equivocality.com is now running version 12, in what I suspect will be the final design iteration for this site.
The gem cannot be polished without friction
I’ve been itching for a new look for a while now, around the time I was in England, something that was reflective of the peace I’ve made with myself and the world.
Life no longer feels like a draft where I’m trying to figure things out, so I’ve abandoned the beloved graph paper background which debuted in version 9. Most elements and text have been toned down a bit to give things a slick, clean, and polished look, very much inspired by Jin Yang’s blog. I’m still in love with the large single-column layout that lets me post big pictures and videos, and most of the design is still based around that.
I’ve never been a fan of vertical rules — they always seem to claustrophobically trap content more than anything else — but I found they brought much-needed definition to the wide column, now that the graph paper is no longer there. Other elements are strong enough on their own to define the underlying grid. I’ve also added some gravity-defying page corners to bring a bit of depth to the layout.
Even though Version 12 has been based significantly on my Version 11 code and design, I decided to give it a major revision number because it’s a new theme at heart. They may look similar, but they feel very different.
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I was just trying to get away, to remove myself from the vulnerable way I felt — the way you made me feel — among the din and the chill. That night I learned that beauty comes in many forms. I started believing I could love again, and my wounds began to heal for the first time since she told me it all had to stop.
There was such a wonderful moment of vulnerability flickering across your eyes when you said we hooked up, quickly as if to hide the fact, while plunging your fork into our slice of cake with a smirk on the side of your face. It’s moments like those that directors dream off.
John wanted to know how it went. I told him not to ask, and we never spoke about it again. He thinks it’s because it went badly, but really it’s because everything went so well when I knew it was the last time I was going to see you.
Those were difficult days. I always believed you could have saved me, until I realized that I needed to save myself. Not that it matters. Things are different now anyway. I have a tendency to say too much; all too often I mistake openness for intimacy, and it gets me in trouble.
I always imagine that you’ve figured things out, and have been caught up in your own happiness ever since. People like you were never meant to speak of heartbreak.
I’ve always maintained that a person isn’t alive if their heart doesn’t pound out of their chest when listening to The Island by Pendulum.
It’s a gradual build-up, most of Pt. 1 Dawn being the development until Pt. 2 Dusk hits (at about the 5:20 mark in the video) and the beats really kick in. Then it’s just waves and waves washing over my body like small orgasms and every hair stands on end.
It’s mesmerizing to literally see how this music makes me feel, as the ripples of goosebumps crest and subside. I can trace the paths of shivers across my skin; some last longer, though they may not be as strong, while others come and go quickly, my body unable to sustain the climax.
This is the only song that has this kind of effect on me. There are plenty of other tracks that give me goosebumps, but none of them do it so many times or with such intensity. By far the strongest peak is during the bridge at 7:10, when everything subsides to the organ, and it’s like you’re being bathed in the warm light of a sunrise.
All I do nowadays is dance. Not in any coordinated manner, mind you, and certainly not in the presence of anyone else.
I’m only now starting to realize how necessary it was for me to survive that crucible last year, and how important it was for me to save myself. It hasn’t tempered the extremes, but they don’t last as long anymore.
It’s comforting to know I’ve been through this before. It wasn’t all for nothing. I’m a little wiser now, and I’m not going to make the same mistakes again.
This winter hit us heavy once more, and like it I refuse to die.