This is an amazing work of stop-action animation by Dina Velikovskaya. The description, alas, inadequately describes: “Kukuschka is a bird, who follows the Sun. It seems to her as if she already could touch It, but the Sun is still far away. Suddenly she is not alone anymore, but for two it’s even more difficult to keep going so fast. She will reach the Sun, may be tomorrow may be the day after.”
Still, it’s a short piece, so anything more could arguably be a spoiler. I’ll just add that this is deliciously weird.
Good morning, Twitter. I come to you today to discuss a serious scourge sweeping our nation: Feline shoe huffing. Once fringe, this frightening addiction is now growing out of control. Please, speak to your cats about the dangers of shoe huffing. It only takes one shoe, one time. pic.twitter.com/vjU6xirJVt
Directed by Tuna Bora & Jonathan Djob Nkondo
Written and produced by Tuna Bora
This could be for the philosophically inclined. Or it could be for an altered state of consciousness. Whatever: full screen and headphones are recommended. (Can’t think of how to index this except under “fun”.)
1973 was about the time I dropped out of college. You would assume, therefore, that I would have some memory of this. I do not. Whatever this video is, it is outrageously funny: where the surreal hits the road. From the Atlantic (or “A” as they currently style themselves):
For my part, when the time of novel corona came, I had already purchased a years’ supply the previous September though I was aiming more for when the lease on this apartment expires.
The swine qua non of the rural county fair: greased pig wrestling. Really, now, isn’t the prospect of becoming bacon enough? ‘Tis insult on injury, methinks, even if all of us, not just pigs, live to be eaten.
I don’t recall who took the photo except it was not me. Nor do I know where it was taken. It was given to me back in college days by a friend, a student at the Institute of Design; it could have been any of several chums. This was not long after the time the Yippies proposed running an actual pig for President of the United States (prescient, eh?). I think I acquired the print with propaganda in mind.
It’s not a very good photo, in my humble opinion. Why, then, is it inflicted upon you? It’s just an excuse for some almost clever word play. If the play doesn’t bring at least a twitch of a grin to your face then it is truly a total waste of your time. You are not entitled to a refund nor will you receive an apology; this is not the first time today that you’ve totally wasted your time. Go forth, my friend, and sin some more:
If pigs could fly, there’d be a sty in your eye quicker than bacon grease for fried potatoes and eggs! But soft! Those arterial plaques await you; their time is your time: that tightened chest, that breathless breath! The plaques explode like land mines, scattering clots of careless shrapnel across the body. Will it be idiocy, this time, or drowning or a fatal lack of heart? Sit down, old friend, and gain some minutes to stare old Death in the eye sockets. Oh? The brow ridges that grace these orbits? Yea, verily, Death is of an ancient lineage that even Yorick fails to amuse — to Yorick’s cost, I should add. Death bears witness… or bares witnesses, as the case may be, and stands in judgement: Will this be a fossil? Or will time dissolve it all? Be glad it is not your duty to watch an endless reprise to the end of the universe. The tragedy grows numb after an aeon. It grows to an eternity with the full weight of time, an infinite weight that leaves one unable to grab that pork pie hat (remember the pigs? this is about pigs.) and leave. There is no balm for boar-dom. Squealing does no good. Not even Yorick will laugh; only – perhaps – those waiting to feed will be amused.
Sick transit glorious Monday:
The CTA train don’t come.
* Blind sight is a condition wherein the eyes function well enough, but the neural connections that bring the information to conscious consideration are damaged. Other connections remain, so while persons with this condition are indeed blind, they may nonetheless be able to negotiate the obstacles in a path or to grab an object. They won’t know why. Sty sight is a condition wherein the eyes function well enough but the subject is unable to perceive the pigs or what they wallow in. And they wonder why.
Well, there is an “immediate care” clinic right at hand. ‘Tis fortunate; the thought of dancing an i-beam evoked so much vertigo that I almost checked myself in. What passes for public art these days is most mischievous. Don’t you love it?