Category: Sundry

Down in the archives

Uuuurrrgh. Cleaning my digital archives. Not as arduous as moving those fat brittle archive cabinets -which were unbalanced so prone to tip over- slathered in a dull-grey colour, with undoubtedly a hefty amount of lead-  trying to open the one that has that effing last letter – which Susan misfiled years ago- behind a rusted lock boring. But still I feel like complaining.

Nail in the coffin

Musea -at their worst- are where art goes to die.

Every year I visit several exhibits. Usually I leave with the feeling of having gawked at a well preserved corpse.

It might be that I go there with the wrong expectations?

Ideally I’d like to leave feeling closer to the artist or gain a greater understanding of the work itself.

It’s so sterile.

Here is the artwork.

There is a plaque with a summation of the life of the person that created it in 365 characters.


When I die, I’d like to commission the author of those plaques, to write my eulogy, to make sure I’m proper dead.

it’s the end of twitter as you can access it

Well fook-a-doodle-doo, using twitter via third party apps will soon end:

Twitteriffic, tweetbot and others still haven’t received access so they can change their code to give their users push-notifications this means no time-line refresh.

After June 19th, 2018, “streaming services” at Twitter will be removed. This means two things for third-party apps:

  1. Push notifications will no longer arrive
  2. Timelines won’t refresh automatically

If you use an app like TalonTweetbotTweetings, or Twitterrific, there is no way for its developer to fix these issues.
We are incredibly eager to update our apps. However, despite many requests for clarification and guidance, Twitter has not provided a way for us to recreate the lost functionality. We’ve been waiting for more than a year.


Seems it’s back to blogging, newsletters and chatrooms. Good thing I never shut those down. 😉

show, don’t tell.

For some people saying they’re going to do something is as good as having done said thing.

..and then the project ends up languishing on a bed of good intentions

Don’t announce “I’m gonna draw/write”.

Do it and surprise us with the results.

* Make a to do list.

* Put a date on the phases of your project.

* Commit.

* Work backwards: where do I want to end up and how do I get there?

* Develop a routine.

* Take small steps, it is not flashy but you’ll have something more to show for it than you had yesterday.

* Review your progress at set points; look for issues you can optimize to improve.

The above advice is a distillation of all of the courses on ‘how to get things done’.

If a particular system works for you, go do it. (bullet journaling, keeping a diary, having a 5 year plan) but the above basically all there is to them.

godspeed, sir.

“I regard the brain as a computer which will stop working when its components fail. There is no heaven or afterlife for broken down computers; that is a fairy story for people afraid of the dark”

“I have noticed that even those who assert that everything is predestined and that we can change nothing about it still look both ways before they cross the street”

Stephen Hawking, modern cosmology’s brightest star, dies aged 76


Annihilation was amazeballs.

Sits comfortably next to solaris, event horizon. (if those aren’t your cup of tea, well, you were warned, you curious thing, you.)

It takes an alternate path to the books, but I’ve learned to look at book-to-movie as it’s own thing. It certainly doesn’t lessen in translation.

imdb entry for Annihilation

awkward service

I’m thinking of starting a service
where people -who routinely over extend themselves- call me up with their latest project/idea gush about “I want to do the thing!” and then I tell them “no you cannot do the thing” “because of thing x,y,z you are already doing”

I’ll then note the project and file it to retrieve at a later date.

A cross between a PA, Editor and YOUR MOM.

-but without the mandatory annual awkward extended family christmas get together.

unless you want that for an extra fee.

Magic Mirror

There comes a point where you’ve watched all the art videos, read the all tutorials, attended all the lectures and bought all of the courses/books, afterwards made the to do lists;

this then is the point where you’ve gotta be honest with yourself;

Do you just love studying art? Or do you want to make some awesome art?

You can’t leech the ‘magic of doing’ by looking.

Get off your arse and draw mate.

That’s how you know it’s good

The false cult of buy-in-positivity with their pastel tinted artisanally faded pictures, plastered with wholesale quotes & additive hashtags wouldn’t touch this with a barge pole covered in angels’ prayers. That’s how you know it’s good.

Good, like the smell of earth disturbed after a heavy rainfall.

Or the bubblegum kiss you didn’t expect. And now even after 30 years, you still get a spring in your step, when you catch a faint whiff of it as you pass a stranger by.

Why the Sea Tastes of Salt and Why the Moon Always Looks Toward Us

STORY by Steve Toase FB/twitter/website/tumblr ART by calliope

Why the Sea Tastes of Salt and Why the Moon Always Looks Toward Us

The Witch of the Red House fell in love with the moon. With no wings to lift her through the sky, she went to the marsh and asked the stagnant waters for advice.

The drowning pools spoke in the voices of the hurdle crushed and the slit throats.

“You must slip off your skin. Lay it by the north wall of your house at the new moon. Until the full moon scrape the fat from the inside of your hide, the hair from the outside, and shape both into a candle. When the full moon rises, light the candle, and your skin will become a carpet of honeysuckle and magnolia to carry you to your beloved.”

When the new moon came, the Witch of the Red House peeled off her skin, stemming her blood with salt, the agony making her choke out the names of all Five Dead Gods.

For one month she scraped fat from the inside of her own hide, and hair from the outside, shaping both into a single candle.

When the full moon rose, and the light fell on the Red House, the Witch lit the candle. She stepped onto her cracked skin, hooking her feet into the eyeholes and grasping the now limp scalp to steady her balance. The skin rose into the air, fissures becoming petals of honeysuckle and magnolia.

Skitter-footed beetles and gnaw-toothed mites fell in mists to the garden below. The platform of flowers climbed through the clouds to orbit her beloved, the moon.

And the moon saw The Witch of the Red House without her skin. He saw her as a thing of tendons and tissue, of muscles and marrow. He saw her as a thing of gristle and gore, and slowly he turned his vast face from her.

In fury the Witch of the Red House tore out her ribs, turning the moon with the broken shards, and pinning him to look forever at the Earth.

With nothing else for her on land, and nothing else for her in the sky, the Witch of the Red House threw herself into the sea. The currents dragged her to the ocean floor. To the hidden land of scavenged whales and the pressure of one hundred fathoms. As she fell, the salt crusting her wounds spread through the sea, so all who sipped it would remember her pain.

Every month the moon tries dragging the Witch to him, begging her to snatch out the slivers of bone, but she is too deep, feasting in the dark on sailors whose lungs hold cold oceans of their own.