Just because they're not my words doesn't mean they're any less true.

We are like roses that have never bothered to

bloom when we should have bloomed and

it is as if

the sun has become disgusted with

waiting.

C. Bukowski, Finish

Emotive robots are coming...

If you are even slightly interested in robotic technology and the potential implications of it upon society, you must check this out.

The potential of Heart all at once frightens and excites me. Will I potentially see what Isaac Asimov fictionalized within my lifetime? From the looks of it, quite possibly. The opportunities of this technology are staggering.

WTF

[16:09] [S]: We will do laundry tomorrow

[16:10] [S]: But I thought you were going to do it today?

[16:10] [P]: I thought you were going to sort it last night

[16:11] [S]: I cleaned the fridge and the cupboards

[16:11] [P]: This isn't a contest it's a team effort

[16:11] [P]: Suck on my lemon of wisdom

Broke, over-analytical, and sick to death of people.

Basically sums up my existence as of right now.

1. I have concluded that I cannot save money for the life of me. It's an interesting scenario, considering I always manage to cover my varying necessary expenses, regardless of how massive or minuscule they are in any given bi-weekly period. And yet I am incapable of ever, ever finding myself with more than $7 to my name when awaiting a paycheque. I need a plan of action. But I've been saying I will develop one for three years now, so...I think I've found it (see picture below).2. According to this hilarious article, "The 10 Most Worthless College Majors", my Philosophy studies are not only analogous to creating a bonfire with my yearly income, they are also contributing to making me wholly miserable in any career path I choose to take. I take this all with a grain of salt of course, but really, this cerebral pursuit for the sake of intellectual enlightenment probably wasn't the cleverest decision I've ever made. Is it too late to switch my major to something tangibly beneficial like Economics or Journalism three-and-a-half years in?

3. Hell is other people. I doubt this requires reiteration considering it is the virtual masthead of this blog, but I am currently quite frustrated/depressed/outraged at the nature of 99% of the human beings that I encounter on a daily basis that I felt the need to vent...and where better to do that then here? We're all busy/tired/ill/underpaid/blah/blah/fucking blah, get over it and be at least remotely pleasant to others. You're not making anyone's life easier, including your own.

I'm thinking today is perhaps one of those days when I should be sequestering myself on my balcony with a case of beer and two packs of B&H and just give up on associating with the proletarian masses for a few hours.

Welcome to the Pleeblands

"Those walls and bars are there for a reason," said Crake.

"Not to keep us out, but to keep them in. Mankind needs barriers in both cases."

"Them?"

"Nature and God."

I don't even know how to begin to expand upon this.

In short, D.C. is planning on creating "Neighbourhood Safety Zones" or, as I prefer to call them, Atwood's pleeblands. Pleeblands are poor, crime-infested neighbourhoods which will be fenced and guarded at all hours of every day, and for which one will be required to present government-issued identification and a 'legitimate' reason to enter or exit.

I always knew there was a reason I felt a sense of uncanny familiarity with Oryx and Crake, and that reason seems to be evidencing itself every single time I read or watch the news and discover yet another development in our frightening and foul work towards some fucked up idea of 'progess'.

Office Space.

It is usually the lies which are actually evident and unanimous truths that are the most difficult to wring out. Somehow it is more impossible to admit to the cold, hard, façade than it is to conduct it. It’s inarguable that no one wants to be here, but let’s pretend that we do to get the fight and the will out of the way for the time being. Let’s play dress-up like we all did when we were younger – yes, even the boys – and present a fucked-up, mocking version of ourselves so that we are able to expertly hide the truth of our existence really to everyone else, even though we know all along that they are hiding it, too. Let’s let it get to the point of not knowing whether we’re hiding ourselves so well in the melancholy spectacle that we look like the real thing, or if we’ve just simply become the fake/real thing in the process of pretending to be it. Let’s slip paper piles of data under a door to suited men in our own, terrified way, but know deep in our guts that the men who are no better than ourselves are just as terrified in their guts, and that the entirety of our macabre existence has led up to this unspeakable feigned diminishment on both parties’ accounts. Let’s clap our hands together, speak gently, and all defer to someone who defers to someone else who defers to someone else – not because we mean it, but because we don’t know what else to do, and we’ve got to survive somehow, right? Let’s commit passive suicide by staring and smoking and faking not caring; tune in, drop out, and keep on keeping on. Let’s go home to the so-called luxuries that our passive suicide affords us, and watch other people live our dreams for us on forty-seven inch panels of neon and hate them for it. Let’s let paycheques try to massage our broken hearts at three o’clock in the morning, only to find that we’re as futile as an automobile without gasoline, and that our tanks are consistently bone dry.

It’s a competition between sanity and survival here, and it looks like survival is winning.

Somewhere in the world, tax $ is put to good use...

I think that the time has finally come for me to pick up and move to Paris.

In Toronto, the astronomical taxes I pay are put towards the placement of advertisements on streetcars telling me how "stupid" I am, whereas in Paris they would go towards this - an actual, proper, complete beach in the middle of the city!

The injustices of the world are sometimes too much to bear, are they not?

Photo credit: www.linternaute.com

Relationships.

Warning: this is the most personal of all blog entries thus far, like a disgusting diary entry of a heartsick fifteen year-old, and therefore this - or parts of this - may be deleted later.

Specifically, I'm thinking about relationships of a romantic nature; a lot of hard work, and generally they either make your heart soar or make it hurt, there's rarely an in-between.

Just to give a bit of perspective on this entry: currently, my heart hurts. Although I am gutted, I am able to recognize that feeling this way is a conscious decision that I am making - to sit here: text messaging into a black hole of non-replies, drinking, wallowing, and chain smoking = all MY decision, whether I enjoy it or not.

But the question is this: are these behaviours constructive in any way? To ignore one's instinct to self-preserve and endure is, from a certain perspective, one of the most inhumane propositions - and yet it also seems to be perhaps the most distinctly human of conditions, particularly to us humans who find ourselves in relationships (or what can be theoretically quantified as such).

Because really, what is a relationship to begin with? Do we not have 'relationships' with virtually everyone we encounter? For example, it's obvious that my relationship with my regular baristas is far more superficial and extraneous than my relationship with my brother, but it is difficult to say that one relationship qualifies to be called such and the other does not (particularly considering I now see the regular baristas far more than my own brother).

The point is this: the only relationships which seem to cause people true anguish are those that they are the most emotionally invested in. WHY do humans have this inarguable instinct towards feeling this anguish? When we emotionally invest ourselves in something (or, more damningly, someone), we know, either consciously or subconsciously, that to do so is to virtually guarantee that that horrible feeling in the chest will occur at some point or another. But we continue to do so, continue to breathe, continue to self-destruct, continue to recover, and continue to repeat, all the while knowing the hatred of that pain and knowing of its complete inevitability.

All the while, we do not choose to listen to that instinct for preservation - well, maybe some of us do, but they're technically called sociopaths I believe. How simple it would be to maintain those superficial relationships with coffee shops employees and co-workers! In those one cannot feel the gut-wrenching, headache-inducing fervour that only comes with absolute closeness and emotional intimacy with another human being. But those elusive, fantastic moments which the closeness also brings are difficult to reconcile against this and to turn one's back upon, and for that very reason it's impossibly difficult to not strive for that which makes your heart soar...even if it hurts at the same time.

What a fucking messy, lovely, hateful and glorious predicament we are in as a species. If there is anything that unifies the human race (and I'm still not sure that there is), could this be it?

The Verve. Toronto. 1 May 2008.

I just feel as though a post on this is necessary, as The Verve at the Ricoh Coliseum was without a shadow of a doubt the most mind-blowing, visceral concert I've ever attended. From the opener (the absolutely amazing 'Almost There') to the brand-new song closer (I believe it's called 'Love is Noise', but I'm not 100% on that), I have never felt as connected to the music at a gig as I did last Thursday evening.

My only complaint would be the fans. I am developing a horrible attitude towards so-called 'music lovers' in Toronto, who show up to see the greatest band of the 1990's and proceed to sit quietly with their arms folded, devour popcorn and corn dogs as though they're at a hockey game, and exit after the sketchy Ashcroft-penned radio hits are performed. I feel like their dopey-eyed looks, chubby bodies and lifeless, uninspired gestures are actually an insult to the band, as well as to the city of Toronto. I simply wish they would stay at home from now on, because really, they behave as though they're on the couch anyways, so they might as well be there, perhaps even nodding their head dispassionately to Ashcroft's solo garbage?

Finally, I shook Nick McCabe's hand. I think I probably frightened him a little bit, considering I ran up to him shouting and wide-eyed, but seriously, the fact that I shook the hand of one of the most brilliant guitarists of my generation is definitely a defining moment of my existence, and one which will not be easily forgotten.

P.S. I wish I could find a photo to include of the whole band, but turns out the only photos available from that night are of Ashcroft (and a slight few of McCabe). Tis a shame, but at the same time I refuse to waste my time at concerts as superb as this one taking pictures with a useless camera phone or the like as it is, yet again, an insulting move.


Photo credit: ChromeWaves

Save the internet, on the internet.

I highly recommend that anyone who cares at all about keeping the internet neutral and free go to Save the Internet and read more about the commendable Americans who are attempting to have a Net Neutrality bill passed in the U.S. Congress.

It's interesting that people generally consider the internet to be the pillar of neutral, free and boundless technology when, in actuality, this belief could not be further from the actuality of the situation.

This is not a vague, insignificant issue, contrary to corporate proclamations and lack of media coverage. My very own service provider, for example, (Rogers Communications Inc.) looks to be "moving toward a utility-type model where the user pays based on the amount of broadband capacity consumed", making them the first in North America to do so, and bringing us yet another step closer to the Orwellian Big Brother model of Oceania.

Photo credit: www.lucasartoni.com

This worries me.

Any fellow LOST fans out there? If so, I would just like to put it out there that this guy lives in my building. No, not Michael Emerson, but rather a man who looks identical to Benjamin Linus - he shares his demeanour, dress sense, voice and most importantly, the really creepy eyes.

I hope the smoke monster is not unleashed upon me when I get home tonight for this...

French Hippie Grunge?

This blog is my own tiny piece of space on the internet which literally no one reads, and as such I am to do what I please with it. My first posting made it clear that there would be no conclusive theme or purpose to this blog. It is not a philosophy blog, not a fashion blog, not a science blog and yet, at the same time, it is all of these things at once. This post, however, is strictly concerned with fashion (mainly the pictures I have saved to my computer whilst bored at work the past two weeks). So, without further adieu, I present:

"French Hippie Grunge?: S's version of S/S 08-09"

Some key looks/pieces I've taken note of.

• long hair: my hair needs to grow faster!! Unfortunately a couple of seasons ago the Twiggy/Agyness look was in and I followed suit, so it's kind of difficult to get the just-rolled-out-of-bed-Parisian-chic-mane that Lou Doillon and Theodora Richards are sporting. That doesn't mean I won't make do with what I have and try though...
• colour: for something put together by me, this collage is surprisingly lacking in black-grey-white and general monochrome. While I don't have much respect for actual hippies, the gorgeous maxi dresses and enjoyable colours are right up my alley at the moment.
• smoking: it might as well be fashionable considering I don't plan on stopping any time soon?
• The 1990's: a resurgence of grunge, anyone? It feels like the 80's have been 'in' for longer than the 80's actually existed; could there be an end in sight? Not that I ever wore any of the shoulder-padded, blinding-neon nonsense, but it would be nice to actually be able to purchase something when I walk into Forever 21.

Pictures taken from style.com, wmagazine.com, fashiontoast.com and nytimes.com (apologies if I missed a credit on any of them. Here's the disclaimer saying that, regardless of whether or not I correctly credited everything, I definitely know that none of the images belong to me and that I am making no profit from them!!

Epiphanies.

Issue 1, Volume 1: People/The World Scare Me (Branded)

While I will admit that I enjoy some of the materialistic luxuries of life (good coffee, high fashion, upscale dining establishments, etc.), I've recently come to realize how pervasive these things become if you don't make a point of keeping yourself in check around them.

Case in point: although there is currently a Starbucks literally two-and-a-half minutes from my place of work, another location opened last week that is a mere one-minute-and-forty-five seconds away. This new location had a grand opening ceremony, and I couldn't help but feel profoundly uncomfortable when witnessing the entire macabre spectacle. Employees of the conglomerate pranced about like cheerleaders, bribed the people in line to sing songs expressing their love for the coffee chain with $5 gift cards, handed out endless samples of calorically-laden sweets to a clamouring and voracious crowd. All the while, the aforementioned crowd stood there like a pack of lemmings - while the Starbucks baristas handed out free pre-packaged sweets and machinated 'luxury' drinks, each and every person in the 30 minute waiting time line handed over a bit of their dignity.

Is free branded shit this important? (n.b. as is apparent from the majority of the postings on this blog, I don't curse often, but in this case I believe the word "shit" to be particularly apt because really, that's what it is when it comes down to it?) There are, at minimum, four other [empty] coffee shops within a one-block radius of this Starbucks-infested area, but are we all so enamoured of the little green logo on the white cup that we forget what shit we're even lining up for in the first place?All of this being said, I have nothing particularly intelligent to add to the consumerist debate. I myself am somewhat torn regarding the mass consumerism with which I'm faced on a daily basis. I know that I buy endlessly, and will readily admit to willingly shelling out for a Grande Bold every morning - mind you when I find an independent coffee shop that is conveniently located and can make an equally strong cup of coffee, I will be immediately switching my m.o.

But I digress...the issue I'm concerning myself with here is not the fact that we buy endlessly, line-up disgracefully and desire incessantly, but rather that very few of us ever take a step back from this and examine our own pitiful state of existence. Regardless of what certain philosophies and schools of thought may tell us, there is a definite line to be drawn between those who analyse and evaluate their actions and those who do not. Personally, I don't even want to co-exist with the former, but I obviously have no choice and so for the time being must settle with knowing that some of the latter are out there. And really, we should also consider if what we're buying into is worth buying into in the first place? The democratization of luxury is so au courrant, so sadly an affliction of the 21st century, so misleading in that luxury, once democratized, becomes nothing of the sort.

This is for those of us who left Starbucks that day and thought for a moment about our actions. Just for fun, go here to have the Starbucks Oracle help you on your path to self-discovery.

Free Will? Not anymore.

Science has finally proven Aristotle wrong. While the concept of dualism between one's form and matter may be persuasive on a philosophical-spiritual level, it now holds little to no ground thanks to the research of neuroscientists at the Max Planck Institute.

Although the study is not entirely conclusive, it is now safe to assume that I have far less free will than I considered myself to possess. I am beginning to think that Weber was correct in writing that the disenchantment and demystifying of the world/ourselves would result in a deep and cavernous feeling of loss. There is no un-knowing this type of thing, and perhaps in doing this type of research we are methodically ridding the world of its inherent magic?

Does it all boil down to how some chemicals and neurons fire and sputter within my body? I would like to believe that it is not so, but this belief is becoming increasingly harder to maintain.

Lagerfeld on...

Fat people.

'Yes, new Russian girls are like this. But this is a subject I won't discuss. You know why? In France there are a large percentage of young girls who are overweight and less than one percent are skinny. So let's talk about the 25 percent who have a weight problem, or are overweight. We don't need to discuss the less than one percent. Anorexia is nothing to do with fashion. These Russian girls are so young. Chinese ones are skinny, too, and bony. I don't think it's a subject to discuss. And in today's world, many people take drugs, not only models, hmm? It's an unnecessary subject. Let's talk about the fat ones."

and my soul has been spiritualized.

I've got a fire inside my soul.

Let it burn and let it glow.

The Philosophy of Boredom.

"Boredom is just the reverse side of fascination: both depend on being outside rather than inside a situation, and one leads to the other."
- Arthur Schopenhauer

As something of inarguable universal familiarity to mankind, boredom is that which is experienced often and explored rarely. Perhaps the very nature of boredom insists upon this ruse upon consciousness, all at once occupying and subverting the individual within the event.

Arthur Schopenhauer’s notion of externality in relation to boredom is an interesting one. Consequentially, Schopenhauer begs the following question of us: are boredom and fascination merely one and the same, and our current perception of their terminological significance convoluted and vastly misrepresented? If one places oneself in a boring situation, is this a state of passive, albeit deceptive fascination? And if one finds themselves fascinated with something, is this a state of active boredom?

Perhaps as we wake to our alarm clocks, go to work, clock in our seven-point-two-five hours, get on the train home, make the same dinner with the same people and do not bother to reflect upon this any further than the dull sense of longing within for that which is fascinating, we should actually be taking an active role in our own boredom, thus creating a sort of transmutation of the very boredom which we loathe into fascination with being bored in the first place?

These are the thoughts of a very, very bored person.