By: Oyl Miller, McSweeney’s

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by brevity, over-connectedness, emotionally starving for attention, dragging themselves through virtual communities at 3 am, surrounded by stale pizza and neglected dreams, looking for angry meaning, any meaning, same hat wearing hipsters burning for shared and skeptical approval from the holographic projected dynamo in the technology of the era, who weak connections and recession wounded and directionless, sat up, micro-conversing in the supernatural darkness of Wi-Fi-enabled cafes, floating across the tops of cities, contemplating techno, who bared their brains to the black void of new media and the thought leaders and so called experts who passed through community colleges with radiant, prank playing eyes, hallucinating Seattle- and Tarantino-like settings among pop scholars of war and change, who dropped out in favor of following a creative muse, publishing zines and obscene artworks on the windows of the internet, who cowered in unshaven rooms, in ironic superman underwear burning their money in wastebaskets from the 1980s and listening to Nirvana through paper thin walls, who got busted in their grungy beards riding the Metro through Shinjuku station, who ate digital in painted hotels or drank Elmer’s glue in secret alleyways, death or purgatoried their torsos with tattoos taking the place of dreams, that turned into nightmares, because there are no dreams in the New Immediacy, incomparably blind to reality, inventing the new reality, through hollow creations fed through illuminated screens. Screens of shuttering tag clouds and image thumbnails lightning in the mind surfing towards Boards of Canada and Guevara, illuminating all the frozen matrices of time between, megabyted solidities of borders and yesterday’s backyard wiffleball dawns, downloaded drunkenness over rooftops, digital storefronts of flickering flash, a sun and moon of programming joyrides sending vibrations to mobile devices set on manner mode during twittering wintering dusks of Peduca, ashtray rantings and coffee stains that hid the mind, who bound themselves to wireless devices for an endless ride of opiated information from and Google on sugary highs until the noise of modems and fax machines brought them down shuddering, with limited and vulgar verbiage to comment threads, battered bleak of shared brain devoid of brilliance in the drear light of a monitor, who sank all night in interface’s light of Pabst floated out and sat through the stale sake afternoon in desolate pizza parlors, listening to the crack of doom on separate nuclear iPods, who texted continuously 140 characters at a time from park to pond to bar to MOMA to Brooklyn Bridge lost battalion of platonic laconic self proclaimed journalists committed to a revolution of information, jumping down the stoops off of R&B album covers out of the late 1980s, tweeting their screaming vomiting whispering facts and advices and anecdotes of lunchtime sandwiches and cat antics on couches with eyeballs following and shockwaves of analytics and of authority and finding your passion and other jargon, whole intellects underscored and wiped clean in the total recall 24/7 365 assault all under the gaze of once brilliant eyes.

Source: youmightfindyourself


Lucian Blaga: The Light

The light I feel
streaming in my breast when I see you,
is that not a drop of the light
created on the first day,
that light which thirsts for life?

/in memoriam Ioan Mihalca/

Source: gaeaheea

"I like her. She makes life interesting. She, herself, is interesting, I suppose. She talks right from the heart. I appreciate her frankness and I like the fact that she doesn’t force the natural flow of a conversation. There’s personality in her words. She thus gets to the core of things and that’s important because with her — I can talk knowing that the talk is real! Oh believe me, it’s amazingly real! And she also gives me the oportunity to listen as fully and completely as possible. And I can’t seem to get her out of my head […]"

Source: violentwavesofemotion
  • Answer:

    It’s center.


It Drew Itself

Give it a look see. 


Beneath the bloom of the most aesthetic flora of the Tigris I was locked motionless by eye and limb in the embrace of an effervescent youth. But as the harvest came to bear, our engagements became pockmarked with infrequency and then, stopped taking place entirely. The pin prick of its capsule and the bead of milk that follows. My heart sank until it fell. Like eggshell porcelain it met the ground at my feet; followed posthumously by a tear. By third morning, my face dewy as blades of grass and my throat bulbous as the poppy, I managed to eat. The fragments left my chest devoid of rhythm. In her presence I was a drum but after, simply skin. I the needle, her the thread and our tapestry woven, by kisses and wildflowers. And I truly believed that no matter what, everything I did would carry with it the color of her thread. Some weeks later, in an alcove of the market, I was pulled aside by a winsome youth. As pigeons fluttered just overhead from the yard of the mosque we stood, locked in symmetry. My brow was made moist by the beating sun and lo, my beating heart. A thread was fed through mine eye. A waining crescent sheds light on its fertile brethren. The day brings a new moon. Another love to embrace under blooms. 

Photo Set

Drawings by Ryan Stuart Nault

Photo Set

Installations by Caleb Charland

Photo Set

Installations by Alejandro Almanza pereda


Poetry Barn Murals by Bill Dunlap