Post with 2 notes
"The body becoming a curious ritual of the brain, its self-deception a tautology, a pleonasm, a human fetus crushed inside an egg.
I have nowhere set aside to retrieve my unwatched turns.
The zombie regurgitates his own almost man-sized meal.
The turd-fest of bodies needing to live, and having lived, and that’s our clinamen.
I’m the fixed part of the trap.
A sunburst eyelid moving cloud.
The exploded haecceity of a hollowed-out mirror.
I see through my hands to the floor.
The way a pig’s eye is levered from its face.
The analogy rooted in the anus of a bat.
That my hygiene has tailed off is almost legible now.
And the light retreats inside.
And the head won’t sink.
And though fear is toothless, there’s still this dread of the suck of its open kiss.
Low fog round the feet of broken down performers.
There’s no confusion in my dumb animals, only the oblivion of this intellect that squirts.
I imagine peepholes in my skull, and the type of people that would bother to look.”
One of Buster Keaton’s most memorable stunts in The General (1926), in which he clears a stray railroad tie while perched precariously on his locomotive’s cowcatcher.
Soviet-era textile design, 1920s/30s
This is really dope.
PUSHING WEIGHT, a Freight Culture Group Show. August 7 - August 31, 2014 @ Compound Gallery, 107 NW 5th Ave. Opening this Thursday.
With work from: Ed Haskell, Kodak Kidd, Holy Shit, Wooden Axle, Bench Reporter, Poorboy, Clawhamr, Coaltrain, and hella more.
This should be pretty cool!
Johnny Depp supporting #boyincroptops1984
Johnny Depp knew that psychedelic cat drawings were going to be hot one day.
"it’s one thing to want to believe, to live by building a mind on the fault
between faith & doubt:
it’s another to believe the longing for belief
an attack, a distrust of immersion in the material given us as as habit & habitat,
no possible rush of friendship for stones, grasses & humus,
as if the human were over
& the wild deer in us were released at last
at dusk to disappear into the stand of manzanita far across the field I love:
if we die to become nothing by matter so that Being itself might continue,
grounded by ground itself,
such a sweet thing out of such corruptions!,
who wouldn’t wish to linger in the material world
that won’t spare me or let me hold a living hand to him:
all spring I’ll return
to bring grief to the field, always
I can’t pull out
entire: “as above,
from star down to thistle
it’s all the same: still firm in the ground,
today it breaks in my hand,
bad mourning that this summer flowers
the life only destruction makes possible.”
- Brian Teare, “Star Thistle”
Page 1 of 26