Saturday, 31 December 2011

Hedi Slimane

Tuesday, 20 December 2011

The father, the Sun, and the Holy Ghost

At this time of year, a time of the extraordinary, the miraculous, and the downright crazy parties; is a time which always reminds me of one man. A man who came down to earth from on high to open our eyes and to teach us the joys of intergallactic music. Fasten your seat-belts; the Ra Ship has landed.

Wednesday, 14 December 2011

Lost and found...

I found these two pictures when searching through some old folders on my computer, unfortunately the photographer is a mystery to me. If anyone knows, and wants to show off their cultural knowledge, please reply on our Facebook page. The main reward can be smugness.

Tuesday, 13 December 2011

Ten one-liners. Some may be longer than one line.

1. I'm so alive, and yet I should be feeling grave.

2. One day, my dear, like a king and queen of the same heart, we'll be much better suited.

3. I'm struggling to decide between two competing theories of neurological composition. I can't make up my mind.

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Anguish Languish

In 1940, professor of languages Howard L. Chace authored a curious re-imagining of a very familiar story. Using the technique of homophonic transformation (replacing original words with ones nearly identical in sound, but not meaning) the bizarre 'Ladle Rat Rotten Hut' was born. The effect is baffling, and demonstrates the importance of intonation in creating meaning in language.

To listen to the story read aloud, click here (Real Player/VLC required) or read it here.

- K.H.

Quand l'art t'attaque

Because Neil Buchanan is my hero.

But mainly because crafting Santas in toilet paper is still cool.


Sunday, 4 December 2011

The Moment

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage,
you stand in the centre of you room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment the trees unloose,
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper, you own nothing,
you were a visitor, time after time, 
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

Margaret Atwood