“If you are 35 or younger - and quite often, older - the advice of the old economy does not apply to you. You live in the post-employment economy, where corporations have decided not to pay people. Profits are still high. The money is still there. But not for you. You will work without a raise, benefits, or job security. Survival is now a laudable aspiration.”—
“In the United States, nine percent of computer science majors are unemployed, and 14.7 percent of those who hold degrees in information systems have no job. Graduates with degrees in STEM - science, technology, engineering and medicine - are facing record joblessness, with unemployment at more than twice pre-recession levels. The job market for law degree holders continues to erode, with only 55 percent of 2011 law graduates in full-time jobs. Even in the military, that behemoth of the national budget, positions are being eliminated or becoming contingent due to the sequester.
It is not skills or majors that are being devalued. It is people.”
Her work is frank, speaking of a reality I hope that will never be mine. At the same time, it gives me a strange comfort to know that I am not alone.
It is against the laws of computer animation to produce a bee. This is not to say it can be done, and is not; rather, it is widely known to be impossible. The polygons simply don’t fit together correctly; it is unknown how bees appear three-dimensional in the wild.
“Life is not interested in good and evil. … Since people exist only in life, they must devote their time simply to being alive. Life is motion, and motion is concerned with what makes man move — which is ambition, power, pleasure. … The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move.”—William Faulkner, born on this day in 1897, on art and the meaning of life. Complement with other luminaries on why we’re here. (via explore-blog)
how I imagine every dystopia novel develops: “noo, man, its a metaphor” (bong rip) “like…we’re all just slaves to time, in the assembly line….punching in our time cards, waiting for the slaughterhouse, nobody has an identity” (hysterical coughing fit) “so in my book its like,…
one of the more gnawing facets of Depression is mentioned infrequently in comparison to the more common or compelling symptoms, possibly because it isn’t as sexy but also because it seems dull when taken out of context.
She smiles a sideways smile, looking him in the eye without moving her head in his direction. The light from the street lamps plays in her eyes like a thousand thousand stars reflected in a midnight lake. His heart skips a beat, then jumps in his chest. His heart opens a secret door built into his rib cage, and falls out onto the ground at her feet. He closes the secret door in his ribs, picks it up, brushes off the dirt and cigarette butts it picked up from the ground, and wraps it in a sheet of old newspaper. Holding his heart in one hand, he takes one of her perfect, small hands in his free hand, and places his heart in her hand.
"I’ve been growing this for you since the day I was born. I may not have always taken enough good care of it for you, and for that, I apologize," he said. "I understand if you don’t want it, but you can’t give it back to me."
"I know," she said, "how the rules work." And then she opens her own secret rib door, which opens to show an empty room, a room long unoccupied, and taking his heart out of the paper wrapping, tips it into her chest. She closes the door.
She leans her head back against the brick building she’s resting against, eyes closed, and sighs.
"So, I should get going," she said. "I have a paper to write. I’ll call you sometime next week. I promise." Then she walks down the sidewalk, in a direction that would not take her anywhere near to a place she could write a paper. He’d never seen her walk with such light, carefree steps before.
That night, he tries placing all manner of things in his own empty room, now that he knows the trick of it. Beer cans weren’t right. The cold ones were too cold, and the empties rattled around too much. He places a very small yellow potted flower in the room, but that just made him feel bad for the flower, so he takes it back out. The cockroach he finds in a dumpster behind her apartment is the closest thing to right he can find, but it was still light years away from what he needs. Plus, the cockroach probably had a family who loved it, so he let it go, and finally just settles on keeping his pack of smokes, lighter, and cellphone in his empty room.
"Maybe," he thinks, "when she calls me next week, she’ll let me come over and let me have a little bit of time with my heart. It’d be nice just to know the old boy’s still beating, to know if he’s happy in his new home."
Reading his poetry is like watching a bad actor die on stage. You can tell what’s going on, but it’s the end of the act and intermission is about to start and I have to piss like being the first person to discover fire.
I’ve yet to meet a woman who’d not rather judge an expert-level pushup contest than read a few vague lines of jumbled adjectives and that kind of puppy-dog-is-a-good-dog brand of hyper sensitivity.
Seems to me maybe women like feelings so long as they’re the ones feeling them. A man with feelings is a man with an untrained monkey. It’s gonna shit everywhere it can.
“The more you throw black into a color, the more dreamy it gets…Black has depth. It’s like a little egress, you can go into it, and because it keeps continuing to be dark, the mind kicks in, and a lot of things that are going on there become manifest. And you start seeing what you’re afraid of. You start seeing what you love and it becomes like a dream…”—