61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: Street Fighter. The movie. A new one. With that chick from that Superman show. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Mad Men's January Jones struts her stuff in Vanity Fair. Plus: Damages returns, the latest Gossip Girl guest star and Donna Martin capitulates.
touch it every day, a secular mezuzah at the threshold of climatic change. A hemispheric sconce embossed with the proprietary brand on its clear bubble: HONEYWELL. With the tread of my fingertip, I nudge the clear cleats of the inner ring delicately, as if dialing a safe, toward the triggering calibration of the two fine red needles, one below indicating, its shadow falling upon the numbered scale, how it feels, and the other on top, quivering as it inches toward the desired state.
Mine is anodized, plated with a silver skin, but inductive, actually warming to my touch. It's sensitive as skin. I cup it in my hand, appreciate its French curves, its idealized design. I remove my hand. Beneath its streamlined sheeting is the mechanism of sensation and maintenance. A coiled watch spring and a bulb of quaking quicksilver trembles on its mirrored surface, responding to the eddies of my breath and, should I hold my breath, to even the reverb of my heart transmitted through the cold air.
I shiver in the morning draft, and the fur on my forearm fluffs like feathers. We forget the constant feel of feeling; we fail to notice the constant microscopic alterations embedded in our hides. We are sheathed in erectile tissue, contracting, expanding beyond our control. We are amazed when a mere touch draws out a nipple, knots it, how the areola's circling ridge of flesh fine tunes itself into a studded dial registering an ascending scale of hardness and heat.
When I touch the thermostat, I do so to ease the imagined temperature past the ambient one. And at that moment, deep in the house, I feel that sound like the distant launching of mortars, an inhalation of air as the oxygen in the room around me is drawn into the vents, the jets of blue flame igniting somewhere.
touch it every day, a secular mezuzah at the threshold of climatic change. A hemispheric sconce embossed with the proprietary brand on its clear bubble: HONEYWELL. With the tread of my fingertip, I nudge the clear cleats of the inner ring delicately, as if dialing a safe, toward the triggering calibration of the two fine red needles, one below indicating, its shadow falling upon the numbered scale, how it feels, and the other on top, quivering as it inches toward the desired state.
