against the moon's face.
prosicated: (Default)
Wooser Collective: Banksy Hits New York's Most Famous Museums
Wooster Collective: Outtakes from the NYTimes Article
Cool Hunting: Banksy hits NYC
Banksy: Current Exhibitions
NYTimes: Need Talent to Exhibit in Museums? Not This Prankster

Banksy installed art in:
The Met's American Painting Wing: "You Have Beautiful Eyes"
MoMA's 3rd Floor: "Discount Soup Can"
Brooklyn Museum of Art's Historical Painting Wing: "Give Peace a Chance"
Museum of Natural History's Hall of Bio Diversity: "Withus Oragainstus"

Banksy, a fictional character and public artist, dressed as a harmless old gent, carried his art and signage into 4 major New York City museums, and hung his works on the wall. This work was documented by a collaborator with a camera, and it appears that he encountered no trouble. As of yesterday afternoon, only the pieces at the Met and MoMA had been removed, though I expect the other ones will be down quickly as news of this spreads.

(Wooster Collective has an RSS feed on LJ, for those of you who are interested, at [ profile] woosterfeed, and Cool Hunting is also a feed, at [ profile] joshrubin_feed.)
prosicated: (raar)
If one more person says they're fleeing the country I may spontaneously combust.
What escapist bullshit! )

P.S. I know this ain't over till the fat Supreme Court sings, but that's not the point. The point is that this election isn't IT.
P.P.S. I'm not suggesting that no one ever move out of their native countries, I'm not suggesting that there's never been a reason for citizens to leave their native countries, and I'm not suggesting that someone unwilling should be made to fight whatever stagnant administration we get next.
I AM suggesting that we could all be doing more, all the time.
prosicated: (Default)
Best links culled off the flist today.

Weapons of Mass... Seduction
Dirty Punk Fuckin Anarchy Machine
prosicated: (Default)
Humans with heads the size of grapefruits.
Living with giant rodents and pygmy elephants.
How ridiculously surreal and Lilliputian does it get?
(Also, how geektastic is that?? Heartening for my post- post-modern graduate studies -- anthropology is still getting done out there!)
prosicated: (stricken)
As of Tuesday evening, Ry and I live in Cambridge, MA.
As of yesterday evening, Ry's felt like he's home: we have a net connection.
As of this morning, I feel like I'm home: I made my first cup of tea.

("Home" in no way precludes the intense feelings of being misplaced, missing badgerhaus denizens, or Philadelphia.)

More to follow, when the computer isn't one of Ry's, balanced precariously on a bookshelf amidst a pile of empty boxes, cables, wires, extension cords, and blinking lights on a myriad of modems, routers, phones, etc.
prosicated: (Default)
I'm writing this entry for a number of strong supportive people out there, on my friends list or elsewhere, who need to hear this story, even if they’ve heard it before.

I've written this story one hundred times, cloaked in metaphor, bound in obscurity, locked in code or privacy, but I've told it far fewer times in my native language of plain English; this is neither the first or last telling. I'm not writing for sympathy or support anymore, I'm writing for courage, in public. After you've read this story, you're welcome to comment and tell me anything you want or need, but don't treat me like anything less than the whole and brave woman that I am. You may not agree with my role and choices in the event I am about to discuss, and I respect that, even having lived through it. I wouldn't wish this particular nightmare on anyone, but I lived through it and came out better for the decision. I would not want that option taken away from anyone, no matter their race, age, creed, or location.

The story I am about to tell is the one that got me to where I am today. Had I done anything differently, I would never be here, about to accept an offer to a PhD program nowhere near my friends and family. I would never have graduated from [my alma mater], or lived in Philadelphia. I never would have met [my partner]. The choices I've made, no matter how vile they seem to someone removed, are the choices that shaped me, and I am proud of myself.

Alright, that's enough, I'll begin writing.December 1, 1997 )

I wrote this entry after reading the public and moving accounts of both [ profile] lilith23 and [ profile] abbacat. As abbacat said, here's my face to add to the statistics of women who've had abortions. I am glad I did it, and I am stronger for having shared it. There's no shame in my memory, guilt perhaps, but no shame and no dirty secrets.I owe an immense debt of gratitude to those who've listened to this story, in the past, now, or in the future.

Thank you.
prosicated: (oh my!)
Aftenposten reports a sword-wielding, knife-bearing foreigner dressed like a ninja stole cash from a gas station and made his getaway on a bicycle.

Now there's performance anthropology.
prosicated: (away)
I think I have never been so exalted
As I am now by you,
O frost bitten blossoms,
That are unfolding your wings
From out the envious black branches.

Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine
The twigs conspire against you
Hear them!
They hold you from behind

You shall not take wing
Except wing by wing, brokenly
And yet --
Even they
Shall not endure for ever.
prosicated: (pick yer lips)
Instructions for Everything
25 wonderful bullet points, like this:
12. In the rare event that a mature adult of the human species confronts you, stretch your arms above your head to make yourself as tall as possible. Shout strong commands with a strong, commanding shout. If you are assaulted, fall down and play dead. Do not play dead for more than seventy-two hours, or you will die.
Instructions to Everything )
prosicated: (hide)
I'm sorry, my brain is fried and I'm getting such a kick out of reading other people's anonymous post memes that I need to do it too.

Please respond to this entry anonymously. There is no theme or reason, I am just curious to hear from any and all of you who read this. I would love it if all of you would respond.
Post anything. Post a story, a secret, a confession, a question. Post your fears, loves, lusts or hates. Post the lyrics to a song or the words to a poem. Post whatever you like.
Whatever you reply with, be sure to do so anonymously and honestly. Post as often as you like and check back to see any responses.

I have turned off IP logging. When (and if) I turn it back on, I will update this post to protect anyone who comes to the game late. All comments should be anonymous, I will screen all posts with user names as soon as I see them (and possible repost them as anonymous).

Thanks for playing,kids!
prosicated: (consternation)
** **
Stop falling, you rain.
Stripey blue socks with no shoes
and you don't mix well.
Goat cheese for each meal,
with apples and stale baguette,
make a happy Meg.

This job is a game,
Pretend to be smarter, yes,
but be a monkey.
My trolley lurches,
small girl sings nonsense to me,
birthday balloon bobs.
He's a carpenter,
not a help desk guy, he says.
Don't tell his day job.
Grad school apps loom big
but there are movies to watch
and boyfriend to hug.
Not NaNoWriMo,
These words will decide my life.
No wonder they freeze.
Reading Naked Ape
Like watching football, I curse
the stupid ideas.
When brunch takes all day,
and migraine pills clench my teeth,
my Sunday is gone.
I can't remember
When last I called my parents.
No guilt, just a void.
Coworkers tease me:
Am I from New York because
I wear only black?
Left S.F. days back.
Didn't leave my heart, but I
left my best friend there.
Counting syllables
Makes me forget what I say,
I'm more free this way.
Form follows function?
Not in a haiku, my friend,
form counts out my words.
Doot doo doo de doo
Tra la la la tra la la
I've no sense of time,
I may cave and buy a watch.
I am yuppie scum.
When was the last time
I read a damned newspaper?
I almost miss news.
I'm so sorry I
haven't been in touch with you.
Which you? All of you.
prosicated: (Default)
When I die I promise to haunt
all my surviving enemies,
may they be few if any at that point,
because I hope to outlive them all.
But if any of them are left
I'll keep them awake at night with weird noises.
I'll whisper words in their ears while they sleep
to encourage feelings of low self-esteem when they awake.

Actually, I'll never let them sleep.
I'll kick them out of bed
just as they're falling
into deep slumber.

Or maybe I'll just let them be.
Enemies are such a responsibility,
and eat up so much time.

Perhaps I'll just travel,
which I didn't really enjoy
much while alive. I'll travel,
eat fish, listen to rap music
and bluegrass, read a lot
of trade association magazines,
have numerous root canals,
and settle down somewhere in Ohio.
prosicated: (Default)
You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
inages in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected
turns in the path.
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods --
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at.
longing. An open window
in a country house --, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon, --
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?
perhaps the same bird wchoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...
prosicated: (away)
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the cold ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind;
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew;
A formula, a phrase remains, -- but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love --
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave,
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
prosicated: (Default)
Under Grand Central's tattered vault
--maybe half a dozen electric stars still lit--
one saxophone blew, and a sheer black scrim

billowed over some minor constellation
under repair. Then, on Broadway, red wings
in a storefront tableau, lustrous, the live macaws

preening, beaks opening and closing
like those animated knives that unfold all night
in jewelers' windows. For sale,

glass eyes turned outward toward the rain,
the birds lined up like the endless flowers
and cheap gems, the makeshift tables

of secondhand magazines
and shoes the hawkers eye
while they shelter in the doorways of banks.

So many pockets and paper cups
and hands reeled over the weight
of that glittered pavement, and at 103rd

a woman reached to me across the wet roof
of a stranger's car and said, I'm Carlotta,
I'm hungry. She was only asking for change,

so I don't know why I took her hand.
The rooftops were glowing above us,
enormous, crystalline, a second city

lit from within. That night
a man on the downtown local stood up
and said, My name is Ezekiel,

I am a poet, and my poem this evening is called
fall. He stood up straight
to recite, a child reminded of his posture

by the gravity of his text, his hands
hidden in the pockets of his coat.
Love is protected, he said,

the way leaves are packed in snow,
the rubies of fall. God is protecting
the jewel of love for us.

He didn't ask for anything, but I gave him
all the change left in my pocket,
and the man beside me, impulsive, moved,

gave Ezekiel his watch.
It wasn't an expensive watch,
I don't even know if it worked,

but the poet started, then walked away
as if so much good fortune
must be hurried away from,

before anyone realizes it's a mistake.
Carlotta, her stocking cap glazed
like feathers in the rain,

under the radiant towers, the floodlit ramparts,
must have wondered at my impulse to touch her,
which was like touching myself,

the way your own hand feels when you hold it
because you want to feel contained.
She said, You get home safe now, you hear?

In the same way Ezekiel turned back
to the benevolent stranger.
I will write a poem for you tomorrow,

he said. The poem I will write will go like this:
Our ancestors are replenishing
the jewel of love for us.