As everything becomes progressively more terrible and the pace of the progression accelerates at a clip that, each time I notice it, seems even more aggressive and unlikely when compared with the speed at which the previous increase in awfulness occurred, it seems that the few new things in which I find comfort are those which reduce or eschew altogether the use of words. Words are terrible. Our only hope is in everyone shutting up. The future is wordless sound. Listen to this. [Via]
Autumn will start off with a series of false beginnings and vague feelings of dislocation as summer lingers longer than everyone expects, even though summer here always easily extends into the end of September and sometimes beyond. When the days draw down and the sun starts to set earlier and earlier you will increasingly develop an overwhelming sense of opportunities missed and chances wasted as each event you had hoped to attend or goal you had your sights set on achieving becomes yet another adventure you opted out of under the empty promise that there was something better going on, and this endless buffet of poor choices will eventually lead to a fatigue so heavy that you will soon stop making choices at all, relying on the default option of doing nothing and hating yourself for it. Suddenly it will be winter, and all around you will fade into darkness and depression and bitter, pitiless wind. You will realize just how empty everything is. The grave beckons. The grave beckons. The grave beckons. Look for a Saints-Broncos Super Bowl. READ MORE
"More than anything, the paradoxical logic by which Berger unfolds his scenes connects him to Kafka. Too many contemporary writers kowtow to Kafka in mummery: ostentatiously dreamlike settings, Shadows and Fog-ian Eastern European atmosphere or diction. Berger engages with Kafka's influence at a more native and universal level, by grasping the way Kafka reconstructed fictional time and causality to align it with his emotional and philosophical reservations about human life. Berger's tone, like Kafka's, never oversells paranoia or despair, and the results are, actually, never dreamlike. Instead, Berger locates that part of our waking life that unfolds in the manner of Zeno's Paradox, where it is possible only to fall agonizingly short in any effort to be understood, or to do good." READ MORE
“The average person uses 10% of their brain capacity. Imagine what she could do with 100%,” is the tagline for Lucy, the new Scarlett Johansson speculative thriller, but isn't it just as likely that the reason our average brains max out at around one tenth of their dimensions is due to an abundance of caution? Given our transcendent abilities to do damage to ourselves and those around us with that mere sliver of cranial capacity it seems probable on an evolutionary standpoint that the other 90% of our head-stuffing chooses to remain fallow from the firm conviction that exercising even another couple percentage points would result in destruction on such a massive scale that this species and all others which come in contact with it would perish from the face of the earth leaving not even the most rudimentary of traces, and while the prospect of such a planetary cleansing seems admittedly appealing—particularly on a hot day when the streets of our major metropolises are filled with putative adult males trundling around in shorts and flip-flops (and t-shirts bearing terrible double entendres suggesting specific sex acts their wearers would like to have performed on them) while they drink from plastic bottles filled with sugared water and careen about the sidewalks like clueless oversized babies, a group whom they additionally resemble in their utter disregard for anyone else walking alongside them—one supposes the brain is doing its part to prevent our speedy extinction and is instead hoping that by keeping the cap at the ten spot enough of us will muddle through somehow that the dumb shit we do won't be immediately fatal, but will just hurt a lot until it's all over, at which point it will be some other brain's chance to fuck things up and hurt and be hurt and do everything it can to keep itself from feeling that sorrow that it has brought upon itself, not to mention the sorrow that has been brought upon it by the brains nearby. The more I think about it, the more it would make sense if our brains managed to drop their usage number down by about half—something at around five percent seems both more manageable and less lethal. Think about how happy everyone would be in a world which worked that way. Even if it's impossible it's at least the kind of movie I'd like to see, I guess. Lucy is in theaters July 25.
Should you find yourself at some point today overcome by torpor, perhaps due to climatic conditions in your area or simply the prevalence of complaints concerning climatic conditions on social media, this song may provide a brief burst of energy before the fatigue inevitably takes hold once more. Yes, it's going to be hot. The sun will scorch your pasty skin and lethargy will lay its heavy hand upon your sweaty shoulders as it implores you to join it on the couch. But consider: We are barely past June's midpoint here, people. Don't waste all your whining just yet; think of how disappointed you'll be with yourself come August when folks are spontaneously combusting in the streets and Twitter is full of photos showing New Yorkers literally melting onto the sidewalks below their feet. And gentlemen? Please don't even think of asking me if you can wear little-boy pants just yet. STILL JUNE. Wait, where was I? It's like I have forgotten how to do this already. Oh, right. This song is pretty catchy. I tapped my feet at least, and, really, on a day like today, you can't hope for all that much more. I mean, you can hope, but I think we both know how that usually works out. Anyway, enjoy. [Via]