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Shiny things and cephalopods and dorky supernatural assassins.
background design by cryptovolans
remember you are mechanical, not only in the ball and socket of your shoulders, or the resilient padding of your knees, but are in fact built from hinges, gears, and switches all the way into to your smallest bits
when your nerves fire, a tiny rod gets turned and a hole opens, like the twist of a wrench opening a fire hydrant letting ions flow through in a rush
the nuclei of your cells are organized by twine-like proteins that tie the helical DNA together so that it will send the right instructions, binding on switch to on and off switch to off
your muscle threads are molecular ratchets: this is why the only force they can exert is contractile, cranking along protein strands until the calcium runs out and they slip free
there is no grand overseer, no foreman, in this factory. there is only an unimaginable multitude of tiny engines, self-regulating, self-organizing, safeguarded by redundancy, each part replaceable
know you are an aggregate, the sum of your moving parts
everyone is a robot if you peer closely enough
When Van Gogh was a young man in his early twenties, he was in London studying to be a clergyman. He had no thought of being an artist at all. he sat in his cheap little room writing a letter to his younger brother in Holland, whom he loved very much. He looked out his window at a watery twilight, a thin lamppost, a star, and he said in his letter something like this: “it is so beautiful I must show you how it looks.” And then on his cheap ruled note paper, he made the most beautiful, tender, little drawing of it.
When I read this letter of Van Gogh’s it comforted me very much and seemed to throw a clear light on the whole road of Art. Before, I thought that to produce a work of painting or literature, you scowled and thought long and ponderously and weighed everything solemnly and learned everything that all artists had ever done aforetime, and what their influences and schools were, and you were extremely careful about *design* and *balance* and getting *interesting planes* into your painting, and avoided, with the most astringent severity, showing the faintest *academical* tendency, and were strictly modern. And so on and so on.
But the moment I read Van Gogh’s letter I knew what art was, and the creative impulse. It is a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and in a direct, simple, passionate and true way, you try to show this beauty in things to others, by drawing it.
And Van Gogh’s little drawing on the cheap note paper was a work of art because he loved the sky and the frail lamppost against it so seriously that he made the drawing with the most exquisite conscientiousness and care."
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