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I can't bring myself to reblog "tumble" (or is it "tumbl"?). It has me equally entranced and confused. I distrust it like my grandmother distrusts her at-home e-mail account. Maybe one day I will turn into a new era Luddite. Perhaps that is lingering within me from a past life. Maybe I was busting factories in the 19th century, and soon I will strike again (that is not a threat).

But I like it from a distance. And it excites me when I find myself gazing into the right places. Sometimes I feel overstimulated and sort of sick; other times I get into it. And sometimes, when I come across inspiring content (that happens often), I do a little whine inside because I feel like a dead-end consumer of imagery. What do I do? Share it? Hit the little heart icon and then the reblog button? Or is sharing still consumption (see the philosophical bullshit I have wound myself into?). I start drafting prototypes of tumblr names and ditch the whole thing five minutes later.

But I still want to share it. Then I realized, 'Oh yeah, I have a blog on the best little website ever'.

So these are a few of my favorite things this week/month/around now.



Best photography blog I've seen.

Synchrodogs has given me have a little faith in fashion photography too.



I listen to this whole album a lot and there is something so endearing about playing it while picturing these two teenage brothers making a romantic, crooning album in their family home studio in 1979, in some tiny American town called Fruitland.



A mysterious snake appeared underneath a 400 year old painting of Queen Elizabeth I. The unknown artist painted a flower over it. Garden of Eden. Was the painter being subversive? Or was the symbol too ambiguous? I wonder I wonder I wonder.



Speaking of Eden, Facebook banned the New Yorker's page recently over two little black, semi-circular dots. The scandal, dubbed in the article as Nipplegate, was a ban on a cartoon of Adam and Eve; the original sin was a bit too sinful. It brings up a good point about male/female nudity. Hilarious article - give it a read here.



This photography is not flat.

Lee Friedlander's New York City Mannequins.



100% DOWN

I like this podcast. Perhaps you will too.

Knowing only his voice, I thought radio host Roman Mars would be the biggest 20-something babe, and that we might fall in love because I would call in one day, and then he would walk me through cityscapes and tell me about all their little points of interest. Googled him--he's definitely not my kind of babe, and is likely married and definitely a father. Good show though.



Chris Kraus: exceptional, exemplary woman. I'm reading the book that she is reading in the picture above right now. While I am not finished, it's radical. Although reading it on the bus gets me a few curious stares (see the title). She is coming to speak in Vancouver in November; come with me.

Great 8 or 9 part interview here


"The subject of the weather has long shaped the content of everyday conversation. The eighteenth-century writer Samuel Johnson famously remarked ‘It is commonly observed, that when two Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the weather; they are in haste to tell each other, what each must already know, that it is hot or cold, bright or cloudy, windy or calm.’

In The Weather Project, the fourth in the annual Unilever Series of commissions for the Turbine Hall, Olafur Eliasson takes this ubiquitous subject as the basis for exploring ideas about experience, mediation and representation."

The whole world in a gallery. Check it out here



To be able to watch a rather candid, scratchy moment from the 1962 Newport Festival, and to see Skip James play with Son House and Howlin' Wolf hanging out beside him is another reason why YouTube is pretty special to me.



Speaking of blues...



Meditations in an Emergency by Frank O'Hara. This poem makes my day over and over and over again.

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French?

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves.

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing? Uh huh.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only I had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something. It’s not that I am curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it’s my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has theiranxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.

Now there is only one man I love to kiss when he is unshaven. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How discourage her?)

St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How am I to become a legend, my dear? I’ve tried love, but that hides you in the bosom of another and I am always springing forth from it like the lotus—the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, “to keep the filth of life away,” yes, there, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and courses and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse.

Destroy yourself, if you don’t know!

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

“Fanny Brown is run away—scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho’ She has vexed me by this Exploit a little too. —Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her. —I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds.” —Mrs. Thrale.

I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot ahead. There won’t be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.


Well if you made it through that mess and still feel like you didn't waste any time, we should most definitely become better friends.

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