Monthly Archives: March 2011

Version 12

Version 12 has been retired here.

equivocality.com is now run­ning ver­sion 12, in what I sus­pect will be the final design iter­a­tion for this site1.

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 bit2 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.

Continue read­ing “Version 12″…

  1. For a very long time at least []
  2. I’ve real­ized that you don’t need retina-burning con­trast to give some­thing strong def­i­n­i­tion. []

Pendulum — The Island

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 Pendulum1.

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.

  1. To get the full effect, you def­i­nitely need head­phones. Otherwise, it should be loud enough to war­rant a noise-complaint by your neigh­bours down the street. []

i know i found the recipe for me

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.

Blue Mountain village at night

 

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.

nowhere near as morbid as it sounds

All I want to do lately is go out and shoot and edit and post, but I have no sto­ries to tell. I’m still try­ing to write them, so I can put them in these cuts and look back and live for­ever in the mem­o­ries. To dance among the motion and glim­mer, and blink against the bright­ness of the sun.

I’ve been filled with such tremen­dous inten­sity, and hope, and excite­ment, buoyed by the fact that I’ll always have a gui­tar and a dis­arm­ing smile.

burlesque cake

 

Peace has been made with this new-self. It’s as if every change, every cycle I go through, takes time for me to get used to the new skin. I know I’ll always be flawed. I’ll always make mis­takes, but that means I’ll always be learning.

I’ve had enough of crazy devel­op­ments. I’ll be happy once the dust set­tles and I’m back to my reg­u­lar life again, some point beyond the sum­mer. The spring is never remark­able; it’s just a haze between the heat and the snow. It already smells like hot sum­mers nights, a com­fort­ing mix of pollen and con­crete. It’s gonna be oh so good.

old habit

  • Rob: Sometimes it still hurts. You know how it is, man. It’s like, you wake up every day and it hurts a lit­tle bit less, and then you wake up one day and it doesn’t hurt at all. And the funny thing is, is that, this is kinda wierd, but it’s like, it’s like you almost miss that pain.
  • Mike: You miss the pain?
  • Rob: Yeah, for the same rea­son that you missed her… because you lived with it for so long.

—Swingers

I’m in my last days of high-school again. Pretty much this. Feeling like I have the rest of my life ahead of me with so much to look for­ward to, but only cause I’m try­ing to shed every­thing that hap­pened in the final dis­as­trous year.

I remem­ber writ­ing a lot back then in this black note­book. It was filled with all these ver­bal scrib­bles, short pas­sages of text, words, lyrics, emo­tions I couldn’t con­tain. My thoughts were a jum­ble, lost some­where between the pain and the love of how it made me feel alive.

That’s how I feel now. Old habits break hard.

About once every two years I uncer­e­mo­ni­ously threw it out and bought a new one, because I hated every­thing in it. I never wanted to think of myself as the per­son who wrote all the things in there. Sometimes I won­der if I’ll look back on these entries one day and think the same.