eatsleepdraw: Lovely Day - the second of my three drawings i made for my friends. If you get open and get aware it becomes apparent that everything spins in sync with everything else—you realize that even disasters unfold according to their own logic.  In a sometimes wishy-washy world of virtual workforces and TV news cycles, there is the THUD of certainty that something real and undeniable has happened.  The sudden, decisive leveling of a landslide or a bomb feels like the hand of history grabbing hold and shaking the place that you live.  However horrific it may be, the universe goes on as though it were nothing special.  No matter what happens there’s still the same calm sky shining down with a blank indifference.  I remember on 9/11 looking back from the Williamsburg bridge and seeing the grey smoke rocketing into the sky in great gushes and realizing that I was looking at a battle zone…it was all very dramatic but soon the immense crowd lurched forward and I moved with it—the bridge groaning and swaying under the weight of our feet.  When I looked back again the scene no longer seemed so menacing…the bright blue sky swallowed the smoke like the ocean swallows a drop of poison.  It was a lovely day—the sunshine and the crowds made me feel like I’d just exited a giant simulation ride at a theme park such as Universal Studios.  On the other side of the bridge the streets of Brooklyn were empty like unused back lots.  Everyone was gathered in front of TVs either at home or in bars. A few hours later the streets filled with people walking around like zombies—hungry for crowds to be alone in…groups formed without words and without leaders.  The only agenda was being together. I didn’t know it at the time but it was the dawning of a new age…

eatsleepdraw:

Lovely Day

- the second of my three drawings i made for my friends.

If you get open and get aware it becomes apparent that everything spins in sync with everything else—you realize that even disasters unfold according to their own logic.  In a sometimes wishy-washy world of virtual workforces and TV news cycles, there is the THUD of certainty that something real and undeniable has happened.  The sudden, decisive leveling of a landslide or a bomb feels like the hand of history grabbing hold and shaking the place that you live.  However horrific it may be, the universe goes on as though it were nothing special.  No matter what happens there’s still the same calm sky shining down with a blank indifference.  I remember on 9/11 looking back from the Williamsburg bridge and seeing the grey smoke rocketing into the sky in great gushes and realizing that I was looking at a battle zone…it was all very dramatic but soon the immense crowd lurched forward and I moved with it—the bridge groaning and swaying under the weight of our feet.  When I looked back again the scene no longer seemed so menacing…the bright blue sky swallowed the smoke like the ocean swallows a drop of poison.  It was a lovely day—the sunshine and the crowds made me feel like I’d just exited a giant simulation ride at a theme park such as Universal Studios.  On the other side of the bridge the streets of Brooklyn were empty like unused back lots.  Everyone was gathered in front of TVs either at home or in bars.

A few hours later the streets filled with people walking around like zombies—hungry for crowds to be alone in…groups formed without words and without leaders.  The only agenda was being together.

I didn’t know it at the time but it was the dawning of a new age…

eatsleepdraw: Random thought that came into my head. Sharpie and prismacolor marker in my moleskin. Cool. OK, internet friend (and real life stranger) from eatsleepdraw…here’s my random thought in return for yr drawing:  a note from an in-between moment, scribbled on the pages of the moleskin in my mind… We see therefore we are…which is to say we see ourselves watching ourselves watch the way we see…In turn, our awareness of this has changed the nature of what appears. Let me explain:  In recent times the loop has come back—the circuit of the gaze is complete. While post-modern discourse started out as solely the domain of philosophers, architects and lit critics it is now a mode of understanding that has infiltrated the everyday.  Everyone knows what post-modernism means, even if they don’t know what it’s called.  Post-modernism is mass produced and served up in pan global microwave meals—nukyularized in under a minute inside pop art inspired containers.  It’s a brand new t-shirt with a retro slogan design.  It’s jeans that you buy already ripped.  It’s the sample of a TV show in the middle of a hip-hop song in which a rapper from the Brooklyn projects raps about his tricked out English luxury car, or it’s a commercial about the making of a commercial that never actually shows the product it’s advertising. Our awareness that we live in an age of references and overlapping contexts has resulted in new culture products that celebrate the multiplicity of NOW—the show 24 uses split-screen and other production techniques to depict the many aspects and different points of view that made up every moment, while the mash-up straddles the boundary between a DJ cutting up a song and creating a new one altogether by mixing the vocals of one track with the beats of another—choosing ironic cross-cultural combinations for a WOW effect that depends upon a feeling of surprise—which gets harder and harder to create because the audience has come to expect the irony. As consumers we expect the meta-commercial and the lo-fi guerrilla “street” advertising outsourced by big corporations.  It used to be that a DJ would have one or two ironic mash-ups in his or her bag to unleash when the moment was exactly right.  I remember my mind getting blown at a Cold Cut show when they dropped Public Enemy lyrics over a pitched-up My Bloody Valentine track.  Nowadays no one is phased by even the strangest juxtapositions.

eatsleepdraw:

Random thought that came into my head.

Sharpie and prismacolor marker in my moleskin.

Cool. OK, internet friend (and real life stranger) from eatsleepdraw…here’s my random thought in return for yr drawing:  a note from an in-between moment, scribbled on the pages of the moleskin in my mind…

We see therefore we are…which is to say we see ourselves watching ourselves watch the way we see…In turn, our awareness of this has changed the nature of what appears.

Let me explain:  In recent times the loop has come back—the circuit of the gaze is complete. While post-modern discourse started out as solely the domain of philosophers, architects and lit critics it is now a mode of understanding that has infiltrated the everyday.  Everyone knows what post-modernism means, even if they don’t know what it’s called.  Post-modernism is mass produced and served up in pan global microwave meals—nukyularized in under a minute inside pop art inspired containers.  It’s a brand new t-shirt with a retro slogan design.  It’s jeans that you buy already ripped.  It’s the sample of a TV show in the middle of a hip-hop song in which a rapper from the Brooklyn projects raps about his tricked out English luxury car, or it’s a commercial about the making of a commercial that never actually shows the product it’s advertising.

Our awareness that we live in an age of references and overlapping contexts has resulted in new culture products that celebrate the multiplicity of NOW—the show 24 uses split-screen and other production techniques to depict the many aspects and different points of view that made up every moment, while the mash-up straddles the boundary between a DJ cutting up a song and creating a new one altogether by mixing the vocals of one track with the beats of another—choosing ironic cross-cultural combinations for a WOW effect that depends upon a feeling of surprise—which gets harder and harder to create because the audience has come to expect the irony. As consumers we expect the meta-commercial and the lo-fi guerrilla “street” advertising outsourced by big corporations.  It used to be that a DJ would have one or two ironic mash-ups in his or her bag to unleash when the moment was exactly right.  I remember my mind getting blown at a Cold Cut show when they dropped Public Enemy lyrics over a pitched-up My Bloody Valentine track.  Nowadays no one is phased by even the strangest juxtapositions.

dylancoyle: via Ray Ceasar I closed my eyes again and when I opened them I was on the island from Lost. I stood on a hill overlooking a deep green valley. The sea was to the left of me—wave after wave broke on top of one other as they raced to the white sand shore with its clusters of rocks and swaying palm trees. A Hawaiian paradise in all its glory—only it wasn’t Hawaii. Although this was the place where the TV show was filmed, the place where I stood was not on TV.  I stood on the actual island from Lost, the invisible one out there spinning in time—both in the plot and as a complete entity connected tangentially to the ever-changing minds of the writers and producers.  It was real, and I was a part of it.  I was a survivor of Oceanic Flight 815—that much I knew.  All other information of my old existence was distant and hard to recall.  My own name kept slipping through my fingers.  I closed my eyes to concentrate and saw flashes of computer screens and a dreary room and a sink stacked with takeout containers.   Even though I could barely remember it, I had the sense that I should keep the fact that I had another life a secret.  I needed to give myself over to my new part like Sawyer, Juliet and the others give themselves over to life in the doomed Dharma initiative. The sense of being there was such that there was no more future, no more maybes and hatching of plans.  I was where I was and there was no questioning it—no reality beyond the here and now.  No economy, no emails no phone calls to make, no things to buy, or appointments to schedule—no show to perform or far flung destiny the only thing I had to do in the whole world was what I was doing—walking down the gently sloping grass covered hill and into the trees, where the darkness of evening was starting to gather.

dylancoyle:

via Ray Ceasar

I closed my eyes again and when I opened them I was on the island from Lost.

I stood on a hill overlooking a deep green valley. The sea was to the left of me—wave after wave broke on top of one other as they raced to the white sand shore with its clusters of rocks and swaying palm trees. A Hawaiian paradise in all its glory—only it wasn’t Hawaii. Although this was the place where the TV show was filmed, the place where I stood was not on TV.  I stood on the actual island from Lost, the invisible one out there spinning in time—both in the plot and as a complete entity connected tangentially to the ever-changing minds of the writers and producers.  It was real, and I was a part of it.  I was a survivor of Oceanic Flight 815—that much I knew.  All other information of my old existence was distant and hard to recall.  My own name kept slipping through my fingers.  I closed my eyes to concentrate and saw flashes of computer screens and a dreary room and a sink stacked with takeout containers.   Even though I could barely remember it, I had the sense that I should keep the fact that I had another life a secret.  I needed to give myself over to my new part like Sawyer, Juliet and the others give themselves over to life in the doomed Dharma initiative.

The sense of being there was such that there was no more future, no more maybes and hatching of plans.  I was where I was and there was no questioning it—no reality beyond the here and now.  No economy, no emails no phone calls to make, no things to buy, or appointments to schedule—no show to perform or far flung destiny the only thing I had to do in the whole world was what I was doing—walking down the gently sloping grass covered hill and into the trees, where the darkness of evening was starting to gather.

(via jambulance) Truman Burbank: Was anything real? Christof: You were real. That’s what made you so good to watch… When a synch occurred I realized that a message was being broadcast—something was being communicated by our collective unconsciousness:  something from us, to us—like the self-interpretation of a dream.  It wasn’t that the internet and TV were talking to me specifically—they were talking to anyone who happened to have the ears to hear it. the true man show by eve11

(via jambulance)

Truman Burbank: Was anything real?
Christof: You were real. That’s what made you so good to watch…

When a synch occurred I realized that a message was being broadcast—something was being communicated by our collective unconsciousness:  something from us, to us—like the self-interpretation of a dream.  It wasn’t that the internet and TV were talking to me specifically—they were talking to anyone who happened to have the ears to hear it.

the true man show by eve11