tlvxtlvx
“The passenger pigeons were the most numerous birds that ever lived in the history of the planet. It’s almost disturbing how numerous — billions upon billions of birds. It was a fecundity that was almost disgusting. I started thinking about a blame-the-victim kind of attitude you could take to that… to make it seem like they had it coming, that there was this disgusting empire of birds and that it was corrupt like Rome… that it was bound to fall. So I invest the passenger pigeons with every kind of sin that I can imagine. And the bough, this gigantic branch, is falling under their tremendous weight. Meanwhile they go about their bickering and their lusts and foibles and all the disgusting things that they are doing.”
Falling Bough, Walton Ford. 2002.
via Mark James Adams.
The Brain That Changes Itself, Norman Doidge. 2007.
Relevant for any kind of letting go, as well as finding and eradicating the unconscious “bugs” that litter our minds until we learn (+ apply, repeatedly) the process of identification + re-integration.
via Diana Wolf.
Nature is a slut for life (flowers time lapse).
(Also, the drun ‘n’ bass version.)
both via my mother.
This happened yesterday.
Also, finally the first piece I’ve read to attribute blame to the consumers of oil, which is us all:
“Because if you’re honest, no matter where you stand, no matter your politics, religion, income or mode of transport, you see this beast of creeping death and you understand: That is us. The spill may be many things, but more than anything else it is a giant, horrifying mirror.”
“As if oil wasn’t woven like oxygen into every single aspect of American life, as if fully 30 percent of domestic transportation fuel didn’t come from the gulf, as if shutting down a fraction of those wells wouldn’t re-devastate the economy, as if petroleum and coal weren’t powering the very energy plants that deliver the electricity that charges the iPhones that allows everyone to Tweet their angry complaints through all the various energy-sucking server farms the size of a small country.”
Behold our dark, magnificent horror, Mark Morford, SF Gate.
“Throughout Sandy Kim, there is a lot of blood, but that blood is never the same—blood on her sheets after sex, blood from a dead body covered in a sterile white sheet, blood on the hand of a friend after an unknown accident. He’s smiling, looking straight at the camera, at Sandy. They both know it will heal.”


