They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!
“
—
Jack Kerouac, On the Road
dinosaur jr’s cover of kiss’ “goin’ blind.”
perfect timing since i just had my pupils dilated this morning.
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic until about two weeks of using the technology, upon which time it becomes mundane.”
- Johnson’s Addendum to Arthur C. Clarke’s Third Law
A choice quotation from the HuffPo article, “New Technologies enter our lives and society in four stages.”
It’s a quick read, but in a nutshell, new technology is disseminated as such: fantasy, terror, acceptance, boredom.
After spending the day with my nieces and nephew, and in light of the spectacle at Penn State, I’m really, really glad this exists.
And I’m glad Lauren Perlow took the time to make it. To collect and display the hard evidence that there are people in this world who really do give a shit.
Dylan Thomas reading “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night.”
I’ve read this to myself countless times but hearing Thomas recite these lines adds a gravitas only an old British dude can bring.
Somebody should incorporate this into a remix. How bangin’ would that be?
Oh, I know. Pretty fuckin’ bangin’.
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
