“The concept of surveillance is ingrained in our beings. God was the original surveillance camera.” ―Hasan M. Elahi
Beside ourselves, folks feeling prying eyes, even behind their firewalls, are not touched in the head.
“What would the infrastructure of the Internet look like if mass surveillance wasn’t its business model?”
One sun-dappled Sunday in Post-Impressionist Paris, the first Neo-Impressionist artist―working under a parasol made of points of light, among several shading an idle parade of blasé bourgeoisie, passing a Sabbath of pleasureless leisure on an island in a Seine made of points of light―invents Pointillism.
“Some say they see poetry in my paintings; I see only science.”
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood /And sorry I could not travel both /And be one traveler, long I stood /And looked down one as far as I could /To where it bent in the undergrowth. /… ―Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken, 1916
In a yellow wood, a pencil pusher, horning in to push pencils, comes to a fork in the road, where a Pulitzer poet is standing on the horns of a dilemma.
“And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. /…
Ghosts fear it. Crooks smell it. Clowns wear it. Mimes yell it. Painters smear it.
“I try to apply colors like words that shape poems, like notes that shape music.”
A body of art is illuminated from the inside, or the outside is just another pretty hide.
“It takes more than just a good looking body. You’ve got to have the heart and soul to go with it.”
“The hermit, without access to the news of the day, owes it to himself to be up to date on the doings of ancient Rome.” ―Sylvain Tesson
It’s taking a bigger bite out of this summer’s tourism than great white sharks at water parks. It is culling group packages down to singles tours. It is making this summer’s vacation a holiday for hermits.
“The hermit is he who needs a friend, and in the absence of a community has befriended himself.”
The Zen poet’s mind―still as an inkwell in an oil field; humble as a page of faint praise; silent as one hand clapping in a forest falling on deaf ears―is as sharp as Sam Samurai’s sword: like a steel stylus, shredding erudition into pulp fiction.
“Writing is a very focused form of meditation. Just as good as sitting in a lotus position.”
“To myself I am only a child playing on the beach, while vast oceans of truth lie undiscovered before me.” ―Isaac Newton
Suppose all the bird baths, ornamental ponds, swimming holes, creeks, swamps, lakes, oceans―all the water on the planet including what’s left of the glaciers, even the condensing vapor in the clouds―suppose it was all slurped up into a gob and spit into space: would that leave the planet dry?
“Among the planets orbiting the Sun, Earth is clearly the ‘water planet.'”