How to Build Velvet Robots

Dark Magic

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 11:37:00 +0800

There is a powerful magic in our school that seems to make both the North and South Study Conservatory always full, no matter how long you wait and no matter what time you go there. It’s the best place to write since it’s cold and there are lots of people you can watch. The internet is also good. There are never any seats, however.

I secretly think the Lasallian monks are priests for an ancient cult, and they work daily to keep the conservatories full by chanting their evil incantations — the moment they become vacant is the day kindness and rainbows fill the universe in a sign of cosmic harmony.

Wikipedia - List of Turner Prize Winners

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 11:07:22 +0800

Wikipedia - List of Turner Prize Winners:

The Turner Prize, named after the painter J. M. W. Turner, is an annual prize presented to a British visual artist under the age of 50. Awarding the prize is organised by the Tate gallery and staged at Tate Britain. Since its beginnings in 1984 it has become the United Kingdom’s most publicised art award. Although it represents all media, and painters have also won the prize, it has become associated primarily with conceptual art.
As of 2004, the monetary award was established at £40,000. There have been different sponsors, including Channel 4 television and Gordon’s Gin. The prize is awarded by a distinguished celebrity: in 2006 this was Yoko Ono.
It is a controversial event, mainly for the exhibits, such as a shark in formaldehyde by Damien Hirst and a dishevelled bed by Tracey Emin. Controversy has also come from other directions, including a Culture Minister (Kim Howells) criticising exhibits, a guest of honour (Madonna) swearing, a prize judge (Lynn Barber) writing in the press, and a speech by Sir Nicholas Serota (about the purchase of a trustee’s work).
The event has also regularly attracted demonstrations, notably the K Foundation and the Stuckists, as well as alternative prizes to assert different artistic values.

Stuckists really scare me and I sometimes have nightmares about them.

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 11:00:19 +0800

What do you mean artists who don’t paint aren’t artists?

Wikipedia: My Bed is a work by the British artist Tracey Emin....

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 10:35:00 +0800

Wikipedia:

My Bed is a work by the British artist Tracey Emin. It was exhibited at the Tate Gallery in 1999 as one of the shortlisted works for the Turner Prize. It consisted of her bed with bedroom objects in an abject state, and gained much media attention. Although it did not win the prize, its notoriety has persisted.

The artwork generated considerable media furore, particularly over the fact that the bedsheets were stained with body secretions and the floor had items from the artist’s room (such as condoms, a pair of knickers with menstrual period stains, other detritus, and functional, everyday objects, including a pair of slippers). The bed was presented as it had been when Emin had not got up from it for several days due to suicidal depression brought on by relationship difficulties.

Conceptual Art fascinates me, but doesn’t quite scare me yet.

thedailywhat: Disgruntled Employee of the Day: An anonymous...

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 09:57:12 +0800

thedailywhat:

Disgruntled Employee of the Day: An anonymous Toronto Star editor upset over Star publisher John Cruickshank’s decision to outsource union editing jobs to freelancers expresses her displeasure the best way he/she knows how: By marking up the internal memo notifying employees of said decision.

Embiggen.

[via.]

Thanks to Scholarship class, I now think there is nothing more glorious than a proof-read document.

Decoherence

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 02:53:00 +0800

Quantum Physics tells us 
	that in some parallel universe
		we are together (this
	is because there is
		a universe for
			all possibilities) 
it makes me feel bad
		when I think about it
	because I just had to end up
			here, where I
	only long for you--

Cheers to you then,
	parallel me. 

		I am glad you 
			are in love.

Monologue: Your Crush, Which You Added On Facebook, Still Hasn't Replied To Your Friend Request

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 01:51:40 +0800

What is going on. It’s been two days. He still hasn’t added me. What is he—OH MY GOD. He hates me. He must’ve realized how I felt and now he is looking at that announcement thing and he is thinking if he should be rude and ignore it but feel safe about his masculinity, or if he should indulge in my sodomy and be nice and accept my request. GOD. I am such a moron. Why did I have to do that? I couldn’t I have just be friends with him at school first. I’m sure he sees me stare at him anyway! Fuck, fuck, fuck. He must be laughing with his friends, instant messaging them. “That fag tried to add me on Facebook.” Jesus. Oh Jesus.

How will I ever look at him in school now? I can’t look at him. Ever. He will laugh at me behind my back. He knows. Oh my god why did I have to add him as my friend. I am—my life—I am—-wow. My life is over. I am screwed. it’s been two days. Who the fuck waits that long to add a friend. God! I hate myself. I hate myself. Oh my gggoooddd….

Yes, mom, I’m still using the computer. Hold up. I am not being dramatic. Just… just use your laptop mom… stop bothering me… Mom, please… Just go…

FountainMarcel DuchampPorcelain360 x 480 x 610 mm. Tate...

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 01:37:37 +0800

Fountain
Marcel Duchamp
Porcelain
360 x 480 x 610 mm.
Tate Modern, London

Wikipedia:

Fountain is a 1917 work by Marcel Duchamp. It is one of the pieces which he called readymades (also known as found art), because he made use of an already existing object—in this case a urinal, which he titled Fountain and signed “R. Mutt”. The art show to which Duchamp submitted the piece stated that all works would be accepted, but Fountain was not actually displayed, and the original has been lost. The work is regarded by some as a major landmark in 20th century art. Replicas commissioned by Duchamp in the 1960s are now on display in museums.

Jerry Saltz:

Duchamp adamantly asserted that he wanted to “de-deify” the artist. The readymades provide a way around inflexible either-or aesthetic propositions. They represent a Copernican shift in art. Fountain is what’s called an “acheropoietoi,” [sic] an image not shaped by the hands of an artist. Fountain brings us into contact with an original that is still an original but that also exists in an altered philosophical and metaphysical state. It is a manifestation of the Kantian sublime: A work of art that transcends a form but that is also intelligible, an object that strikes down an idea while allowing it to spring up stronger

Let's talk.

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 01:10:02 +0800

pacholo_mercado@yahoo.com

Oh, Lawdy

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 01:06:16 +0800

I have failed three subjects already: math appreciation, introduction of economics, and introduction to philosophy. From the way things are looking, I’m hoping I won’t fail Theology III either.

I’ve maxed out my allowable absences and I failed my midterm exam.

That would be 12 units failed out of the allowable 24.

That subject bores me to tears and I have ethical and logical objections to what it teaches. God, I hope I get through this.

Cigarette Smoke-ahhh

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 23:46:00 +0800

Our teenager selves would probably scoff at the idea that we are not meant to be alone. We would roll our eyes with that fierceness that youth has and raise our fists screaming “freedom! Independence!” We liked to believe we exist apart from the world and from everyone, and that we are heroes meant to fight alone. We thought we were that powerful.

But as we age, slowly, perhaps, or sometimes swiftly, we begin to realize that the opposite is true: solitude is painful, sometimes physically. We long to be with someone, with people. We learn that we are not meant to be alone at all. Sartre may be correct: Hell is other people. What he forgot to mention is that the lack thereof is also an inferno we should exert effort to avoid.

libraryland: tropfacile:clairefisher:gamblin-ramblin:...

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 22:06:33 +0800

libraryland:

tropfacile:clairefisher:gamblin-ramblin: booktumbling: walkwhilereading:

Jack Kerouac.

In the olden days, artists used to have patrons so they could just lie around doing art all day and...

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 20:14:00 +0800

In the olden days, artists used to have patrons so they could just lie around doing art all day and they didn’t have to worry (much) about money.

I wish I had a patron.

You do my bad poetry honor, kind and mysterious sir. I...

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 20:09:37 +0800

You do my bad poetry honor, kind and mysterious sir.

I appreciate your appreciation.

1 They called him “the tallest homosexual in the room.” Matangkad na bading. His name...

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 19:36:00 +0800

They called him “the tallest homosexual in the room.” Matangkad na bading. His name was too dignified for him, and they decided that it should not be used because he did not deserve it. He smelled sometimes. They suspected he did not take a bath when he was either too depressed or too lazy. He spoke infrequently, sometimes when he is spoken to. Aaron Montemayor, the biggest loon in the class, called “pugo” because of his supposedly small dick, would tease him for a long time before he finally asks, “Why don’t you fight back? It’s more fun to call someone names if they fight back,” and, contemptuous but calm, he would not respond. Instead, he would keep his fortitude about him, damning the souls for what they did to him, but otherwise remained motionless against them. “Bading, bading, bakla, bakla,” Aaron would repeatedly say sometimes. It got to him, but not enough for him to give them what they want.

His only friend was his classmate, John Bravo. Johnny Bravo, everyone called him because of his name’s resemblance to that of a cartoon character’s. Aside from that, they are not similar. He was lanky, not buff. He wore glasses. He was awkward and shy. “Peter,” John would say. “Don’t let them get to you.” This was when they had to form two straight lines when going somewhere on campus. One line for the boys and one line for the girls, according to height. They were almost the same height, so they were always adjacent one another. “I won’t…” Peter would say. “Good, good,” John would say out of sight, pretending not to talk, lest Miss Bebe hear them and get scolded. They were not allowed to make noise — not with their feet, not with their mouths.

They studied in San Martin de Poblacion College. It was a school that was proud of itself, primarily because no one else was. Like every other educational institution, it lived under the shadow of Ateneo de Manila, where Peter has always envisioned himself studying. His parents would say The University of the Philippines was better, but he would always say: “I would die there.” He was referring to the violence and openness of the university, compared to the elite safeness that was ADMU. Poblacion would boast ties with all these schools, but never seemed to be quite as good as them. They still did not have air conditioning like DLSU, but so did ADMU and UP. They did not have a good library like any of them. Their teachers were under qualified and their students lacked motivation.

During the early faculty meetings, the teachers would come in groggy, their hair still in places they did not intend, carrying cups of coffee and small biscuits. They would always start with Miss Lacantra saying the agenda out loud to everyone. “Student discipline… Flag ceremony alterations… Activities for the next month…” Student discipline has always been a problem. The boys were rowdy, and the girls were having their legs opened up way too early.

The old, rude one, Miss de la Merced, who always sat at the back of the room by the window so she could smoke, cleared her throat before saying, “We should be allowed to hit them. When I was young, I was hit and it made me a better person.”

Though there were detractors, this was certainly something most of them wanted. Nothing was more fulfilling that hitting a child who just did not shut up, and most of them had done so in their daydreams. But prudence got in the way and they would always murmur disapproval at this, though she has requested this many times and even once wrote a letter to the principal about it, which was also sternly denied. They wanted to fire her, but she was too old and has been too loyal.

“We should not hit children,” said Miss Bebe. “But we should discipline them.”

“I have them stand in a corner,” said Miss Maga.

Miss Panis nodded, “I do that too.”

She does this a lot, because she frequently hears children make fun of her name behind her back.

…

(Very long brain fart.)

(via jesusislove)

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 18:19:26 +0800

(via jesusislove)

(via jesusislove) Precisely.

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 18:18:27 +0800

(via jesusislove)

Precisely.

Martin Priestly

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 15:49:36 +0800

I sometimes imagine John sodomizing me harshly, with his necklace banging across his chest as he moves in passionate fervor. We made love, of course, but he would always do so with grace, with the unrelenting charisma that made me fall in love with him in the first place. I just wished that he dropped his kindness once in a while, though I knew it was impossible. John had no shadow. Carl Jung would find him incredibly fascinating.

My friends say John is not good looking. “Marty, he looks—I’d rather not say anything.” They think I find that insulting, and sometimes I do get hurt when they say that. But even if he is, then I am lucky to fall for someone who is also unattractive. If I fell for a handsome lothario, there would be no chance. I couldn’t care less if they find him ugly. For me, he is devastatingly handsome and I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

Some people think that how someone looks is very important, and that they would never fall for someone ugly. So much so that if you tell them their boyfriend is actually ugly, they reel and tell you you have no taste. They have egos large enough to think they are the authority in beauty, and that makes them the cosmic, deluded comedians of our time, and like Oedipus, they should end their set by gouging their eyes out. Fatal Flaw: Hubris. You disgusting idiot, you fucked your mother.

Working to Love My Work

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 15:28:15 +0800

elderwind:

I only have to look back at the many times my papers were fed through the literary equivalent of a shredder to know how these things are done. But of course. We writers have big egos, and it’s a daily challenge to be rid of it.

Drama. I have yet to get a copy of those poems. Still debating between Sepang Loca and Frustrations. I’d read The Bomb!…but it’s in Filipino.

Mr. Gaba once said that a huge ego is a prerequisite to being a writer, otherwise you wouldn’t write with the assumption you actually have something important to say. Of course, we handle this ego in different ways. I am more honest and straightforward about it, while you seem to hide it well.

Being published in the university folio, of course, helps the ego.

Working to Love My Work

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 15:23:05 +0800

elderwind:

Oh, I was criticized. A bit too gently, I must say. I sure hope that the good professor will look at my future papers with more scrutiny.

We writers have a way of asking for more praise, while making it look as if we’re looking for criticism.

You have mastered the art, but not enough to fool the rest of us.

Also: what is your genre paper going to be about?