Ahh, the migration of the rare golden retriever fish. What a rare and beautiful sight in nature.
the fear of running out of reading materials
the characteristic, faint, musty smell of old books
tsundoku 積ん読 (つんどく) (n. Japanese)
the act of leaving a book unread after buying it, typically piled up together with other such unread books
vāde mēcum (n. Latin)
favorite book carried everywhere; a handbook of useful information kept at one’s side lit. “go with me”
dhvani (n. Sanskrit)
lit. ‘sound’ or ‘echo’; the feature of a poem/line of having a hidden meaning that strikes you in the second or further readings, but not the first
One quiet afternoon during the summer of ‘94, just a few months before I would leave for college, my father found a large pile of dog shit, slightly diarrhetic in form, on our lawn. We lived on the corner of a cul-de-sac and received a lot of foot traffic, which one could reasonably correlate with being consistently dog shitted on. I was in the backyard digging holes for plants, per my father’s fierce instruction, when I heard him scream sabotage! in his paranoia that these dog shits were intentional. Being “oriental” in an opulent white neighborhood, as irrational and small as this sounds, informed such intuitions of distorted perception. There was a part of me that wondered if we were indeed victims of a hate crime. My father asked me to come over and take the shit from his hands, which he had inexplicably picked up. It looked like Tikka Masala. I refused. He said I was just like my mother.
On January 28, 1994, Beastie Boys released “Sabotage,” the first single off their album Ill Communication. The video (an homage and/or parody of ’70s crime television) was directed by Spike Jonze, received a lot of air time on MTV, and partially conceived the ironic-douche brand. I doubt my father ever heard the song, so it is merely serendipitous that he chose that one word to convey all his complicated feelings that afternoon. Here, he said, still holding out the shit for me. I can’t stand it, I know you planned it, I mockingly replied, knowing he wouldn’t get the reference. You could say my father and I endure ill communication. You’re just like your mother, afraid to get your hands dirty. The conversation sort of tailed off, as I walked away to finish digging holes for saplings which are now enormous trees, their staunch roots dug deep in place of faith, as if holding on to anything.
Truly breathtaking. NYC-based artist Valerie Hegarty’s artwork often poses as artifacts of art history gone awry.
— Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes From the Underground (via abluelikejazz)