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Pitter Patterns

Monday, August 29, 2011

Brad Stand discovers the truth about his favorite story.

[Vivian] Why do you think that you tell the mayo story so much?

I don't know. Why?

- [Bernard] It's propaganda.

For mayonnaise?

- For you. Specifically, you're so impressive because you know Shania. And you're so strong, because you pull one on her.

- You're a funny guy, a good guy.

- Keeping everyone laughing... so that maybe, quote, You don't get depressed.

Well, what's so great about depression?

-Nothing. Unless it holds the key... to something you compulsively avoid... so it will never be examined or felt... hence your behavior becomes repetitive like the story.

- Like the story.

- Like the story.

- Like the story. Like the story.

- Like the story.

Shut up.

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
11:20 am



Monday, August 22, 2011

When I heard the news about Jack Layton, I was in the kitchen preparing the espresso machine. It was 8:57AM. The morning cartoons were over and Radio-Canada news appeared on the television with the special report.

He was 61 years old.

I was shocked. I stood in front of the screen, listening to every word she was saying. Then the words "No way." barely took form and dripped out of me.

Jack Layton was the only politician that had me going. I could believe what he was saying and what he wanted to achieve. It never crossed my mind that he was a liar like so many ordinary men bending for their own benefit.

This guy was the real deal. He RAN the walk. He stood for everything he publicly proclaimed as valuable and dear to us. Courageous, honorable, kind, honest and persevering, he will leave behind a massive gap on the political stage.

Jack Layton
July 18, 1950 – August 22, 2011

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
9:59 am



Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Here appears another paper with his handwriting, perfectly tilted in a 100 degree angle. The first sentence bleeds the essence of the man I fell in love with years ago (like a breath being blown into a still chest...). His words of ink never disappoint. His words of ink, pixels at one point, the beginning of an era named June, have found the weakness in my coke bottle glasses. Never too soon.

And so this letter comes to reflect what I have come to unmake. Under piles of paper in a time when missives were hand delivered, at the end of many phone calls in a time when cords linked ear and mouth to a push button head, there was a ghost called hope. Like a mother holding her child on her lap I nurtured the spirit of something magical every time his face, his name or any part belonging to his world appeared to me. After Golden Bears were laid under the feet of masked hunters and mattresses hung on walls, there were no Ace of clubs left to play. Faint spell over riddles of fists and bar taps could not pull these two fishes together again.

Instead of the typical shuffle of the right left right, I pointed out the door I would take, colouring it yellow when indeed it was red. Many times I tried to speak, to tell, to yell but the sound of the bell was muffled by the sound of bottles instead. It was a mistake to wear lipstick when I was supposed to be dead. Even now, the sound of misery stirring in the belly of an envelope is lifted with the echo of a sea foam poetry. All this broken glass left on the sand, where once waves came to bed, are the bodies of dreams I have drowned.

Today, it used to be today shining like a never-ending summer walk, together. Now today is apart from us. The soul full now, you know how the energy goes.

I will not apologize for surviving the war and protecting my one and only spearhead. My last goodbye kept for the best. Never did I want the opponent to be punished. Let your heavy voice crack under your belief of happiness.

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
11:56 am


We are the www

Tuesday, August 02, 2011

Being beautiful does not grant you magnetism. Popularity does not grant you respect. But money can buy you a ticket on a smooth-rolling glory train into the blinding brilliant domain of status pro, eclipsing magnetism and respect out of the equation. The opposite is also true. Being a pro at consuming thirty-three hotdogs in five minutes can possibly grant you some kind of gravy train pass. And that’s cool for anyone who wants to be in the centre of a circle of friends to feed upon.

Mark Zukerburg based his "Hot Or Ugly" venture on the exploitation of gaps in network security. Much like a virus wears down the healthy cells of a body, like a hand in a glove, sand through the hourglass. As a natural course in his pectoral swelling, he built Facebook by exploiting the cracks in social interdependency. Providing that all classes of human flesh would be willing to invest their time (academic, artistic, professional, et al) in the half empty glass, the structure he would build would emerge from the world wide web as the link between real world associations and the comfort and ease of the personal desktop communications. In order to make “friends”, Zukerburg redefined phonebook searches to the simplest form: Like, Share, and Status.

What people reach for, what they hope to grasp through the web is their own business. You are your the business: reseller, distributor, consumer and most of all, the product. The content you put forth and what you pull in is what is counted in hits. Who are you? Opinions? Art? Lists? Cracks? Any page you populate with tidbits be it on Wordpress, Huffington Post or, god forbid, MSN space, is what internet users guzzle, day in and day out. We sit in front of this screen and load information, then filter and sort through it in order to get the loot, the booty, the score, which is all user-defined and transitory.


For now, let’s be friends, silently and disjointedly. I’m not looking to meet people on my way to the market. I want my friends to be available when I am ready to log into the relationship. I want my relationships to be neatly organised in groups by function. I want every group to have different levels of access to my real life. If I wanted to walk around with a sign defining any part of my personal life, I would be a roadside attraction. I think some information should be kept in a triangulated vault and have a minimum of code breakers aware of its existence.

“Excuse-us for inviting you in.”

Why would anyone want to offer, for free, a breadcrumb of personal data to the hitchhikers of the information highway? I imagine it is to sell a swell version of themselves. The one with the good side or the one highly developed side, such as a pro member, a bionic arm. Nobody puts up a profile to announce “I watch poorly recorded videos of big breasted women ten hours a day” or uploads pictures of their acne covered mug because all that does is reveal a chink in somebody's armour. If you don’t have talent, a voice or oversized limbs you better know how to share the hell out of the best of the net. Being a crème de la crème reporter of the LOL URLs will quickly duplicate your name across the web as a reference of all things trending. You will become the trend.

If you can’t do that, how will you ever make friends on the internet? If you don’t have friends on the internet, how will you interact with others? Who will care about your Old Spice vegetable puppet parody then?

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
8:39 am


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