SIC (# 74,862)

We know what it means but we don’t know why it means what it means. Sic is Latin, aren’t you sic? It’s an acknowledgement that we are letting the dodgy spelling go.

So why do we need to know why? Why is why so deeply satisfying once we know? Why is the person who keeps asking giving off a bigger brain aura than the rest of us halfwits? Questions outweigh statements in the clever tug’o’war, yet we’re living in a time of statements, quotes and brainless feelings assaulting us from every direction – just as this post is right now.

As you can see, we quickly lose the point. We stray, investing too much emotion, getting worked up about something that wasn’t even on our radar. But we drag this benign shit into our orbit and then end up in jail via a 140 character rant. But the upside is in jail we focus. On the stuff that matters most. Ask Mandela. So if we all did a stint in jail, as a strange kind of national service, imagine the country we’d be.


He wrote a list every day on the back of his hand. Always in black biro. Always a Bic. Always upper and lower case. Yesterday’s list never quite disappeared, so over time the layers of words began to build up their own epidermal fabric. Graphologists and geologists fought over him. By 70 the National Portrait Gallery stepped in with a cryogenic bid. Upon his death, his hand became the founding work of their new annexe, the National Hand Gallery.