the only cure for sadness

is to learn something
thisbigcity:

This is a cocopeat filter, which could offer a sustainable option for water filtration in cities. Wastewater is passed through, trapping suspended solids. These are then consumed by microbes living in the dust. The process removes 90% of solids and pathogens found in domestic wastewater. The final product is an effluent safe enough to be used for crop irrigation or simply discharged back into the environment. Read more in our latest post.

And with all the coconut water people are drinking these days…

thisbigcity:

This is a cocopeat filter, which could offer a sustainable option for water filtration in cities. Wastewater is passed through, trapping suspended solids. These are then consumed by microbes living in the dust. The process removes 90% of solids and pathogens found in domestic wastewater. The final product is an effluent safe enough to be used for crop irrigation or simply discharged back into the environment. Read more in our latest post.

And with all the coconut water people are drinking these days…

homegirllondon:


Profiles: Chase & Wonder
http://bit.ly/W5kROg


I think hope is the underrated one—we feel that we should always be satisfied, which makes us always dissatisfied.

homegirllondon:

Profiles: Chase & Wonder

http://bit.ly/W5kROg

I think hope is the underrated one—we feel that we should always be satisfied, which makes us always dissatisfied.

Shakespeare for Sunday

Ben Whishaw as Richard II.

But life is for learning

What’s frustrating about the Internet is that you can never revel in the misconception that you’ve had an original thought. This morning, I finally realized that Belle and Sebastian’s “If You’re Feeling Sinister” borrows its chorus from “These Days.” Wikipedia knows this too. It must be a day of musical homage, because I woke up singing Joni Mitchell’s version of Woodstock. I don’t even think of it as a cover—it’s almost like the back of the fabric of the original.

Speak, Memory

My memory is deteriorating and I blame the internet. The Greeks had various devices for recall; my grandmother had to memorize long poems and rattled them off automatically well into senescence. What do kids have to memorize now? And when do any of us ever have to work our recall when all we have to do is pop online? Last year, I intended to memorize all of Hamlet’s soliloquies. I think I’m going to get back to it and aim for a poem a week. Who’s with me?

Benedict Cumberbatch reads Ode to a Nightingale

There’s a place for us.

There’s a place for us.

I’m not unhappy about becoming old. I’m not unhappy about what must be. It makes me cry only when I see my friends go before me and life is emptied. I don’t believe in an afterlife, but I still fully expect to see my brother again. And it’s like a dream life. But, you know, there’s something I’m finding out as I’m aging that I am in love with the world.

And I look right now, as we speak together, out my window in my studio and I see my trees and my beautiful, beautiful maples that are hundreds of years old, they’re beautiful. And you see I can see how beautiful they are. I can take time to see how beautiful they are. It is a blessing to get old. It is a blessing to find the time to do the things, to read the books, to listen to the music.

You know, I don’t think I’m rationalizing anything. I really don’t. This is all inevitable and I have no control over it. “Bumble-ardy” was a combination of the deepest pain and the wondrous feeling of coming into my own and it took a long time. It took a very long time, but it’s genuine. Unless I’m crazy. I could be crazy and you could be talking to a crazy person.

Maurice Sendak (1928-2012), from his interview on NPR’s Fresh Air

~Trent Gilliss, senior editor

(via beingblog)

to make all our little joys relate

“D minor … is the saddest of all keys, I find. People weep instantly when they hear it, and I don’t know why.”-Nigel Tufnel.   It’s been a long time since I thought of Jamie Farr.  This weekend my husband and I heard a song on the radio that began very much like “Suicide is Painless” (the theme to the film and television versions of M.A.S.H.), and spent the best part of the next hour figuring it out on the piano.  I even knew what key it was in, and I don’t have any sort of reliable pitch memory.  And while the artistic contributions that the Art of Fugue and Mozart’s Requiem (also in D minor) have made go without saying, neither of them has resulted in my being rendered emotionally crippled by an assault of childhood memories (in Smell-O-Vision!)

Given the fact that neither my husband nor I could remember the plot of a single episode and were fuzzy on which war they were actually fighting indicates that the value of the shared cultural experience is the experience, not the culture. 

 Armchair cultural anthropologist—another career shoulda.

 


The Unforgettable Fire

I’ve been one idiotic remark away from a primal scream for weeks. I’ve lost weight (the wrath diet?), my reflux is back, and I am the world’s angriest walking commuter. I haven’t been this globally irate for a long time. It’s difficult to separate cause and effect, but it seems to be an accumulation of the following: Smiling all the damn time. The junk that’s on the radio. Politics. People only complimenting girls on their clothes and hair. I don’t know—I renewed my much-lapsed NOW membership, because I’m compulsive and I had to do something to scream into the anti-feminist void. Oh, my God, who are these women?  That is, are these women? Not that I can tell—there’s nothing behind the eyes.  A friend of mine told me about smile oppression today. I certainly feel oppressed by them, though I don’t think that was her point. It’s time for a curriculum that doesn’t lie.