"Sometimes, I think silence is going to be the new punk," she said. "We're
all going to throw our BlackBerries off bridges and start talking to each other
again."
Friday 20 March 2009
I just realised why I have so many internet accounts.
They're horcruxes. Social networking sites are fucking horcruxes. Facebook, Blogger, Twitter, Flickr, deviantART, last.fm, Tumblr... My soul's been ripped into seven, I'm barely human, I can't stop. Think about it- your Bebo or Lookbook or whatfuckingever isn't just the slimy silver snail trail you leave all about cyberspace as you try desperately to live your life both online and off. It's about as close as you think you'll get to immortality without selling yourself to reality television. Hell, the internet is about to REPLACE reality television. Too much information, too much lifestyle prostitution, too much. All for the sake of procrastination? Including but not limited to. Golly gee.
Thursday 19 March 2009
Generationext launch party
Autumn 2009 (during National Youth Week)
Sunday 5 April, 6:00-8:00pm
FREE EVENT for teenagers
Museum of Contemporary Art
Circular Quay
They're really getting into Yayoi Kusama, her art is the dress up theme this geNext. Polka dots, mirrors, 1960s, etc. Anyway the MCA is opening its doors yet again, for free food and mocktails and um mingling galore! Good times will surely abound...
Sunday 5 April, 6:00-8:00pm
FREE EVENT for teenagers
Museum of Contemporary Art
Circular Quay
They're really getting into Yayoi Kusama, her art is the dress up theme this geNext. Polka dots, mirrors, 1960s, etc. Anyway the MCA is opening its doors yet again, for free food and mocktails and um mingling galore! Good times will surely abound...
Tuesday 17 March 2009
Reading Amanda Palmer's old blogs makes me happy in a time of school-induced unhappiness.
She is such a magical creature. So much passion, so little restraint. Maybe she overshares sometimes but I love it, I lap it up because it feels like truth when little else does. Sometimes I just want to BE her, to take everything in my stride and be spontaneous and shout and sing and wear outrageous, not entirely fashionable, things! Oh to be free. Enjoying her hastily and regularly Macbook-ed musings on art, small tragedies, perception... It's all about perception, isn't it really? All of it!
"A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.
Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.
A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.
A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.
The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.
In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.
No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars.
Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats average $100.
This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of an social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?
One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?"
- The Huffington Post
...are you dead my friends, or just comfortable? I'm so tired, everything I do lately is absolutely sporadic. Every emotion, every gesture, every spurt of academic dedication defiantly followed by sullen adolescent lethargy... It's not balanced, it's bipolar. My eyes are welling with instant coffee. As of tomorrow I am regulating my internet time UBERSTRIKT. Disconnection is nigh! Sing and clap your hands! I want to be a tree in a forest, big and old-smelling, dying every autumn in a blaze of colour then you know how it goes... Life cycle etc. I want a million little animals living inside of me, eating me but sustaining me at the same time. Um and I never want to be sarcastic again! Or be late. Shit, I'm late already...
"A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.
Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.
A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.
A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.
The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.
In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.
No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars.
Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats average $100.
This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of an social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?
One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?"
- The Huffington Post
...are you dead my friends, or just comfortable? I'm so tired, everything I do lately is absolutely sporadic. Every emotion, every gesture, every spurt of academic dedication defiantly followed by sullen adolescent lethargy... It's not balanced, it's bipolar. My eyes are welling with instant coffee. As of tomorrow I am regulating my internet time UBERSTRIKT. Disconnection is nigh! Sing and clap your hands! I want to be a tree in a forest, big and old-smelling, dying every autumn in a blaze of colour then you know how it goes... Life cycle etc. I want a million little animals living inside of me, eating me but sustaining me at the same time. Um and I never want to be sarcastic again! Or be late. Shit, I'm late already...
Sunday 1 March 2009
Mood: Romantic
Oh, it's practically autumn! To celebrate the fast-approaching end of foul oppressive heat I am wearing bright lovely colourful things, and opening all the windows. The first day of March is always massive for me emotionally/historically/etc... but amongst other things, today is the Roman New Year, Bosnian and Herzegovinian Independence Day and Chopin's birthday! So I'm just sitting about, studying, listening to music that's sadder than I am, struggling to enforce the only-one-packet-of-Mi-Goreng-a-day rule...
To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats, 1819
To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats, 1819
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