tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25663294346336928042024-03-20T18:33:42.080-07:00The Emperor of Ice-CreamMatt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-43419763032902855602012-01-22T06:03:00.000-08:002012-01-22T06:09:58.729-08:00A Novel is the life of the People."I see literature as story and characters. Literature should be enjoyable...(however) A novel is the life of the people. Similar to our daily life but more profound, more significant, and more beautiful...Because I am against the schools of fiction that write away from life."<div><br /></div><div>Quote by Alaa Al Aswany in the article <i>Writing the Revolution.</i></div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-10251652723143743562012-01-02T09:18:00.000-08:002012-01-02T17:01:48.731-08:00Five Pictures in Hope of Endless Travel: The Isle of Skye.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWyzOxhhEIMtakv28EP0qXPFUA_LvKR1LuQ7fBeDsfV1iYjYpBe_O6FpKn82tx2PPS9gfA3qFUSrB5WGfwk_oM8k_kOYQSLvurEldRFBTbZVcmcG2jLUvX-Sy0PUBnqXB3xibGeJ19Knl/s1600/IMG_2529.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWyzOxhhEIMtakv28EP0qXPFUA_LvKR1LuQ7fBeDsfV1iYjYpBe_O6FpKn82tx2PPS9gfA3qFUSrB5WGfwk_oM8k_kOYQSLvurEldRFBTbZVcmcG2jLUvX-Sy0PUBnqXB3xibGeJ19Knl/s320/IMG_2529.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676572711684037954" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Climbing to the Old Man of Storr.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzu7b6vIGhZrWMBlWgQQxvJYMQyWQPQs6bYZLNhQ-jX1f_33wHlLCthdHy5BQhdMLSIVYe7w0BCZSkzeOBlteO9kdg1SySHmg_CiZ5wgzrPr1_3m8V-FfaKAl6xjyFzctRF_YNccL5mro5/s1600/IMG_2522.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzu7b6vIGhZrWMBlWgQQxvJYMQyWQPQs6bYZLNhQ-jX1f_33wHlLCthdHy5BQhdMLSIVYe7w0BCZSkzeOBlteO9kdg1SySHmg_CiZ5wgzrPr1_3m8V-FfaKAl6xjyFzctRF_YNccL5mro5/s320/IMG_2522.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676572710589746050" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Look familiar? Look above at the title of the blog. This photo was taken six years later.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVGP_w1YuaahNNjZ5LigeTfKiUk0l1aAF9mqi5AUS53nJDBnZiHZT8Cf6A96UgI7_P4Y2_vXUd5a7KcPkzE7rLy53yPZcFMAA-4NkEc8lt24QLDr7HcDEp_qIuTDXdObr1w2wTOYWcSpq/s1600/IMG_2501.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVGP_w1YuaahNNjZ5LigeTfKiUk0l1aAF9mqi5AUS53nJDBnZiHZT8Cf6A96UgI7_P4Y2_vXUd5a7KcPkzE7rLy53yPZcFMAA-4NkEc8lt24QLDr7HcDEp_qIuTDXdObr1w2wTOYWcSpq/s320/IMG_2501.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676572489695862994" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">In Portree, Looking out and into the bay.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyluWg4JDM7O7wTTIOAPAKX7gahy2IDn19Rgrr1ik_SfQhHkrjP00Ltjg70CmPlPLRadULN9ZhXSwwhlx56HcRnztGI6-WPbY0BibILwnn-S7hJ7j_0Lny55NnAyd6slinH0PKO6FFDEN/s1600/IMG_2490.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyluWg4JDM7O7wTTIOAPAKX7gahy2IDn19Rgrr1ik_SfQhHkrjP00Ltjg70CmPlPLRadULN9ZhXSwwhlx56HcRnztGI6-WPbY0BibILwnn-S7hJ7j_0Lny55NnAyd6slinH0PKO6FFDEN/s320/IMG_2490.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676572480760651474" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Rogue Lorrie muffler. Even junk looks beautiful in Scotland.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1iww35Vv8iVL8Gjv8bgiNNcMA86VejXMfjkdwWQ-wN2eyIaVZUoxTytPUwglX6i0p-kbPsoq8ca_TA037wlRhNdXG3-jb6FrIMlMIyUVmePv6jaVzYnIFy1kQYCjK1erDkqjdDIPAdcpA/s1600/IMG_2401.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1iww35Vv8iVL8Gjv8bgiNNcMA86VejXMfjkdwWQ-wN2eyIaVZUoxTytPUwglX6i0p-kbPsoq8ca_TA037wlRhNdXG3-jb6FrIMlMIyUVmePv6jaVzYnIFy1kQYCjK1erDkqjdDIPAdcpA/s320/IMG_2401.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676572463843638466" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Edinburgh Castle.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">October, 2010. All photos by M.C..</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-60225559349799934582011-12-24T06:37:00.000-08:002011-12-24T06:43:27.419-08:00"The Placebo Effect.""In most cases, the larger the pill, the stronger the placebo effect. Two pills are better than one, and the brand-name pills trump generics. Capsules are generally more effective than pills, and injections produce a more pronounced effect than either. There is even evidence to suggest that the color of medicine influences the way one responds to it: colored pills are more likely to relieve pain than white pills; blue pills help people sleep better than red pills; and green capsules are the best bet when it comes to anxiety medication."<div><br /></div><div>Excerpt from <i>The Power of Nothing</i> by Michael Specter.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-12587869816834789482011-12-09T19:12:00.000-08:002011-12-09T19:23:22.866-08:00War is the most concrete thing there is.Nowadays in Sarajevo death is all too easy to imagine and is itself continuously, intensely present, but back then the city was fully alive, both inside me and outside me. Its indelible sensory dimensions, its concreteness, seemed to defy the abstractions of war. I have learned since then that war is the most concrete thing there is, a reality that swallows all, easily overriding any other mode of existence and levelling both interiority and exteriority into the flatness of a crushed soul.<div><br /></div><div>Excerpt from "Mapping Home" by Aleksandar Hemon.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-71807279665121072272011-12-03T18:07:00.000-08:002011-12-03T18:21:51.530-08:00Untitled: January Ninth, 2000.Through the fog, driving<div>My hands smell of salt water</div><div>The grit between my fingers </div><div>As if I had swam today</div><div>But it is my own precipitate:</div><div>Sweat, old sweat.</div><div><br /></div><div>The fog comes and goes</div><div>A wind tunnel</div><div>But there is no sound of wind</div><div>But rather music, faint, crackling</div><div>A bass tone, drowing out</div><div>And the fog comes again. </div><div>I pass through.</div><div><br /></div><div>Walt Whitman visited me in a dream.</div><div>I told someone sitting beside me </div><div>That he had lived through the Civil War</div><div>Like I lived through the fog.</div><div>Walt Whitman looked at me</div><div>his outdoorsman yet feminine beard</div><div>was grey and he had a lisp.</div><div>He said: "I stop somewhere waiting for you"</div><div>But all I found was the fog.</div><div><br /></div><div>The fog deep in the ins and outs of others</div><div>Those like myself who had </div><div>"Had the experience but missed the meaning." </div><div><br /></div><div>Fog is in the inside of the telephone wires</div><div>A sigh on one end</div><div>The mumbling of words that cut on the other</div><div>Like a car passing through the fog</div><div>Or a boat like an arrow.</div><div><br /></div><div>M.C-Journal entry, 1/9/00.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-86621897877840107702011-11-26T19:00:00.000-08:002011-11-26T19:05:58.769-08:00A tree: My old amigo.Striding up to a cedar, he patted the rough trunk as if it were an old amigo. "This tree is a relative," he said. "It has feelings like we do, so it should be treated with respect. If you make tea from the bark of this tree, it has a lot of power. It's good for colds and respiratory problems. But if you don't ask permission before you cut the bark, it may not work. So I always say a little prayer so the tree knows I'm serious and I want to share its power. 'Give me your strength for healing,' That's what I ask."<div><br /></div><div>Excerpt from "What became of the Taino" by Robert M. Poole</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-23758853018122343162011-11-18T21:11:00.000-08:002011-11-18T21:17:38.658-08:00Was Qaddafi all that bad?"The worst thing that Qaddafi did was that Abu Salim thing," he said, referring to the 1996 massacre. "I mean, killing a bunch of prisoners in the basement of a prison, that's not nice, but, you know, these things can happen. All it takes is for someone to misinterpret an order--you know what I mean? Yes, the students were hanged in the seventies, and there was Abu Salim, but there was not much else. The secret police was around, but it wasn't too obtrusive. If you got thrown in prison, they allowed your family to visit and bring you couscous."<div><br /></div><div>Excerpt from John Lee Anderson's article <i>King of Kings</i>. Above, an interview with a friend of the Qaddafi's.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-76245672038241494902011-11-16T17:18:00.001-08:002011-11-16T17:23:27.719-08:00Five Pictures in Hope of Endless Travel: Part Two.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMz02rXBEqfZ1R-43kXc92rKGcHKwxA9pw6doRjUINuJU2yTLjcinHOccefRu-uabBIfMEwFTmrYdyoKYFnhksb5AKyOVarCMCA3TZgUm1GaZE2aH92FqTDuGl1x-tEgBEJCvbRBFCfAWQ/s1600/thermo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMz02rXBEqfZ1R-43kXc92rKGcHKwxA9pw6doRjUINuJU2yTLjcinHOccefRu-uabBIfMEwFTmrYdyoKYFnhksb5AKyOVarCMCA3TZgUm1GaZE2aH92FqTDuGl1x-tEgBEJCvbRBFCfAWQ/s320/thermo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675768331064435378" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Tulsa, Oklahoma. July, 2011.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwR8kB2Vn3UnNPNRZ1Umht9b5yOKrjjF-tVTFdc4Qfa_gakFkkgo2DPnbpQ2t6U_mGv9sHP2LcmAEuL9TEXPlzjhpQU8VK0GCR-inrLp304fFq_7FwkK9AqcrBwfJl1AoC_S7TbOpzWpL/s1600/sunset.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwR8kB2Vn3UnNPNRZ1Umht9b5yOKrjjF-tVTFdc4Qfa_gakFkkgo2DPnbpQ2t6U_mGv9sHP2LcmAEuL9TEXPlzjhpQU8VK0GCR-inrLp304fFq_7FwkK9AqcrBwfJl1AoC_S7TbOpzWpL/s320/sunset.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675768319511929058" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">St. Pete Beach, Florida. July, 2011.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHgA5yuGAmDRNDU09Jetoe8c8k7zzlEe6fXk7XcVxi4OfH07OnhsauY2Y_XlbMqOr8PMX-Wbolegv41IMR5gGoI3mSQ-NHkw_0W4lqi0277Ivl0cGerD4XIJ-3XSFXiF6NiQLs4ccJmYC9/s1600/milwaukee.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHgA5yuGAmDRNDU09Jetoe8c8k7zzlEe6fXk7XcVxi4OfH07OnhsauY2Y_XlbMqOr8PMX-Wbolegv41IMR5gGoI3mSQ-NHkw_0W4lqi0277Ivl0cGerD4XIJ-3XSFXiF6NiQLs4ccJmYC9/s320/milwaukee.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675768316204982338" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Lake Michigan. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. October, 2011.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZM2lmsrr1DX7B_Gl4XyfN4he5RFWheNVdr5gJHklI7ZyLm0PAxK-qeR0GXDQVtXM4o1FY-eIoqX8TwtY9NzXkOqoqn37YnkT6UihUP_OB0vj-zypGc8FcAlPNJwGdpVwn6O_LdV5JgZKm/s1600/joplin.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZM2lmsrr1DX7B_Gl4XyfN4he5RFWheNVdr5gJHklI7ZyLm0PAxK-qeR0GXDQVtXM4o1FY-eIoqX8TwtY9NzXkOqoqn37YnkT6UihUP_OB0vj-zypGc8FcAlPNJwGdpVwn6O_LdV5JgZKm/s320/joplin.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675768308295115202" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Joplin, Missouri. May, 2011.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-JK4YzwltaQOZWEJPZtdWzXFvB9I1KdMHsQwuYc8JVYniKXQO8rhd2xICWHeP-aaU7tQHgzMtz1Y5guFHbZKfBPsEEVcg6x6DxjAlOyRah1i4fDvQF4l2-bKkEqbQSqvT71qiBhb3Bzs/s1600/door.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_-JK4YzwltaQOZWEJPZtdWzXFvB9I1KdMHsQwuYc8JVYniKXQO8rhd2xICWHeP-aaU7tQHgzMtz1Y5guFHbZKfBPsEEVcg6x6DxjAlOyRah1i4fDvQF4l2-bKkEqbQSqvT71qiBhb3Bzs/s320/door.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675768302635926674" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Providence, RI. August, 2011.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Photos by M.C and A.G.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-48570595192822113882011-11-13T15:30:00.000-08:002011-11-13T15:49:56.055-08:00You are what you eat.<div>Through processed food, factory farming, and the rush to get large amounts of food to the table as quick as possible, it's frightening what we have lost. On reading "True Grits" (based on chef Sean Brock's Southern food restaurant--Husk--in Charleston, SC.), <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Burkhard</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Bilger</span> reminds us that the loss of extended crop rotations (some up to 17 years) and the substitution of more common, viable crops, has made thousands of foods <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">disappear</span> over the past century. Brock's intention: to go back in time (by diving into history books, diaries, etc...) and resurrect those heirloom vegetables that have been lost to convenience.</div><div>I pulled these two quotes: one poetic, one philosophical. Yet both inspiring. </div><div><br /></div>"Southern food is more than a collection of recipes and seeds. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">It's</span> a distillate of memory and hard-won experience, of ocean crossings and forest clearings, turnip winters and radish springs."<div><br /></div><div>"It changed my life growing my own food," Brock said. "You start to see why farmers are so strange: they have a lot of time alone to ponder the questions of the universe." </div><div><br /></div><div>-M.C.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-33789776885856722422011-10-21T19:25:00.000-07:002011-10-24T06:32:07.138-07:00Five pictures in hope of endless travel: Part One.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiiLb2LpU6GFZQtXrW7IbmC279nkmwzDZqaZ9b93khqBo9m-K8Yb3cxgGIjfHlv7oivjcGpdMDPCTZ07CvZRYGO4nt7gzUQYxJIrJ3WuzyPi_o0COpHNrTaRhwuCpKGv5f68o0oPT-Dga/s1600/IMG_0498.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666138640407963042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiiLb2LpU6GFZQtXrW7IbmC279nkmwzDZqaZ9b93khqBo9m-K8Yb3cxgGIjfHlv7oivjcGpdMDPCTZ07CvZRYGO4nt7gzUQYxJIrJ3WuzyPi_o0COpHNrTaRhwuCpKGv5f68o0oPT-Dga/s320/IMG_0498.JPG" /></a> <br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">The infamous F.W. Woolworth's. Greensboro, North Carolina.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">June, 2008.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZoIinSNQ0UzyjEycsp05tLRASbL_0G2piQTCF1d_znkEJjKHBFPoiZ3_8qMdgIKP3WF7GsRkMeoj3AOrRisYrcNl2FzG21ixi0c47IUpi5bv69PbuM3pOkoiyOeRyMKDdaV1O3_a9anYc/s1600/San+Fran+march+09+058.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666138305023373810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZoIinSNQ0UzyjEycsp05tLRASbL_0G2piQTCF1d_znkEJjKHBFPoiZ3_8qMdgIKP3WF7GsRkMeoj3AOrRisYrcNl2FzG21ixi0c47IUpi5bv69PbuM3pOkoiyOeRyMKDdaV1O3_a9anYc/s320/San+Fran+march+09+058.jpg" /></a> <br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">San Francisco Bay at sunset.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">March, 2009.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqaOgXGpro3vMaD0a6CHRGZPm6GgCsrguywaD1c7BnwskbJd82U91ukvOCliLm-6FlgmMoVkNrHqfWAcAmAGvktuscgMTjDTLvOhWEsXMt81UkYRwfbzwAWl2Fu7Y5XhTzRdMyb6ThR78/s1600/100_0158.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666137921056789890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqaOgXGpro3vMaD0a6CHRGZPm6GgCsrguywaD1c7BnwskbJd82U91ukvOCliLm-6FlgmMoVkNrHqfWAcAmAGvktuscgMTjDTLvOhWEsXMt81UkYRwfbzwAWl2Fu7Y5XhTzRdMyb6ThR78/s320/100_0158.JPG" /></a> <br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Loch Ness, Scotland, by boat.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">May, 2005.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PjWeVgw6NaR6vVtO4QCVlDCbpf4AWxC1ZaTUrleTcAvfGH7Vw50aU3O_V-5ERXDdrwyGuNsVFwUywMBKaipB4czb2FPYp_6t9powkGVKvA_mNmcM-myIYkn4qddAZ62PqO92p3q7BbeH/s1600/Colorado-Utah+2010+036.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666137844044061746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PjWeVgw6NaR6vVtO4QCVlDCbpf4AWxC1ZaTUrleTcAvfGH7Vw50aU3O_V-5ERXDdrwyGuNsVFwUywMBKaipB4czb2FPYp_6t9powkGVKvA_mNmcM-myIYkn4qddAZ62PqO92p3q7BbeH/s320/Colorado-Utah+2010+036.jpg" /></a> <br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Somewhere between here and there. Utah.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">August, 2010.</div><br /><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZEhHNKmJVhhznwckfjJUiw4JMCfEyQsVdRsU1RQAkxPl5V9o0krvef9pJTSfeSsozm3G1e94XwNOHB9As9T7cn6LpR6loBoYGw2aVynMs_JXhws_Dn9XvcwANARIzkmmhbDVM1uZkD0i/s1600/100_0017.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666137401118861890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZEhHNKmJVhhznwckfjJUiw4JMCfEyQsVdRsU1RQAkxPl5V9o0krvef9pJTSfeSsozm3G1e94XwNOHB9As9T7cn6LpR6loBoYGw2aVynMs_JXhws_Dn9XvcwANARIzkmmhbDVM1uZkD0i/s320/100_0017.JPG" /></a> <br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Old Jewish Cemetery. Prague, Czech Republic.</div></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">May, 2005.</div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">All photos by either M.C. or A.G..</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-45697530301751026712011-10-21T19:16:00.000-07:002011-10-21T19:23:40.485-07:00Cocaine is a hell of a drug."By 1915, however, the demographics of addiction had changed and so had American attitudes towards drug users. Cocaine had come to be seen as a drug taken by lower-class, urban men, who were often looked upon with fear and disdain. Opium had been tolerated in the United States for more than a century--until Chinese laborers began to compete with Americans for jobs. Since then, the more directly a drug has been perceived to be associated with minorities and the poor, the graver the danger it is seen as posing to society."<div><br /></div><div>Excerpt from "Getting a fix" by Michael Specter.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-1482461858926470312011-10-10T08:28:00.000-07:002011-10-11T09:43:27.522-07:00The cult of Ikea.To be a member of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ikea's</span> cult, here are some things you need to know:<br /><br /><br /><div>-It is said that one out of every ten <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Europeans</span> is conceived on an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ikea</span> bed.</div><br /><br /><div>-Pigs and skeleton's are banned motifs.</div><br /><br /><div>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ikea</span> uses a technique called "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bulla</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bulla</span>," in which a bunch of items are purposely jumbled in bins, to create the impression of volume and, therefore, inexpensiveness. </div><br /><br /><div>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ikea</span> is the third largest consumer of wood behind Home Depot and Lowe's and ahead of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Walmart</span>.</div><br /><br /><div>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ikea</span> published 197,000,000 catalogues last year in 29 different languages.</div><br /><br /><div>-"Breathtaking" items are termed so because they are so cheap you can't afford not to buy them.</div><br /><br /><div>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ingvar</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kamprad</span> (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ikea's</span> founder) has been rated the 5<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> wealthiest man in the world. Living in the Swiss village of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">Epalinges</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kamprad</span> has very little taxes to pay and has been accused of doing nothing for the village (financially or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">philanthropically</span>). <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kamprad's</span> nickname in town is the Miser.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>Excerpt from Lauren Collins' "House Perfect" in the Oct. 3rd issue of <i>The New Yorker </i></div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-44777137382693649672011-10-07T11:00:00.000-07:002011-10-08T08:28:07.520-07:00The Immortal words of Kenko...<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:medium;">"To sit alone in the lamplight with a book spread out before you, and hold intimate converse with men of unseen generations—such is a pleasure beyond compare."</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:medium;">-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kenko</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:medium;">"Adding to the day's sense of upheaval was a collision that occurred just outside 27a when the embassy chauffeur--a man named Pickford--struck a motorcycle and broke off the rider's leg. A wooden leg."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">-Excerpt from Erick Larson's <i>In the Garden of Beasts</i>.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">---------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">On reading <i>ITGOB, </i>I felt empathy towards Kenko's quote...t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; ">he second excerpt was a welcomed absurdity (or pleasurable anecdote) while reading about the initial Nazi Political purges of the the Third Reich. What would the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">insanities</span> of history be without humor?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">-Matt</span></div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-27309265466202072572011-09-24T10:27:00.000-07:002011-09-24T10:33:40.450-07:00I trust only old books."Hla Htut has no time for any contemporary Burmese writing, be it novels, newspapers, or magazines. 'I don't trust them. They always lie,' he said. 'I understand it is not the same in your country. Your books and newspapers never lie, isn't that so?' I thought about it for a moment and was prepared to launch into a long and complicated answer about the warped images of world affairs painted by tabloid newspapers and about mainstream international news channels simplifying stories for mass consumption, but Hla Htut took my hesitation for agreement and summed up his theory on reading. 'I trust only old books,' he said."<div><br /></div><div>Excerpt from Finding George Orwell in Burma by Emma Larkin.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-1069310464583315442011-09-04T09:10:00.000-07:002011-09-07T15:39:58.222-07:00PooP.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyDGjYEancjUPattXTB1wcGiXs_t2HXDDzGIQD0u_oAqn3Quu2XcQgxyhjzObAgyK8f8o2gG0wMkMyZLTDFXbAZsrHN08ac_tnTwurADZnin37zqm4fUtGELghW2_X607LWQmKEtQPP8pe/s1600/poop.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyDGjYEancjUPattXTB1wcGiXs_t2HXDDzGIQD0u_oAqn3Quu2XcQgxyhjzObAgyK8f8o2gG0wMkMyZLTDFXbAZsrHN08ac_tnTwurADZnin37zqm4fUtGELghW2_X607LWQmKEtQPP8pe/s320/poop.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5648537753619488162" /></a>Found this drawn in the sand at Madera Beach. St. Pete, Fl. Mid August. 2011.<div><br /></div><div>-M.C.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-45821125061105505252011-08-24T19:23:00.000-07:002011-09-04T09:10:40.455-07:00Art As/Is ReligionArt without accomplishment becomes a form of faith, sustained more by the intensity of its common practice than by the pleasure it gives to its adherents in private. That it fills the habit of faith--makes communities, encourages values, creates <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">hierarchies</span>--is perhaps the best thing about it. The strongest argument for religion is not that it is in touch with God but that it is in touch with one another. The best argument for an art that no one can entirely like is that it makes us like one another more.<div>
<br /></div><div>-Excerpt from "Life Studies" by Adam Gopnik</div><span><span><div><span><span>-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></div>Some days I want to stay in doors and read, maybe type some quotes, add a picture or two, and reflect through this blog. Other days I just want to get on my bike and pedal as far as I can, hours later finally making home, exhausted.
<br />
<br /></span></span><div><span><span>Sometimes when I read a really moving essay, learn something new and profound, or just revel in the fact of how lucky we are to be alive--seeing, hearing, and feeling--my eyes will start to well up.
<br />
<br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>Both instances are acts committed in solitude. The result of both is the ability to appreciate, the desire to mingle and commuinicate, the need to empathize with people. </span></span><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">
<br /></span></div><div>That balance is hard to find.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>-M.C.</div></div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-56253426837788222642011-08-22T22:25:00.000-07:002011-08-22T19:25:44.946-07:00Repetition as comfort.<div>"The human sense of comfort depends on repetitive, familiar actions--our minds and bodies strive to become accustomed to predictable circumstances."<div>
<br /></div><div>Excerpt from the "Aquarium" by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Aleksandar</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Hemon</span>.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</div></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Like the afternoon shower that comes every day, in Tampa, in the summer time.</div><div>
<br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVVfW1Nc97ZRLB_c_UzdUsDggkRlfabdT6XfixUo-rppSXKBPQcSCT7TkQArpmC7Avlezx87doFGHu69O8teuvj8uORzNXivB6x69qhNj0vCTakteFVDROtCYraN5-8_7tYBOvDrDTr1Q/s1600/tampa+storm.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVVfW1Nc97ZRLB_c_UzdUsDggkRlfabdT6XfixUo-rppSXKBPQcSCT7TkQArpmC7Avlezx87doFGHu69O8teuvj8uORzNXivB6x69qhNj0vCTakteFVDROtCYraN5-8_7tYBOvDrDTr1Q/s320/tampa+storm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643870509271738594" /></a>
<br /><div>But it's also comforting to see it on the fringe...On those days that it allows us some <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">reprieve</span>.</div><div>
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwA3gG5Qil2FKffoL_GCQeurL_sxHPDnxKbkHjDP3sLAkCcWZNN6fNrFmqQF6RZMRQ-X2c6CXGQ2K6tS-WQ9hyvYVLhYCzzY94NVaFK9h4MhM1WOr7nBrIm196qOEhErhkQW-6hAE27Bl/s1600/IMG_3048.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwA3gG5Qil2FKffoL_GCQeurL_sxHPDnxKbkHjDP3sLAkCcWZNN6fNrFmqQF6RZMRQ-X2c6CXGQ2K6tS-WQ9hyvYVLhYCzzY94NVaFK9h4MhM1WOr7nBrIm196qOEhErhkQW-6hAE27Bl/s320/IMG_3048.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643870304954684370" /></a>
<br />Top photo by Scott Ehlert.</div><div>Bottom by M.C.</div><div><div>
<br /></div><div>
<br /></div></div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-59256798876087524232011-08-14T07:37:00.000-07:002011-08-14T07:44:31.246-07:00Occasions in Connecticut.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnkrM6QjduKj9o1MMUFJu38nMG-FsYGbLyDAQtdTCgyNk9DrXF8KBwxUadTc8KWgUZZAMjwTqReTTKuAELL_hrbya0fhjQAGy8uVXJ-yqsmCIEbkrosPs88vg5AB5IUHUTPPoS8FU3Bg6T/s1600/storm.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnkrM6QjduKj9o1MMUFJu38nMG-FsYGbLyDAQtdTCgyNk9DrXF8KBwxUadTc8KWgUZZAMjwTqReTTKuAELL_hrbya0fhjQAGy8uVXJ-yqsmCIEbkrosPs88vg5AB5IUHUTPPoS8FU3Bg6T/s320/storm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640721410159013346" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">A distance storm off the coast of New Haven, Connecticut. I sat for 20 minutes taking photo after photo in hopes to capture one bolt of lightning.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSW4XI9tWOy-Y7_jZJrSdw3bGFm87BGNFHYmRxW104vU41hblzcJxNGvp37VLUmpAqvUGFAQf2POIeyPlNoMjzL9MirBvklaQqegDFS91g5d-xYpTn4hyphenhyphenqbqYEWAnHpdnMe8VhN6FLqGq/s1600/capsize.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSW4XI9tWOy-Y7_jZJrSdw3bGFm87BGNFHYmRxW104vU41hblzcJxNGvp37VLUmpAqvUGFAQf2POIeyPlNoMjzL9MirBvklaQqegDFS91g5d-xYpTn4hyphenhyphenqbqYEWAnHpdnMe8VhN6FLqGq/s320/capsize.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640721334117042690" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Three friends. Drunk. Fully clothed. I watched as their boat capsized.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG7jdwPtRvX6oUYGOw5XQyR_k_aOdzIuOvim7YiRTx6AQ1u_YsX7Q-UHBJ50P61QcqXl3yJYcg7IQ4e1DfyQq00ziJ9K43h06BXt9o1y-gNkod00eOOo8fLStwnFHypkq1T_TQuhjHEy3b/s1600/lake+jump.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG7jdwPtRvX6oUYGOw5XQyR_k_aOdzIuOvim7YiRTx6AQ1u_YsX7Q-UHBJ50P61QcqXl3yJYcg7IQ4e1DfyQq00ziJ9K43h06BXt9o1y-gNkod00eOOo8fLStwnFHypkq1T_TQuhjHEy3b/s320/lake+jump.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640721177451759826" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Danielson, CT. My friend Vic in the forefront. A kid named Chris in the background sending himself off of a lake jump. </div><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Shot with an I-photo application. August 1st and 2nd 2011.</div><div style="text-align: center;">-M.C.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-74648340830856785382011-08-09T15:58:00.000-07:002011-08-09T16:02:18.437-07:00Should I laugh?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LBW69amWHPlz05veByra6Zju7O5rs6inUZwYpjLX9qjHekIm2BXRrK27EzIUw0XZQPHjPmOtSYSUi9ruZjFqQY44pgrqSRmqi9kT5Nv4MXGnl4o3eF9kz8Erl5TGtMDmqTD3gIC3-Q3j/s1600/Bathroom+sign.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LBW69amWHPlz05veByra6Zju7O5rs6inUZwYpjLX9qjHekIm2BXRrK27EzIUw0XZQPHjPmOtSYSUi9ruZjFqQY44pgrqSRmqi9kT5Nv4MXGnl4o3eF9kz8Erl5TGtMDmqTD3gIC3-Q3j/s320/Bathroom+sign.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638994517250441938" /></a>Posted on a bathroom door at a local elementary school.<div>
<br /></div><div>Photo by S. Ehlert.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>-M.C.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-29605411948102712982011-07-25T18:49:00.000-07:002011-07-27T03:41:12.409-07:00Goth's Best Bass lines.I'll have to admit, I'm a sucker for embarrassingly over-dramatic goth rock. I've always loved the creepy vibe, the attention to absurd post-punk leather attire, and wearing sunglasses at night. But put plain and simple, I'm a sucker for driving bass riffs...<br /><br />Here are six of my top pics that, for me, epitomize what I love about this <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">ridiculous</span> sub-culture. Close your eyes, give em a listen, and enjoy. <br /><div><br /></div><br /><div>-M.C.<br /><br /><iframe height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/nHl09zyrnZo" frameborder="0" width="425" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><br /><div>The Sisters of Mercy: Marian.</div><br /><div><br /><iframe height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/oQ2vUNKQX3s" frameborder="0" width="425" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><br /><div>The Cure: The Figurehead.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><iframe height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/AfiECYxq5YI" frameborder="0" width="425" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><br /><div>Christian Death: Church of No Return.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><iframe height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qHfIavD5Nfw" frameborder="0" width="425" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><br /><div>Fields of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nephilim</span>: Love Under Will.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><iframe height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-qepX5ZZtRQ" frameborder="0" width="425" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><br /><div>Dead Can Dance: The Trial.</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><iframe height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/YP-ZUbSmkRM" frameborder="0" width="425" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><br /><div><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Souxsie</span> and the Banshees: Arabian Nights.</span></div><br /><div></div></div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-19786948110738912212011-07-25T09:02:00.000-07:002011-07-25T16:42:58.088-07:00Eat, sleep, ride, repeat.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRxmM803NMs7pzfVEYxgEDMZuT806aMN0ix0cPJMDAtuSC8Evl5Fq1Ve1yINzwTJ6o1Pg7Y520T5-ZlxAR6ZA5gAb7-8gcWUDQMIu7myx8vwaOK9l5XXdP_K8nMVc7-FQ0RBksUpUEqNP/s1600/photo-9.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 239px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631235733156092738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRxmM803NMs7pzfVEYxgEDMZuT806aMN0ix0cPJMDAtuSC8Evl5Fq1Ve1yINzwTJ6o1Pg7Y520T5-ZlxAR6ZA5gAb7-8gcWUDQMIu7myx8vwaOK9l5XXdP_K8nMVc7-FQ0RBksUpUEqNP/s320/photo-9.jpg" /></a>"Cycling is an excruciated sport--a rider's power is only as great as his capacity to endure pain--and it is often remarked that the best cyclists experience their physical agonies as a relief from private torments. The bike gives suffering a purpose."<br /><br /><div>Excerpt from "Climbers" by Philip Gourevitch.</div><br /><div>-----------------------------------------------------------</div><br /><div>After reading this, I kind of wonder if this plays into my personal obsession with riding bikes? It's been 21 years--starting out as a relief against boredom. Now, it's an act I have (some will argue "want") to partake in to calm life's general malaise. </div><br /><div>Above is a photo by Scott Ehlert of me and some friends' pedaling: a simple act to soothe endless complications.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>-MC</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-62394189913766488662011-07-21T18:38:00.000-07:002011-07-21T18:49:31.324-07:00A public announcement to hit all demographics.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDf28_pR7HhtfAgANO9hGoxCnDuw1_ex_YBKSBu_2IAIv9MCwscx1Gxnah3LGaYbOGDoLkAnwC8pgKpFGVjVvra1O_gq9rTYK2-_fSCaDoPCSfkPq4c27UBVk91nFjaVuVfqo53KIE5D61/s1600/Photo1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDf28_pR7HhtfAgANO9hGoxCnDuw1_ex_YBKSBu_2IAIv9MCwscx1Gxnah3LGaYbOGDoLkAnwC8pgKpFGVjVvra1O_gq9rTYK2-_fSCaDoPCSfkPq4c27UBVk91nFjaVuVfqo53KIE5D61/s320/Photo1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631985179997231842" /></a>If you're heading off to war, a convicted felon, a child of overly competitive parents, a fan of Leave it to Beaver's daily affirmations, or one who would rather take the advice of hippies ("just be nice:" posthumous sticker addition), this little league signage on the back of a dug out might suit you.<div><br /></div><div>-MC (Photo taken on a bike ride). July, 2011.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-14061645886888521952011-06-25T20:01:00.000-07:002011-07-19T18:08:58.411-07:00Confronting "The End Times."<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif;font-size:x-small;"><p style="font-family:verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">T<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">he hoop-la behind ideas of the </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Apocalypse</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> are mentally trying for me. The thought of those giving up their jobs to sit on street corners boasting the end times as if it were a party not to be missed. The man who, leading up to May 21st, 2011, invested $140,000 of his own money in signage warning of the imminent dooms day this past month. And every other poor soul obsessed (at what seems to be a cyclic 7 to 8 year period) with the end of the world as we know it. I'm beginning to believe that this fear is some innate sense passed down from generation to generation: a more tangible answer to the unfeeling/uncaring cosmos that we are spiraling within straight towards our death. Yes, death is meaningless. But all those years building up to our personal introduction to nothingness are ripe for human substance: To love. To experience. To share. </span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">To confront these overwhelming thoughts, the poem below has offered years of solace.</span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-M.C.</span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">---------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the day the world ends</span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A bee circles a clover,<br />A fisherman mends a glimmering net.<br />Happy porpoises jump in the sea,<br />By the </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">rainspout</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> young sparrows are playing<br />And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.</span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the day the world ends<br />Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,<br />A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,<br />Vegetable peddlers shout in the street<br />And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,<br />The voice of a violin lasts in the air<br />And leads into a starry night.</span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And those who expected lightning and thunder<br />Are disappointed.<br />And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps<br />Do not believe it is happening now.<br />As long as the sun and the moon are above,<br />As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,<br />As long as rosy infants are born<br />No one believes it is happening now.</span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet<br />Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,<br />Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:<br />No other end of the world will there be,<br />No other end of the world will there be.</span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p face="verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-Czeslaw Milosz</span></p></span>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-80177866943926864742011-06-25T19:38:00.000-07:002011-06-25T19:49:16.296-07:00We're off to Iron Mountain.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLElhvZBotG2seL0oXdAg7sn7ybdqO7pvK2Sm0HcZVg4YlhLQyEJang84Et3eBbpGB1uiYLauFY_8w88pOKrJpQXJNmEkUvQKlgAYcM4FVLjJAjcpfcvOovgTxZuEznb9fFIxzRLj5Wlt/s1600/IMG_3017.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLElhvZBotG2seL0oXdAg7sn7ybdqO7pvK2Sm0HcZVg4YlhLQyEJang84Et3eBbpGB1uiYLauFY_8w88pOKrJpQXJNmEkUvQKlgAYcM4FVLjJAjcpfcvOovgTxZuEznb9fFIxzRLj5Wlt/s320/IMG_3017.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622352400437091330" /></a>For years I've wanted to take the hour long drive up route 60 to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Bok</span> Tower. May 30 was that day: a brutally hot one. Like the many things we take for granted (in our own back yards), this architectural gem sits atop a geographical <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">anomaly</span> that until we visited, I had no clue existed. Iron Mountain: 295 feet above sea level and the highest point on the Lake Wales Ridge. But more interestingly, one of the highest points on this giant sand bar we call home sweet home.<div><br /></div><div>-M.C.</div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566329434633692804.post-57684405498557181012011-06-18T11:06:00.000-07:002011-06-18T11:33:53.532-07:00Learning to Read."In retrospect, I was a sad little boy and a standard-issue, shiftless, egotistical, dejected teen-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ager</span></span>. Everything was going to hell, and then these <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">strangers</span> let me come to read. All things considered, every year since has been a more intense and enigmatic joy"<div><br /></div><div>-Salvatore <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Scibona</span>: "Where I learned to Read."</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember driving to school one late afternoon. Biology class. Piles of mind-numbing homework that could not be applied to the every-day grit that was the life I was living as a post-teen. I remember the shade of everything outside turning a dull orange. That time of day when everything slows down and your mind is allowed to turn upon itself. To think. To <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">reminisce</span>. I remember that day (sometime in late Spring) for the epiphany...I wanted to read. Not the biological nonsense I was paying for. Not the inapplicable math as part of my curriculum. Instead, I wanted to read about the connections of human <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">experiences</span>. I wanted to read something tangible.</div><div>That Spring, after opposing the recommendations of my advisor, I switched to a degree in English. Beginning that Fall, an educational void was filled: from then on, my life truly became a "more intense and enigmatic joy." </div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you.</div><div><br /></div><div>-MC</div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Matt Coplonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14203764971469438917noreply@blogger.com0