The Trickiness of your Own Eyeballs

Do you try these sort of illusions when you find them? I really like how our own senses can trick us in so many unique and weird ways. If you have other links like this add them to comments. Share and share alike.

Look at the picture below, and stare at the little white point on the nose of the woman for about 15 seconds. Then look at the white square. Did you just see a woman appear? This is what we call the opponent process. It’s a combination of different wavelengths that makes us perceive color. The wavelengths are processed in our brain. Special neurons that are present in the lateral geniculate nucleus react to different pairs of colors. Green is paired with red, yellow is paired with blue and white is paired with black. The picture of the girl represents only one color of a pair. So in the afterimage you’ll see the opposite paired color.

Source: Niume | Posts

How Did the Human Race Appear?

A little girl asked her mother, “How did the human race appear?”

The mother answered, “God made Adam and Eve and they had children, and so was all mankind made..”

Two days later the girl asked her father the same question. The father answered, “Many years ago there were monkeys from which the human race evolved.”

The confused girl returned to her mother and said, “Mom, how is it possible that you told me the human race was created by God, and Dad said they developed from monkeys?”

The mother answered, “Well, dear, it is very simple. I told you about my side of the family and your father told you about his.”

Found on Facebook: The Husband Chronicles.

To Read or Not to Read

Date A Girl Who Reads

I’ve been rather late on this, but a lovely little essay has been making rounds on the Internet, apparently in response to Charles Warnke’s You Should Date An Illiterate Girl. Rosemarie Urquico writes:

You should date a girl who reads.

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.


You Should Date An Illiterate Girl

Jan. 19, 2011

ByCharles Warnke

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

Invent a New Kick on an Old Gumshoe

There have been all kinds of private detectives, investigators and amateur sleuths in fiction. It would be hard to come up with a completely new character. But, if that were your challenge… what can you come up with? To give you an idea here are some practical links for people who really are interested in a career as a private investigator.

It’s too much of a stretch to create a private detective as a baby. Though it would be interesting to work out the bugs on that idea, it just seems too much to expect a baby to get around well enough to get the job done. Not to mention the language barrier.

So my idea for a new detective is a teenager, a girl but not at all the Nancy Drew type. This girl is into body art and dresses all in black. People tend to cross to the other side of the street to avoid her. She’s actually very clever but hides it, not wanting to look geeky to her friends. Some how she gets wrapped up in a mystery to help a friend or neighbour.

Invent your own detective, give it a try.

Formatting Matters!

I started reading this and liked the rhymes. I would have read more, probably right to the end, but the formatting (a block of solid text) put me off. I skipped down and read some lines from the middle and then around the end. What a shame the writer didn’t take the time to format their work and make it easier to read.

I tried and failed. I couldnt prevail. My path derailed. In my own fairytale. I couldnt see what I needed to see. All this time you were misguiding me. Here I thought you were setting me free. But I was to blind to see reality. I heard your voice clear as day. When I saw you walk my way. I wanted to leave but you begged me to stay. For so long I stood at your side. Not knowing I was,building my own prison to,hide. Blinded I was so filled with pride. I was dieing and that I denied. I wanted so bad to stop this bleeding. To heal a scar that was never leaving. To wrap real love around this wound. Leave this world I will real soon. When I am gone dont call my name. I will ignore you as you did the same. Will you see the tears I cried or closely feel my pain. All the lies are just a bloodful stain. It scars me, a good girl I cant maintain. I look at you hate runs through my vains. Why couldnt I brake free before? Oh, thats right cause I was the one you adored. I was scared a bit paranoid. I thought that I loved you but truly what it was. I was looking for someone to love. This heart that I hold loses control. It confuses emotions and, of what it ought to know. Faliur is powerful when you feel its your fault. The world can tell you different. Yet you tell them to hault. Corruption of the heart, mind and soul. Trying I was but this is unbearable to hold. Will you die mentally? Will you stay traped, when I brake free? Will you feel what you did to me? Do you feel anything? I doubt it, just like everything. I guess this it I’ll take my leave. Thnxx again for nothing.

via Thnxx For Nothing on PNN.

White Girl Problems

Problems that only stereotypical middle to upper class white girls seem to encounter. To the untrained eye these problems might seem like a symptom of being spoiled, ungrateful, and overly obsessed with superficial appearances and material possessions. The truth is though life is like really hard.

via Urban Dictionary: white girl problems. Write a few white girl problems of your own. (The secret is not to take it seriously).

  • I lost one of my favourite dangly earrings. Now I have an earring orphan to look after!
  • A thread was hanging from my sweater… is this a sign of a much deeper issue?
  • I get a new toothbrush every day so I never have to think about how old they are.
  • I can only do day trips. I need a lot more supplies for an over night trip, just the thought of packing up all that stuff makes me want to stay home.
  • Sometimes I forget which is the instant camera so I always pull out the memory stick before I throw it away, just to be safe.
  • If people really knew how much it hurts me they would stop calling my dog a rat!
  • I shaved my dog cause she wouldn’t stop shedding all over my clothes.
  • I used a whole can of bug spray before I realized it was just a dust bunny.

Extra links:


Copycats on Twitter – Still active and good too.

Another Adult Writing Prompt

This one has a name I’m not so sure about posting here. Yes, I do write adult content (mainly for my own amusement these days) but I am a nice girl, a Canadian too. Some things are just not done in polite company. But, because it is a proper name, the name given to the group, I am going to quote it.

Fuck Me Friday is a writing prompt for adult writers, done by Aisling Weaver on Fridays. Of course, you don’t have to read the posts, or participate. But, I do think it is important for writers to stretch a bit, try new things. Even if that means writing sports, horror or adult content – when you have no experience with them. You don’t have to become a professional erotica writer in one story, just give yourself the room and the freedom to explore.

A Ghost Book

This was painted by Mark Ryden. It reminds me of Miranda, the ghost girl in a book I read about 30 years ago. I wish I could remember the book, who wrote it. When I read it I knew it was a book I would want to read again when I was older and would understand more of it. But, it’s long forgotten, like a ghost itself.

Write about a ghost book. Decide what a ghost book would be to you, it might be something with a different story from mine. What is the story of the ghost book as you think of it?