That is what death means. We exist in the minds of other people, in thousands of memory clusters, and one by one those clusters fade and disappear. Some years from now, at a funeral with a slide show, only one person will be able to say who we were. Then no one will know.

Roger Ebert, as fierce a writer as ever, reflects on life, death, and what it’s like to have friends and peers die. (via explore-blog)

(Source: , via explore-blog)

Such a class act, this one.

Watched A Separation yesterday (which by the way was one of the most brilliant film experiences I’ve had in quite some time) and then the Kony campaign immediately after. Both gave me insight into cultures I don’t know nearly enough about, but would like to. Critique the actions of others if you will, though unless you’re getting off your ass to make a positive difference in any way yourself, it really becomes a moot point. We should never just blindly accept information that is fed to us, but in the end any opportunity to educate or peak the curiosity of people is a good thing, and something we could all use more of. So there.

This sure does tickle my fancy.

(Source: explore-blog)

This fondles my heart in so many ways. So simple yet so not. Just lovely…

Love.

Life is a trip and then you die…

“Back in my day….” I had to wait around for Fantastic Voyage to come on the radio, simultaneously hold down two buttons on my tape player to record it, aaand then sit with a pen and paper pushing play, rewind, play rewind over and over until I got the lyrics down. I couldn’t help but feel connected. Kiddies these days sure do have it easy…

White supremacist penis, black hands. Tough gig.

White supremacist penis, black hands. Tough gig.

(Source: johnonholiday)

HA. Doncha just love it?

Good shtuff on creativity….