““I have been around long enough to discount most superstitions for what they are: I was around when many of them began to take root, after all. But one superstition to which I happen to subscribe is that bad juju comes in threes. The saying in my time was, “Storm clouds are thrice cursed,” but I can’t talk like that and expect people to believe I’m a twenty-one-year-old American. I have to say things like, “Shit happens, man.””—Hearne, Kevin. “Iron Druid Chronicles 01 - Hounded.
"It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise," Talisid said. We were standing a little way to the side, watching from a distance, each of us holding a glass of wine. "You’re acquiring something of a reputation."
"I didn’t say it was a good reputation," Talisid said dryly. "You’re now suspected of having a hand in the disappearance of two separate Light mages. With good reason, I might add."
"I could say they started it."
"Somehow I don’t think that would help very much."
”—Cursed: An Alex Verus Novel
Benedict Jacka (2012)
“"Okay, so. Introductions. Luna, this is Meredith, a mage. Meredith, this is Luna, my apprentice. Luna, this is Bob the Dead Construct. Bob, meet Luna. So now we all know each other."
Okay, so social graces aren’t my strong point. Hey, you try to come up with a polite way of introducing an apprentice, a mage, and a dead body.”—Cursed: An Alex Verus Novel
Benedict Jacka (2012)
“I heard you and you can rest assured I took it to heart. I realize now that we went too far with this aggressive approach…”—Specialized founder Mike Sinyard, who was apparently lying his ass off. (via cyclocosm)
[Trailwalker] Today I’m hoping to raise $250 for Oxfam Trailwalker!
I’m walking 100km in Oxfam Trailwalker Melbourne, 2 – 4 May 2014, to challenge myself and fight poverty around the world. Today I’m hoping to raise $250 for Oxfam Trailwalker which will be enough money to provide orphaned and vulnerable children and their families with nourishing meals for a whole month at a South African crèche.
I’m contacting you and asking you to support my 100km challenge and Oxfam by donating to my team.
Here are some brief points on the economics of for-profit start up publications.
There are a great number of them that are in profit. They exist to make money. They are not an altruistic project enamoured of the public good. They have boards, they have CEOs drawing large salaries, they have full…
Today I got banned for 12 hours from Facebook. It’s not the end of the world (I think it helped my productivity) but I figured it would be worth discussing because of the context of the ban. So here goes.
Last June I made this comic:
Definitely not the most shocking thing we’ve done at…
“* Hassan … The Golden Journey to Samarkand *
Go as a pilgrim and seek out danger
Far from comfort and the well lit-avenues of life.
Pit your very soul against the unknown
And seek stimulation in the company of the brave.
Experience cold and hunger, heat and thirst
And survive to see another challenge and another dawn.
Only then will you be at peace with yourself
And able to know and to say:
“I looked down on the farthest side of the mountain
And, fulfilled and understanding all, I am truly content
That I lived a full life
And one that was of my own choice”.”—James Elroy Flecker
“We came to the junction of the Yarra and Gardiner’s Creek. The confluence was hidden under a giant freeway bridge - it was a cave of echoes, the river threw dancing shadows, and a grid of stone paved the edges of Birrarung. From my research I’d gathered that the junction is approximately the furthest reach of Bunerong tribal land; from onward of the watery meeting place, both sides of the Yarra are Wurundjeri country. I grew up downstream from that place, crossing the river back and forth from my mum’s house to my dad’s, and I thought of how my cultural territory of the inner city seemed to reflect the ancient tribal boundaries between Wurundjeri and Bunerong lands. Friends often spoke of being ‘north of the river’ or ‘south of the river’ people, and I hear folk say of the river that it is hard to cross, as if there were a border between these lands. As if the Yarra wasn’t criss-crossed with bridges! It feels sometimes as if an old cultural way is persisting, despite so much change.”—Maya Ward - The Comfort of the Water
He waited until the train was in motion to make his move—a true sign of someone who knows how to make the environment work to their advantage. Then he leaned forward. “Hi.” “How you doing?” “What are you reading?” “What’s your name?” “I really like your hair.” “That’s a really nice skirt.” “You must work out.”
It was painful to watch. She clearly wanted nothing to do with him, and he clearly wasn’t going to take the hint. Her rebukes got firmer. “I’d like to read my book.” And he pulled out the social pressure. “Hey, I’m just asking you a question. You don’t have to be so rude.” She started to look around for outs. Her head swiveled from one exit to another.
The thing was, I had already heard this story, many many times. I knew how it would play out. I knew all the tropes. I probably could have quoted the lines before they said them. I wanted a new narrative. Time to mix it up.
So I moved seats until I was sitting behind him. I leaned forward with my head on the back of his seat.
"Hi," I said with a little smile.
He looked at me like I was a little crazy—which isn’t exactly untrue—and turned back to her.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
"I’m fine," he said flatly without ever looking back.
"I really like your hair," I said. “It looks soft."
That’s about when it got…..weird.
He sort of half turned and glared back me, and I could tell I was pissing him off. His eyes told me to back the hell away, and his lips were pressed together tightly enough to drain the color from them completely.
But no good story ever ends with the conflict just defusing. He started to turn back to her.
"Wait, don’t be like that," I said. “Lemmie just ask you one question…"
"What!" he said in that you-have-clearly-gone-too-far voice that is part of the freshmen year finals at the school of machismo.
And I’m not exactly a hundred percent sure why I didn’t call it a day at that point, but…..maybe I just love turning the screw to see what happens. I gave him the bedroomy-est eyes I could muster. “What’s your name?”
Right now I’m sitting here typing out this story, and I’m still not entirely sure why I’m not nursing a fat lip or a black eye. Because that obviously made him so mad that I still am not sure why it didn’t come to blows. There are cliches about eyes flaring and rage behind someones eyes and shit like that that are so overdone. But it really does look like that. When someone gets violent, their eyes just kind of “pop” with intention—pupils dilate, eyelids widen. And his did. Even sitting down he was clearly bigger than me and I was pretty sure he was kind of muscular too, so at that moment I was figuring I was probably going to need an ice pack and sympathy sex from my girlfriend by day’s end.
"DUDE," he shouted. “I’M NOT GAY."
That’s when I dropped the bedroom eyes and switched to a normal voice. “Oh well I could see not being interested didn’t matter to you when you were hitting on her, so I just thought that’s how you rolled.”
“The injunction would not stop the community from using social media to criticise the planned development when exercising their right to free speech, but protesters would not be allowed to use Facebook and Twitter as “a call to arms” to cause damage and loss to McDonald’s, the judge said.”—