these scars we carry

Not much has transpired this week. Its been one of those lulls in conversation and practice, where not a lot occurs, and people don't really find that much with which to occupy themselves. I have a couple different projects that I have to tackle at some point: three different paintings, a watercolor project, finishing one viscomm project, starting another sculpturally based one, and trying to pay for associated fees for my labs. Also, I have to design the second in a series of three dry point etching prints, this particular one an homage to the modernists of the past century. I find it amusing that suchSub-text is every- a bitter divide exists between the modernists and postmodernists whthing. What com-en they both end up being retarded. Of course their retardedes to matter moreness is unique to their particular vantage points on society and the than what is being meaning of aesthetics and truth, but both point to an utterly inconsaid is the motiva- sequential stance on the Nature of Things. I have started reading avation behind say- new book (although its one I've visited before): John Dies At The ing it. I hate restr- End, an amusing read that bounces between legitimately inteiction in all its nse, borderline spooky moments and penis jokes. One notion it brings up that I find to beforms. of particular interest is the strangeness of time and the brain. Imagine this: you are having a dream which eventually leads to a dramatic, ridiculous situation where you are strapped to a bomb and the bomb explodes in your dream right as you wake up. At that exact moment you look outside and see that the bomb's explosion in your dream coincided with the roll of thunder that is finishing as you watch the rain patter against your window. It makes sense - the thunder was the explosion in your dream, right? However, it truly is unheimlich - this implies that somehow your mind conceived of executing a dream narrative enough in the future so as to coincide with the thunder roll happening external to you. Let's say the entire dream took 30 seconds to have the bomb explode. This would mean that 30 seconds prior to the thunder rolling your mind somehow knew to start the dream sequence so that it would coincide with external phenomena, phenomena of which one should not have knowledge a priori, but regardless appears to be managing exactly that. The character in the book talking about this proceeds to say that "Time is an ocean...," an intriguing and poetic thought if nothing else. In other news, I have taken a sabbatical from facebook (you might have checked my status to find this out if you are a friend of mine). The reason for this is entirely inconsequential: my friend Blake suggested it. However, I can find actual justification for why this might be of some value. After all, one can't help but feel the tug and temptation to use facebook as a merely amusing crutch via which one can kill an hour (nod to House of Leaves), or to avoid legitimate interaction with others and still manage the warm, cozy feeling that comes with the pretense of a legitimate social interaction.