I have had it with this likescolding. “Tumblr doesn’t have an algorithm so likes don’t actually do anything” motherfucker I am not clicking that heart to give some post better ~algorithmic visibility~ I am clicking that heart to help my internet friend microdose on serotonin as god fucking intended
magdaliny
“In college I had a physics professor who wrote the date and time in red marker on a sheet of white paper and then lit the paper on fire and placed it on a metallic mesh basket on the lab table where it burned to ashes. He asked us whether or not the information on the paper was destroyed and not recoverable, and of course we were wrong, because physics tells us that information is never lost, not even in a black hole, and that what is seemingly destroyed is, in fact, retrievable. In that burning paper the markings of ink on the page are preserved in the way the flame flickers and the smoke curls. Wildly distorted to the point of chaos, the information is nonetheless not dead. Nothing, really, dies. Nothing dies. Nothing dies.”
— Nicholas Rombes, The Absolution of Roberto Acestes Laing (via bobschofield)
You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.
(Aaron Freeman, “Planning Ahead Can Make A Difference In The End”)
intactics-deactivated20211231
少年不識愁滋味， 愛上層樓， 愛上層樓; 為赋新詞強說愁。 而今識盡愁滋味， 欲說還休， 欲說還休; 卻道天凉好個秋。
In youth I knew nothing of the taste of sorrow I liked to climb high towers, I liked to climb high towers To conjure up a bit of sorrow to make new verse.
Now I know only too well the taste of sorrow. I begin to speak yet pause, I begin to speak yet pause And say instead, “My, what a cool and lovely autumn.”
Xin Qiji 辛棄疾 (1140-1207); the translation appears to be by Eileen Chengyin Chow, posted on her Instagram
I finally got around to finishing this doodle? Line art? Madness? After having it taped to my wall for months unfinished.
And progression pics below.
"Russian winter". Moscow-based artist Filipp Vyacheslavovich Kubarev (b.1969).
Anonymous asked:
when i younger i had a crush on a radio tower. like, a specific one. he was my tall red-eyed loverboy and every day on the way to and from school i would take comfort in the fact that my love was watching over me like a guardian angel. at one point he started appearing in my dreams as a many-voiced winged being of wires and dials. honestly i still think younger me had taste, but i know i'm mentally ill now so i can usually rationalize my way out of simping for a broadcast pylon.
This is the only crush confession that matters to me
And though the static walls surround me You were out there and you found me I was out here listening all the time
Vase, Victor Durand Jr., 1912, Art Institute of Chicago: American Art
Gift of Roy C. Neuhaus Size: H.: 30.5 cm (12 in.) Medium: Glass
David Spriggs, Dark Matter, 2007 Black paint on layered transparencies, display case
Made a deck of 100 cards with dreamlike images, and actually got them printed.
The genderless urge to study your local flora and turn open spaces into ecosystems for native plants.
Aurora borealis over Vancouver, British Columbia, seen from Salt Spring Island.
Traditional W̱SÁNEĆ lands.