01 Aug 2006
There It sat. Clad in a black and red jacket; beneath that, a murky darkness devoid of red. In a shelf betwixt hundreds of others, the weight of them calling against It. Theorists of what was, rather than what could be, called out around it; of things past (though now, of course, It had also moved into that same past); even the children sat oblivious to it. Within crawling reach, they debated what today’s would be — clearly, some ritual was being played out, sitting on the floor. The mother squatted, moving between the gaze of the two, leaning to turn a page, sometimes two. Its colours were crisp, but not against the pictures accompanying words (though words may first accompany pictures) in folio-sized glossy colour. The little red book clad in darkness said nothing against them, did not try to plead its case. The children were oblivious, anyway. Gradually, the mother grows tired of waiting and pulls out a (probably recurring) threat, another piece of the ritual: perhaps we won’t get a book this week? No, of course we shall. It is an empty threat — even the children know this. The book would splutter, groan at the bourgeois’ idleness and commitment to acquisitive ‘education’. But It could not, the superstratum of capitalism wrapped tightly around it, even as it is released unequivocally into the domain of the people. Destined to life on a shelf in a world as foreign as it has always been.
30 Jul 2006
Everything on my bookshelf is left-leaning. I will prop them against the left side of the shelf with no difficulty incurred, but to right-align them is a recipe for revolution and/or spectacular suicide attempts — better dead than re[a]d takes on a whole new meaning. I have a feeling this is something to do with our reading from left-to-right, top-to-bottom way of doing things. Which, amusingly, would make the literature of some communist nations right-leaning.
Oh the irony.
Oh the procrastination, that I will sit here blogging about the politics of my bookshelf. Sigh (good sigh :))
27 Jul 2006
At making one cringe at one’s own awkwardness more than should be necessary. Regardless as to how premeditated and planned a call may be. Still, it’s better than rubbing ink in old wounds (literally). Funny how one can progress from bizarre excitement at a motif of enthusiasm (enthusiasm itself notwithstanding without some kind of idol to represent it), to sadness in an optimistic way but without any means of reciprocal communication that once induced sadness (but maintained optimism) for too long such that other awkwardness may ensue, to nearly forgetting that in studying something too awesome (I fear too much in an academic sense), only to return to quiet guilt at not having reciprocated previously later in that same general sense of chronology (balanced against a sense of geographical guilt in an abstract kind of concern for those around whilst being, in mind, completely elsewhere). Then, after all that, in foolishness something transpired that was quickly regretted, but only after some time properly meditating on various stupidities could anything be forthcoming. Hence, it is now Thursday, and Wednesday passed without reply. Thursday will plod onwards, one must suppose, as excitement for study and work and (shock) social interaction is forcibly mustered. Which I suppose is less exciting, then. I would love sponteneity right now but fear it too late… no matter. There will be another time. Oh, and whilst streaming consciousness with only aftwards reflection (I cheated by knowing what I would try to include in advance in the earlier parts, I’m sorry), what was going through their heads when they proclaimed eternity? When the indifferent proclaimed eternity? What are they proclaiming? What were they thinking? I want to scream and say what the hell is going on because it’s all so foreign so strange applying a language that isn’t theirs, can’t be theirs; historically has been rejected! But the truths which our grandfathers held are now those which the fighters at the outposts rally against. Oh, yes, very variable. You advocate free-thought then thought-control then secular pluralism then eternity then both at once then you’re not making sense anymore now are you. Are you? I am hardly immune to the allure of rebellion. Ibsen wrote not literature of the revolution per se but veered close to it at times. You… no, of course not. There was no conviction in that gaze. Ephemeral humour of the melancholic variety pervades that being without direction. Oh, Ninevah–do I wish it thus? Pray not. Please not. You, too. Please. It would make certain attachments that much easier to bear; confidence in… well, it is not for me to know anymore. My fault bears heavily enough upon me even though I have thought to have revelled in it. Reviled is closer to how, probably, things should have transpired. Please free me. Preserve them; give them what you have already in power. So far away, now. I can bearly see yet look regardless, squinting to make out something. Look forward. Unconditional unfailing immovable; all I am not. Please end the guilt’s cause.
27 Jul 2006
Oh dear. I’ve finally succumbed to the allure of Photoshop. In one moment just then it all clicked and suddenly the GIMP is vastly inferior. Now I’m going to find myself trying GIMPshop or something ridiculous. Not that it’s ridiculous at all, because the GIMP remains an infinitely faster and ligher-weight program that performs admirably… it’s just not as feature rich.
Please note, above statements should not be taken as constituting a revelation of sudden visual-creativity to the point of designer prodigy: my creativity remains as it always has been (take that as you will; I still think my crowning design achievement would have been the now-passed SC500 theme for this site, sad though that may be).
The straw that broke the camel’s back? Nothing complex or difficult or even unusual. It’s just layer/selection scaling in the GIMP is excruciating when juxtaposed against it’s $900 rival. Sigh. So I might end up purchasing CS2 plus Macromedia stuff under an academic license sometime in the future.