Things To Think About During A Short Drive Through Tarrytown

My nose feels as though it’s bleeding. It’s only slightly damp. I rest my knee on the door panel and let the cool summer wind sting my eyes. For a moment I wince as the heat from these sunglasses sting through the sweat on my cheek.
The radio is on and a man tells me the state lotto has increased the jackpot to $645 million. He begins to list all the things more likely to occur than owning the winning ticket: struck by lightning, murdered by someone you love, eaten by sharks, struck by lightning twice, spontaneously combusting, hemorrhage after being struck in the head by a wanton baseball while standing in a Major League park, quicksand, et cetera ad infinitum. I take a deep breath and promise myself I won’t spend it all in one place.
My phone hums and rattles off the passenger side seat. I said I was coming fifteen minutes ago. If the clock on my dash is to be believed, I’m already off by five. I’m always chasing time, but today I don’t feel too hurried. When I was a kid my father used to always say, “stop coming and come.” I could never endure those lectures without a slight snicker.
I come to a slow stop at the light that felt the need to involve itself in my tardiness. On the curbside, an old man waves a sign that reads in bold black letters, “The Kingdom of God is Within You,” and I wonder whether it is my gallbladder or pancreas I should be concerned with because everything else is shot.
There’s an island, Tristan de Cunha, that I read about the other day. It’s floating in the South Atlantic refused by South America, Africa, and the Antarctic. I heard two hundred people live there and that makes it the most remote inhabited island in the world. I imagine those people feel everyday as though they live their lives on a vast drifting continent. I like to play with the thought in my head. They move, much as we do, but arrive nowhere. I wonder for a minute and then begin to doubt I’ve ever reached my journey’s end. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a banner proclaiming that the Hungry Burger’s Bucklebuster is back and I feel as though he never left and I wonder what he got me then I purge the thought from my mind.
The end of spring makes it’s presence known sweetly. With the constant threat of heat, it’s hard for one to really tell when one season ends and another begins. Through the cracked window I can see the trees green and full leaves in vibrato over gas stations, massive homes, soccer moms, and taco stands. The birds are returning now and they coat the power lines thick.
A man in a cowboy hat waves hello before his baby blue truck cuts me off at the intersection. On the rear, his bumper sticker reads “Please always be kind to bicyclists.” I swerve slightly to avoid the woman in the green sedan with half a bumper that’s pulled a little too far out into the approaching lane. It makes all too much sense. A blonde girl with crimson streaks in her hair sits in the white SUV a lane over and screams at someone beside her, and I wonder why I feel no connection to any of these people. It feels as though we’re all moments away from colliding, leaving a permanent stain on each other’s lives. I imagine I’d leave behind a nice streak and dental records from when I had my wisdom teeth pulled eight years ago. In the deepest part of me I wish there would be something else, my thoughts, my actions, my words and feelings, my cares, my loves; but I know that’s impossible. I feel it. The responsibility of holding all this that surrounds me together, it’s too much to bear. The urge to be and not be simultaneously is the struggle of an indomitable spi—The man on the radio interrupts to tell me that thirteen people were killed somewhere by someone and I think that was unlucky. He goes on to interview the up-and-coming actor who will play the lead in the forthcoming film about the tragedy. It all feels as thought it’s happening all at once.
As the light wanes and the city opens itself up to me, reflection comes easy. You wake up. Ride the walls to the bathroom and spit blood into a stopped sink. Spend the next few minutes to watch it dry into rust-colored bands striping the porcelain curves and imagine it too tastes of bourbon. Scrub the sink. A final hit. Open the blinds. Light a cigarette. Turn on the TV. Check the phone. Turn off the TV. Start your car. Don’t forget to breathe. And suddenly, you’ve reached your destination.


’So, according to you, the other God does exist after all?’
‘He doesn’t exist, but He is. There’s no pain in a stone, but there’s pain in the fear of a stone.’
Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Devils (Demons) [1872]

People on a street outside Independence Hall examining a new map of Europe shortly before the end of World War I, Philadelphia, October 1918.

People on a street outside Independence Hall examining a new map of Europe shortly before the end of World War I, Philadelphia, October 1918.


from The Independent, 1993.
offered without comment.

from The Independent, 1993.

offered without comment.


from: http://www.reddit.com/r/pics/comments/1t6tk3/this_graffiti_speaks_to_me/

DJ Koze - Nices Wölkchen (feat. Apparat)

One of (if not my) my favorite tracks of 2013.

(Source: Spotify)


Each of us wears a .45 and each of us is supposed to shoot the other if the other is behaving strangely. How strangely is strangely? I do not know. In addition to the .45 I have a .38 which Shotwell does not know about concealed in my attaché case, and Shotwell has a .25 caliber Beretta which I do not know about strapped to his right calf. Sometimes instead of watching the console I pointedly watch Shotwell’s .45, but this is simply a ruse, simply a maneuver, in reality I am watching his hand when it dangles in the vicinity of his right calf. If he decides I am behaving strangely he will shoot me not with the .45 but with the Beretta. Similarly Shotwell pretends to watch my .45 but he is really watching my hand resting idly atop my attaché case, my hand resting atop my attaché case, my hand. My hand resting idly atop my attaché case.
Donald Barthelme - "Game" from Unspeakable Practices, Unnatural Acts (1968)

The screaming across the sky


She may know a little, may think of herself, face and body, as “pretty”…but he could never tell her all the rest, how many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in what she is to him.
Thomas Pynchon - Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)

from Robert Hooke’s Micrographia (1665)

from Robert Hooke’s Micrographia (1665)


Nauru - Paradise Ruined

A feature length documentary about the rise and fall of the world’s smallest independent nation; Nauru.

Produced by Tvjournalist.dk
Videojournalist: Tanja Jørgensen
Duration: 43,30 minutes
Produced in the period 2009-2011. Denmark.


I’ll miss you forever darling. Nothing could ever deserve you.

http://emilymariepalmer.com/



You are listening to Number Stations

A revolutionary age is an age of action; ours is the age of advertisement and publicity. Nothing ever happens but there is immediate publicity everywhere. In the present age a rebellion is, of all things, the most unthinkable. Such an expression of strength would seem ridiculous to the calculating intelligence of our times. On the other hand a political virtuoso might bring off a feat almost as remarkable. He might write a manifesto suggesting a general assembly at which people should decide upon a rebellion, and it would be so carefully worded that even the censor would let it pass. At the meeting itself he would be able to create the impression that his audience had rebelled, after which they would all go quietly home—having spent a very pleasant evening.
Søren Kierkegaard, The Present Age