Youth Lagoon, Posters

Jerry's Map

In this short documentary produced in March, Getty Images photographer John Moore describes his work in Egypt, Bahrain, and Libya earlier this spring. Customs seized all his equipment as he was entering Bahrain, so he bought an inexpensive Canon Rebel camera, cheap lens, and laptop so that he could keep working. 

In this photo taken on a government-organized tour, a journalist photographs a Libyan woman as she points her weapon at the video camera in the town of Gharyan, 100 km (62 miles) southwest of Tripoli, Libya, on July 10, 2011. Muammar Qaddafi's regime is seeking to show it remains in control of parts of the country's western mountains and will defend the territory against further rebel advances there.(AP Photo/Tara Todras-Whitehill)

And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth. --Ray Carver He was in a hotel in Baltimore in a suburb near Johns Hopkins. He would give a talk there, and they would pay him for it. It was night, and he was alone; sirens were racing up and down the streets. The room was very large. Most of what he had wished as a boy was to write poems, to have some power with the word, to be paid for talking. Don't smile, please. He wanted to be put in a beautiful room like this. Bonnie would pick him up in an hour. He saw out the picture window a few men in trenchcoats walking toward the parking lot, and beyond that headlights and taillights on a freeway a mile or so away. He'd been reading Carver's last book of poems, reading "Gravy" and the other valedictories. He remembered Carver a few years before his death, kidding about his prosperity, kneeling before his Mercedes and waving a fistful of dollars, because he was so amazed, he supposed, to have them, that good man, whose last poems, written in the knowledge of imminent death, said love the world, don't grieve overmuch, listen to people. The beautiful room was a good place to read; he'd finished the book (for the second time) at the pine desk, where the indirect white light hurt his eyes. He didn't think he'd ever be as famous as Carver, but who could tell? He was sorry the man was dead; there was nothing he could do about that, but he was sorry for it. He got up to look out the picture window. He could see the red spintops of some cops' cars. Other than that nothing special: in the entrance courtyard a lone cabbie smoked a cigarette; spotlights shone up through the yellow foliage of a clump of maples. A few slow crickets. He had everything he really wanted, he had learned that friends, like love, couldn't save him.

-Ed Ochester, October 27, 1989

Forgiveness Machine.

ricp:

artemisdreaming

Gustav Klimt Philosophy (Final State), 1899 - 1907

Last night I finally got a good night's sleep.  Even when I'm tired, nothing really bothers me much these days.  This summer's been so good to me.  I just feel like I'm constantly surrounded by love and kitties.  It's good.

unemomepiaf:

parfois, je parle français.

harvestheart:

  The Day They Hanged an Elephant in East Tennessee

“This is where Murderous Mary, a five-ton cow elephant with the Sparks Brothers Circus, was hung by the neck from Derrick Car 1400 on September 13, 1916. The story of why and how Mary died is, of course, obscured by time and countless retelling: an example of the best and worst of oral history. It is tragic, absurd, excessive: quintessential turn-of-the-century America.”

Tonight I was

rolling coins, applying to a (potentially perfect) internship, talking on the phone with my oldest/best friend, seeing an old friend in town for one-night-only, drinking (a single) beer.

home is where the hatred is

"This is how space begins, with words only, signs traced on the blank page. To describe space: to name it, to trace it, like those portolano-makers who saturated the coastlines with the names of harbours, the names of capes, the names of inlets, until in the end the land was only separated from the sea by a continuous ribbon of text. Is the aleph, that place in Borges from which the entire world is visible simultaneously, anything other than an alphabet?"

Georges Perec, Species of Spaces