John
My blogs
| Gender | Male |
|---|---|
| Industry | Arts |
| Location | Silver Spring, MD |
| Introduction | I'm overly reflective and mildly eschatophobic. |
| Interests | autobiographical comics, documentaries, horror movies, gardening, cooking, homemade guacamole, beer, books, dance nights, the end of the world |
| Favorite Movies | I know it's a TV show, but Six Feet Under left me speechless at times. |
| Favorite Music | I'm the same as I was when I was 6 years old - And oh my God I feel so damn old - I don't really feel anything - On a plane, I can see the tiny lights below - And oh my God, they look so alone - Do they really feel anything? - Oh my God, I've gotta gotta gotta gotta move on - Where do you move when what you're moving from - Is yourself? - The universe works on a math equation that never even ever really even ends in the end - Infinity spirals out creation - We're on the tip of its tongue, and it is saying - We ain't sure where you stand - You ain't machines and you ain't land - And the plants and the animals, they are linked - And the plants and the animals eat each other - Oh my God and oh my cat - I told my Dad what I need - Well I know what I have and want But I don't know what I need - Well, he said he said he said he said - "Where we're going I'm dead." |
| Favorite Books | The silence hissed in her ears and her vision was faintly distorted–-her hands in her lap appeared unusually large and at the same time remote, as though viewed across an immense distance. She raised one hand and flexed its fingers and wondered, as she had sometimes before, how is this thing, this machine for gripping, this fleshy spider on the end of her arm, came to be hers, entirely at her command. Or did it have some little life of its own? She bent her finger and straightened it. The mystery was in the instant before it moved, the dividing moment between not moving and moving, when her intention took effect. It was like a wave breaking. If she could only find herself at the crest, she thought, she might find the secret of herself, that part of her that was really in charge. She brought her forefinger closer to her face and stared at it, urging it to move. It remained still because willing it to move, or being about to move it, was not the same as actually moving it. And when she did crook it finally, the action seemed to start in the finger itself, not in some part of her mind. When did it know to move, when did she know to move it? There was no catching herself out. It was either-or. There was no stitching, no seam, and yet she knew that behind the smooth continuous fabric was the real self-- was it her soul?--which took the decision to cease pretending, and gave it the final command. |