The canvassers stood rooted, facing each other on the sidewalk, male and female, identical blue t-shirts and clipboards. They were expressionless and silent and inert in the bright sunshine. No one else nearby but me, approaching the girl from behind as she mirrored her partner. I passed through the invisible membrane of their linked awareness and his stance solidified, noticeably but immeasurably, signaling to his partner that I had been sensorially acquired. Now I felt myself funneled toward him, even if I tacked left or right to avoid his immediate receptive space I knew my spine would involuntarily torsionate in sympathy to his inevitable locus. So I did not resist and walked straight, barely deviating to bypass his female partner’s left shoulder, mechanically correcting my path once circumnavigated so he was dead ahead once more. Thoroughly enmeshed in their bipolar envelope, a supercompressed interval ensued between transiting the female and the verbal acknowledgement of the male. We all knew, of course, that I saw them, and knew them, just as they saw me and knew me. But there was a pattern and a procedure to be incanted here, a pantomime of semiformal medieval hail, as if I was not seven feet away but half a league, an indistinct figure on the heather to be treated with genteel though insistent vocal regard. Rather than a simple salutation there would be a high wave, an expansive gesture, a theatrical and florid opening of expression, as if my attention flittered airily yet readily for his collection, when instead it lay imprisoned behind the stony indifference of an experienced pedestrian. But before that happened, this interval, as he readied his greeting and I readied the usual sublingual and negatory rejoinder to be muttered as I brushed by and away, and in this period discernible time expanded infinitely in all directions, and I was suddenly consumed with the conviction that if I simply stopped, ceased, took no further steps and said and did nothing, the pattern would freeze, seize up, and stroke out like a denatured engine. The canvasser’s greeting could never come and he and his partner behind me and even myself might collectively experience the first true surprise of destiny ever in our entire lives, and I would never move again and they would never speak, and the three of us would vanish from existence and live forever.
The latest from CrankyTaoLin (@crankytaolin). I don’t think I need this
Yeah this never worked but somehow it seems funnier in retrospect, aging like a fine wine
Aguirre, The Wrath of God | Werner Herzog | 1972
Things that should be banned on Amtrak:
One of the perks of being an early employee at any startup is the email address, and for the past three years my nom de Tumblrmail has been firstname.lastname@example.org. David set the account up when I started—David did a little of everything in those days—and I count myself so fortunate to have been…
The man, the legend, the Mark.
Penn Station men’s room + hot cinnamon churro cart immediately outside
Anyone Remember This Cover? It Freaked The Hell Out Of This Editor As A Young Boy in 1971.
That monkey is now a highly paid SEO consultant you’ll be glad to hear
Whatever you think of this show, and it is indeed mostly a very bad show, this moment was so unintentionally hilarious it redeems everything for me
Finally watching the first (chuckle) Hobbit movie and what is the deal with all the raucous eating? Always in these things there’s endless sloppy feasting. You could make a great but unbearable supercut just of grizzly dudes tearing mouthfuls out of greasy drumsticks