Has the opposite sex become obsolete?

Summer Solstice

Blue hair, be mine

(unknown, Alexander McQueen, unknown, Mui Mui)

This guy lost his friend



I didn't realized how big of a hobby (habit?) this has become...

More to come.

Barfly

And as my hands drop the last desperate pen, in some cheap room, they will find me there and never know my name, my meaning, nor the treasure of my escape.

This is a world where everybody's gotta do something. Y'know, somebody laid down this rule that everybody's gotta do something, they gotta be something. You know, a dentist, a glider pilot, a narc, a janitor, a preacher, all that.
Sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things that I don't wanna do. All the things that I don't wanna be. Places I don't wanna go, like India, like getting my teeth cleaned. Save the whale, all that, I don't understand that.
You're not supposed to think about it. I think the whole trick is, not to think about it.

Don't be sorry, just put on some new underwear.

Why don't you stop drinking? Anybody can be a drunk.
Anybody can be a non-drunk. It takes a special talent to be a drunk. It takes endurance. Endurance is more important than truth.

Hey baby, nobody suffers like the poor.

Nothing but the dripping sink. Empty bottle. Euphoria. Youth fenced in, stabbed and shaved. Taut words propped up to die.

Dream

I find it incredibly dull to read people's dreams. Why waste my time on something that didn't actually happen? But in case you feel differently...

It began civilly enough. Our side had gathered, flash mob style, to hear a speech from the other side, and we can only assume that is why the other side had simultaneously gathered. Had this situation begun due to one too many assumptions? The moment we arrived, it took only one member of our side to throw the first item, an unidentifiable conservative journal, clear across the meager, threadbare rope that divided us. In an instant it was a free-for-all, and soon members of both sides were buried deep in the sea of paper, and some other items, such as smoldered soldiers boots. We chucked The San Francisco Chronicle to their side, they hurled The Washington Times back, we tossed articles detailing the massive civilian casualties in Iraq right over the border, and they kicked it back. Headlines bearing "Global Warming Hoax" soared over my head, and I scrambled, clutched it for a mere moment as if it would poison my hand, and sent it right back. We could not throw far and fast enough; they could not pick up our "trash" fast enough. Though we both labored, none made progress. Though we spit curses, bent and stood hundreds, thousands, of times, neither was ever able to empty their space of unwanted paper. Soon I, and I assume others, began throwing personal items. I carried my bed duvet and handed it to a member of the other side, who only tried to give it back. We went on like this for eternity.

Courtney & Micko


(via Black Lung)

MONGER

3 Sections from Barak Marshall's new work MONGER. Premiere: October 25, the Suzanne Dellal Center for Dance and Theater, Tel Aviv Barak Marshall was the former house choreographer for the Batsheva Dance Company under the artistic direction of Ohad Naharin.

Fortune's Bones

"Fortune was an African American man enslaved by Waterbury physician Dr. Preserved Porter in the late 18th century. Fortune was probably born in the 1740s, but we do not know where. Dental analysis may someday reveal if he spent his childhood in Africa, the Caribbean or North America. Upon Fortune’s death in 1798, Dr. Porter, a renowned bone surgeon, prepared his skeleton to serve the study of anatomy. In recent years, Fortune's bones have provided scientific evidence to document the circumstances of his life.
The rugged bone structure, especially where the muscles attached to the bones, suggest Fortune was a powerful man accustomed to the heavy work of a farmer. Fortune’s bones indicate that he suffered several injuries during his lifetime, which had healed before his death: he had a broken lower back and other injuries to the bones in his hand and foot. These injuries, which were not unusual for agricultural workers at the time, did not kill him. He was generally in good health at the time of his death, at about 60 years of age."


"Marilyn Nelson has written a series of six stirring poems to honor Fortune's life. Part funeral mass, part freedom celebration, her spare words are clear about the harshness of his servitude and what his remains tell about his backbreaking labor. In the climactic poem, "Not My Bones," Fortune himself speaks: 'You can own someone's body, / the soul runs free.' "

Linear Life

You Can't Hug a Memory

This is looking at something and not feeling the image it represents. This is a feeling that does not match its environment. This is all the pictures we look at, the awe and potential we see in photography, that for a moment lifts us. But once that moment is over we are left with our stark surroundings, colors not manipulated or enhanced. Just, as they are.

This is wishing for more, hoping the candy red sweetness could really be tasted like its colors promise. This is looking to the future as if it were always better than the present. The same goes for the past, but it is called regret. This is looking at a picture, and creating memories that were not really there, often better than they were, to dull this ever present sense: that we are wasting time, that we must find what we are looking for, that we must soak in these colors even if they are honestly real, or one might say, gray by comparison.

Das Unheimliche

via This Recording

Possibility

The Photography of Joseph Szabo

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JANE

Today is Jane's birthday
She is 18.
Jane wanted to buy beer
to celebrate.
She always gets
proofed.
I never get
proofed
because if it's
an old guy behind
the cash register
I ask him
how many kids
does he have
and if it's a
young guy
I smile and talk
of his wavy brown
hair.
Jane doesn't do that
and that's why she can't
buy beer.
Today, though, she can
but the guy at
the cash register
is really stoned
out
and doesn't ask for
her proof - just her
money.
Jane asks him if
he wants to see her
proof.
He thinks she is
under age and maker her
put the beer back.
She comes out crying.
I have to go in
and buy
the beer.
-Sue Sipos














All images from photosofteenagers.com

I wrote this for class...

The students complain that I treat them like kindergarteners, and I retort, “I highly doubt kindergarteners read stories about the Irish civil war and analyze them for theme.” They don’t seem to get my sarcasm. In fact, not only do they complain that sitting in a circle reading a story is juvenile, they claim I have no sense of humor. Absurd! If only they could see my daily witty, sarcastic, brilliant humor at work in my (normal) daily life…

But for now they just think I’m a stuck up old person without the ability to laugh. They’re so funny though! I wish they could realize that I think so, and that I really like them, despite their reluctance to do any work, inability to bring their homework to class, complete disrespect, and obnoxiousness. But seriously, I like them! I swear!

Anyways, today we’re doing a reading circle for the story “ The Sniper,” and it soon becomes clear that some people are simply refusing to read, faking ill, going to the bathroom, any number of routine excuses. It also becomes clear that four students can’t read, and that I’m not a first grade teacher, and I have no clue how to teach kids how to read.
It takes them years to calm down, we have to reread certain sections because the noise level is off the charts, plus some kids are just sitting there drawing pot leaves on their papers. Eventually, after some serious nagging, we make some progress with the story, but asking them questions is pointless because not only are they not listening to me, when I do talk they purposely talk louder over me.

Then a miracle occurs. Learning occurs. Without them even realizing it, and I’m so happy I could literally cry. Thinking about it now actually brings tears of joy and pride to my eyes! Javier, the loudest student, and also one of the smart kids, becomes very interested in a certain situation in the story involving the Sniper shooting an old woman who informs the enemy of his location. I remark that I think this is a wrong thing to do, and Javier immediately disputes my statement, excitedly shouting that “He did it for a good reason, that old lady was a snitch!” He then proceeds to go around the circle polling each student about what he or she would do if put in a similar situation. Can you believe this?! They all gave their input, gave some reasons why or why not, and were, like, engaging their minds.

I just didn’t have the heart to tell them they were learning.

Staged

...yet still powerful.

Robert Capa: Falling Soldier (1936)

Farewell my black balloon

I made a logo for my brother. I'm still not really sure what he does. All I know is that it involves "mixin' sick beats."
sharpie x photoshop


sharpie x photoshop

A showered plant drips drips

A weakening an erosion

To say you understand,

When I cannot even understand myself, is absurd

Just seeing a paradigm it’s funny

Or is it that it would take an eternity

For you to tell me all you know about me?

I, “stewing in my own soul air,” asking

Eroding

If I can ever know life when I see it

You said it

(via oh! You Pretty Things)

Dream (in fragments)

I am with my family at Whole Foods. We are at some sort of event, or going on some sort of outing. I decide to be nice and offer to buy everyone pastries. I grab carrot cake, nutty cranberry bars, four total and not one for myself. I will have coffee only.

The line is longer than I had thought. It wraps around the entire store, in a large circle. Everyone waits patiently and does not complain, but I worry that I will not get the pastries to my family in time and something bad will happen.
Somehow I get to them and give them the food. I do not know their reaction. I realize that I forgot to get myself coffee, and curse myself for having stood in line that whole time and forgot the thing I needed for myself.

My dad starts asking me questions about my friends at school (the present is apparently 8th grade or before, as he speaks of my grade school friends). When will I be seeing them? Do they like me? Does anyone like me? Why aren’t I with them? What’s wrong with me that no one calls for me or wants to play with me? He asks, increasingly menacing, bellowing in that big man hollow tone of his. I can see the frustration crawling up from his clenched fists, out through his bloodshot eyeballs.
I don’t know, I offer meekly. Then, without warning, rage takes over me and I have a golf club in my hand. With all my strength I WHACK him in the middle of his body and he falls like a dead tree to the floor, then club him twice more, harder than I have ever hit anything in my life. I drop the gold club and casually leave.

I am at home, or school, or somewhere, I do not know. I worry that my mom will never call me again, after what I did. She normally calls every few days, but it has been a week. I think she is mad at me for what I did, but I do not even know.
There is a gathering at my parent’s house, with some of their friends, but I am banished upstairs. I have nothing to do, so I wander around; there are many chests of drawers, and my brothers and my clothes are divided between them. I have the top drawer of all of them, and they have the bottom drawers. In them I find many years accumulation of under things, bedspreads, pajamas. I see my brother Joel’s bottom bunk bed and it is covered in yellowing pillows and little kid drool.
In the kitchen my dad is cleaning out the refrigerator, and he tilts it 45 degrees with his bare hands to pull out the dusty sheets (like dryer lint) that have built up over the years. Without looking at me, as he works he says, This is all the fat in your body we’re getting rid of. There’s too much of it.

Outside on the porch everyone is watching something incredible. It waves, and changes into odd shapes, like gelatin molds of water doing tricks beyond the human imagination. It is twisting and twirling, as if it was a man in a water suit, and we are in awe. I say, It’s like being high!

I am at school, in the present day. We are in a classroom, and I am with my classmates. One tells me that class starts at 8 that night, not 7. There are faculty and administration and students all around; we are suddenly at my high school. My two resident teachings are leading some sort of court hearing; they are both old and graying. My friend and I leave, and outside we run into her resident teacher, and another one. They are both young and attractive, and hug their student teachers. One introduces himself to me as Joel (with a handshake), and I say That will be easy to remember. My brother’s name is Joel. So is one of my students…but he is not listening.

We learn that we must go to parent teacher conferences at 8 on January 30. I ask my friend if she will pick me up and we can go together, but she looks at me as if the answer is no. I say, Oh actually that’s ok. Ha ha. Nevermind.
We all must go to a movie screening. As we file into the large auditorium seats, it is my grade school classmates again. I am behind a girl, K, and she is next to the disabled girl E. In grade school no one was really friends with E, but now they all flock to her, vie for her attention. I sit next to K, but then her whole row moves over one seat, leaving an empty seat between me and everyone else. So I move over one seat, to be next to them, as I worry what people will think of me if I am sitting alone. They do it again, this game of “catch up,” then over and over again. Sometimes they move back the way they came, and I must scramble to move back too.

The movie starts. It is Alfred Hitchcock, a grainy black and white monster of a film, but begins with modern day production company advertising. There is a ballet corps, in Swan Lake esque costume. The title is something like “The Flamenco… ” and everyone thinks it will be about a Flamingo, the bird. I tell them it is a kind of dance, a Spanish dance, but no one listens. And sure enough, the ballerinas, who actually look drag, do a Spanishy ballet. However, I cannot really see, as I do not have my glasses.


images: imdb

The Edge of Love

The edge of love: an incessant, torturous purgatory of the heart.