sterilizes

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Studio Profile: The Warehouse Studio


The Warehouse Studio in Vancouver is all about space, staff, and authentic sounds. Built in 1886, the historic building served as a city hall, jail, and morgue for most of its existence. It was reborn in 1997 as The Warehouse Studio, and since then it’s been one of the go-to studios for alternative rock. 

The massive 4-studio building is made of three stories of gorgeous heritage wood, glass and brick. Its sunlit studios are anything but sterile, their character and history provide an inspiring environment. Studio 2, a roomy space with large windows overlooking the neighborhood, is the primary recording space. Its relaxed ambience and state of the art equipment provide the ideal atmosphere for making dream recordings.

The Warehouse Studio’s expansive Studio 2 space provides beautifully maintained vintage equipment that works seamlessly with contemporary digital equipment, computers, and software. The control room’s stunning 52-channel Neve Air Custom A6630 console is one of only three that have ever been made. 

A well stocked mic cabinet and outboard rack provide everything needed to produce the highest quality sounds in the hands of the studio’s experienced sound engineers. The live room features 25’ ceilings and comfortable for anything from indie rock to orchestras.

It’d be a pleasure! @w@ He’s my frozen trash son. <33

what they smell like
Like Gerda, he smells of gardening and plants… but a clean sort of earthiness, like petrichor, or the fresh absence of smell after a rainfall. When he’s not tending to his roses, he smells like printing paper or parchment or shirt starch, the clean crispness of a man who takes care in his appearance. 

what music they like
Kai likes silence. He likes the feeling of working in an area so sterile he can hear his pen scratch the paper. He likes knowing what he does matters, and music is a distraction. 

something they collect
Kai LOVES books and has quite a substantial personal library. He also has amassed a small collection of snowflakes made by his own hand (sometimes on purpose, sometimes involuntarily). They hang in the air near his ceiling and hum and spin softly by their own magic. On a sunny day they reflect the light and make lovely patterns on the floor. 

what their bedroom looks like
Wide, open, and minimalist. The parquet floor sometimes is polished so thoroughly you can see yourself in it. Which is a good thing since he sleeps on it, futon-style. All his books are always neatly tucked into their shelves and arranged according to size, alphabet and author. He has a big chalkboard wheeled to one side, where he sits, works, and contemplates the mysteries of math and universe.

their eating habits
Kai sometimes forgets to eat, but when he does eat… he EATS. He is the sort of friend who’d wake you up at 2am because he skipped dinner working but oh wow I have this, uh, box of Betty Crocker cake-mix… can I please use your oven oh wow thank you I love you so much Gerda!

intellectual pursuits & other hobbies
Math. He has a degree in applied physics - and memorizes statistics and the demographics of nations for fun.

their most prized position
A pair of silver skates, which he gave to Gerda. 

I have to find the source material but it would appear those who are trans-sexual become infertile with some estimates as early as a week after exposure to hormones.

This would be encouraging news as it would mean those who go through hormone therapy on either side of the sexual binary would in fact willingly be sterilizing them self.

A form of population control against such madness.  I personally wish to thank all trans-sexuals on hormones for ensuring their genetics do not pass to a new generation.

Dirge for Flesh

bone is strongest
where it’s mended
scar tissue
is thicker than
unblemished skin,
but the disfiguration!
who could stand
to be dealt with
so callously?
who would give up
their looks
for their life?

you wandered into my life
cowled
gloved
hiding your flesh from m,
speaking hollowly
through respirators
and masks -
you, of the scar tissue
of the missing eye
of the metallic hand
you told me to love you
to love your wounds
while the wind
was still out of me
from seeing
all those cuts

we are creatures
of oblivion,
cowled and gloved -
the world
through our lenses
is a little
further away
a little more sterile
but that
is how I like things
now that
I have known you
sterility
is a blessing
every scar
a boon

sew my lips together
so they will not
speak lies,
my beloved.

I logged onto Google Photos today for the first time after my friends sent me algorithm’d collections of pics from specific and awesome times from the past few years. The only picture that was in the folder was this photo I took in 2012, on a melting summer day, the day that Frank Ocean’s publicist recklessly tweeted that some major retail chain was banning Channel Orange from their outlet because of his just-admitted sexuality.

There was recon from the asshole publicist, who begged me to take down reporting on it, post-tweet delete, on the phone as I crawled from the Village in a cab to the sweltering cusp of midtown East.

I hate Frank Ocean for that, even if he has no knowledge that his fame was the byproduct of self-indulgent distraction.

I was on my way to a sterile hospital where my grandma, the best friend that I’ve ever known, was receiving news that the treatment had to end. I was sitting in the chilled isolated room with a mask on my face as my mother hunched over her wilting body, fixing the hem of her sleeves and collar. The piece of paper on her legs was a telling tale: “Advance Directive for Health Care - Living Will.”

Power of Attorney had already been signed over a year ago, when I found my grandma after two days of her being aware, yet unresponsive, and disrobed, on the floor next to her bed, unable to move. I took her to the hospital that night, riding in the back of an ambulance, the eyes of her doormen fixated as we exited the lobby. The fucking disdain in their voices when they asked why she didn’t call them at all, if not sooner.

It was a year later, after her surgery and recovery, that it all crashed. Life is nothing that you can control, I’ve learned and accepted. And no matter how much you rebel against as frequent trips to hospice as you can, the world keeps spinning. I turned 25 on July 14, 2012, just months after I broke up with my first real boyfriend, the person who I once loved, who lived with me for four years and I dated for five, whose mother I stayed with, whose pain I hoped to understand in the loss of his father as a teenager. When my grandma learned of our split, she simply said, “I just want to know that you’re happy.” She died two days after my birthday, and a day after I promised to visit her, and didn’t.

I wrote about what it was like to go through the pain of her loss. It was devastating, and I’ll never get over it. It’s still too hard to visit her grave and face the reality of her loss. I can hear the dirt being shoveled onto her open grave in 100-degree weather. It’s horrifying.

I still drum up her number in my contacts to check in, every week, only to catch myself; there’s no answer. My best friends from high school live blocks away from her; I avoid her street, it’s on the way from the subway. I run home from work, and go just a block further to bypass the Film Forum, which was across from her rehabilitation center. I’ll never see a film there again.

The idea of loss always connects back to my grandma. Everything is rooted in the one thing I’ll never recover from. My memory of her returns in shards; time ravages what you hold close. Sometimes, it’s the brunch we would have, every week, across from her apartment. Or it’s when, at 14 years old, I forced her to walk through Le Jardin Luxembourg in Paris despite her aching limbs that forced her to sit every 30 steps. I wasn’t guilty then, but the ignorance of being a child has permeating effects over time.

Or, it’s listening to Wilson Phillips’ “Hold On” in 1991, a year after its release, on a cruise that just her and I went on through Canada. She was mad I was in my arcade game phase at that time; I asked her for so many quarters that I still feel the sting of her minute disdain of my childishness, in hopes that I would one day form a full person. I interviewed Carnie Wilson last month and debated telling her what that song meant to me. I didn’t. I assumed she would laugh. I’m still not a full person.

But there’s a silver lining: I’ll never have to yearn to know what it’s like to have never questioned someone’s intentions. She was the best person I’ve ever known, and a simple picture reminds me of that, even if it’s thrusted back into cognizance without consent. But it also drums up the pain, made worse by the fact that it’s an artifical force putting it in front of me. That’s the consequence of the present, and yet, today, I’m just lucky to have the past.

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sterility’s art seriously fucks me up. I don’t know what it is about each one that just pulls at my chest. Part of me feels like it’s that child-like simplicity of them, and how blunt they are. I look forward to seeing them when I open tumblr every day.

What were you taught about drugs?

Remember hearing about how even just trying an addictive drug once would mean you were hooked for good?

Well, that’s what Columbia University professor Carl Hart learned in school too.

So imagine his surprise when his own research into drug addiction revealed something very, very different.

Working with others, Hart revisited some long-standing research on lab rats that showed that rats would self-administer drugs until death. He learned that rats that live in sterile cages with nothing else to do chose to take drugs until they effectively committed suicide. But those offered alternatives to drugs — like sweets or sex — often chose the alternatives. 

In other words, the addictive behavior was caused by the environment, not some attribute of the drug itself.

Then Hart did something unusual. He invited human drug users into his lab. He set up an experiment where he offered regular meth users a choice between drugs or money.

When presented with an attractive alternative ($20), even people who regularly use a drug like meth still chose the alternative.

WATCH: Dr. Carl Hart’s talk on drug use, poverty, and U.S. drug laws.