Life discovered beneath Antarctic ice →
Lake Whillans, one of hundreds of subglacial lakes and waterways in Antarctica, contains microbial life. Considering conditions in such areas are meant to be similar to those found on Jupiter and Saturn’s moons (Europa and Enceladus, respectively), this could have interesting implications for exobiology as well.
Cursor off 'reblog' now, or I shoot
Next time you see that quote from Palahniuk’s Choke on your dashboard, the one that starts with ‘What I want is to be needed’ and ends in you thinking about your ex, or your relationships, or whatever, please don’t reblog it. Please. Read the book first. Appreciate that, as in Fight Club, characters in Choke are outliers. Not everyone bears the scars of control, of some leash that’s been around...
My Les Mis rant has angered Huss. In case I don’t wake up, I leave everything to my baby sister.
Marred brilliance (a post in which I bitch about...
I saw Les Misérables today, and had I not gone with Toby I would probably feel as though I’d wasted two and a half hours of the day. The performances? Brilliant. The singing? Thoroughly enjoyable. The songs themselves? Good lord, I loved them. But something was wrong. The initial wide landscape shots conveyed a vastness that I hoped would last through the movie—because, in a story...
How do you all feel about The Hobbit?
I saw it yesterday and was surprised by the amount of added content. On one hand, things like Azog’s survival gave the film a nice sense of urgency which the book lacks, since there’s no atmosphere of impending doom as in the Fellowship; on the other, it all felt a little drawn out due to the amount of stuff going on. The book always seemed to be telling a simpler story—or at...
Wiping this clean; feel free to unfollow.
I’ve considered deleting, but don’t want to lose my dashboard since I really do love the vast majority of blogs I follow. If your blog isn’t in that category, I suppose I just like your posts a lot. Boo hoo. Either way, know that I think you’re brilliant. I will be deleting all of my posts, possibly omitting a few here and there depending on how I feel about them. This...
She lives the poetry she cannot write.– Oscar Wilde (via pkam)
Water (a work in progress)
He stood alone on the balcony, scanning the empty street below for signs of movement. If the air had been wetter, well, it might have been a beautiful summer’s evening—which was odd, naturally, since the man’s watch read ‘25.9’. Or at least, it probably did if it was still working, the same way his calendar would corroborate it if he’d been home to flip the last...
It’s late, and I plan on sleeping soon—as opposed to lying awake, and waiting, wondering at the masses of stardust in our blood and how thoroughly unremarkable it makes us. Anything, anyone, will glow and glimmer if you’re desperate enough. So you present your arm, to a beguiling vampire, and their teeth pass clean through flesh only to pierce the soul and suck it til...
Runny honey, red-railroad-spiked rum
stony night, silent light to warm your flicking, fork-faced might- -in-mouth, a tongue-in-cheek tickle for red-hot thighs’ flight into bite— and it rides the seizure —rip-tide-measures’ pleasure— sawing at its leisure, my bleach-boned preacher throwing bloodied kiss after bloodied kiss, so hit-and-miss to try and reach her —but stumbling sprains, ...
If we had been less attached to one another, I think we must have hated one...– Pip (Great Expectations)
Me: Not cutting ties
Me: Collecting mad coinage
Me: Soakin up those sweet raccoon-turtle costumes.
Me: Rakin in the 1-ups
Sarah: Shut one-up.
Lonely giant and porcelain doll.
A man and woman, whom I saw in a mall once, have buried themselves inside my head. They’re cunningly entrenched, close enough to the foreground for me to know their presence, yet too far for me to understand it—like some dimensional chimaera etched by Escher himself, contrived to be slicked over by presumptuous eyes. He stood close to seven feet tall, and next to him the woman looked...
In all likelihood, this is shockingly bad. But I suppose that’s what happens when I attempt free verse. [[MORE]] Flecks of fraudulence, dotting the shoreline —low-hanging mist, to make her wish she’d stalled and screwed for more time to get her degradation done with (if only to hide from prying eyes of decadent mayflies— stony-faced sluts who’d call her so, after...
Something odd, and half-finished.
He’d wanted to be a pianist, in the same way small children paste their likenesses into sports stadiums. That is, the dream had popped into his head fully-formed one day, when he was too young to know what ‘conviction’ meant and too poor to afford school shoes, let alone a piano. Somehow, it had stayed in his head long after the other children’s pitches had turned into...
Isn’t it remarkable how many coloured people there are?– My grandfather (who is wonderful) on the Olympics opening ceremony.
With blackest eyes buried inside ditches of jelly, wonderful white-grey jelly dotted with flecks of manganese oxide like tiny land mines, the face above the trench coat smiled its sleepy little smile. It radiated the kind of beatific happiness achievable only by the dreaming, the insane and the intoxicated—and in a funny sort way, the puny man in his ragged clothes was all three. Nothing could...
The specious contradiction of fire.
The candlelight fell across her face in golden flecks, rising up to roar in her face as the flames caught. Leaving the pile of dry twigs and paper to be consumed, she ran out onto the balcony. The ladder was half-rotten, almost beyond use—it was a miracle the wind hadn’t taken it away—but luck was with her tonight. A smirk sparked across her mouth, caught on something inside her. Fire had always...
When words can be appointed and sentences strung with minimal effort by the phenomenal and the insane, it’s awfully sad that none of us can completely define ‘writing’. Because we like to play God, in both senses: to feel omnipotence in one’s veins and fulminate chains of crackling, white-hot phrases onto each page—and to escape, become invisible; in effect, to cease...
There’s stillness pervading the darkling air, hanging heavy, enough to smother each serrated susurration, through jackals’ teeth, each stillborn sigh through tall grass’ hair; with break of day, the whispers cease, wind pinned under the stark sun’s glare. And with the rising sun there bleeds, a touch of tone and vibrancy into the ageless, age-old scenery; who knew such hues...