someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly

untitled on Flickr.Charles Spring Run, August 2014.

untitled on Flickr.

Charles Spring Run, August 2014.

1 week ago

untitled on Flickr.Charles Springs on the Suwannee River, August 2014.

untitled on Flickr.

Charles Springs on the Suwannee River, August 2014.

1 week ago

untitled on Flickr.Suwannee River at Troy Springs, August 2014.

untitled on Flickr.

Suwannee River at Troy Springs, August 2014.

1 week ago

Two English Poems

I

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
corner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
of things half given away, half withheld,
of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds
and odd ends: some hated friends to chat
with, music for dreams, and the smoking of
bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart
has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily
and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you
have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street
of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to
make your name, the lilt of your laughter:
these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find
them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and
to the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life …
I must get at you, somehow; I put away those
illustrious toys you have left me, I want your
hidden look, your real smile — that lonely,
mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

II

What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the
moon of the jagged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked
long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts
that living men have honoured in bronze:
my father’s father killed in the frontier of
Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in
the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather
—just twentyfour— heading a charge of
three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on
vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold,
whatever manliness or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never
been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,
somehow —the central heart that deals not
in words, traffics not with dreams, and is
untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at
sunset, years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about
yourself, authentic and surprising news of
yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the
hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you
with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

Jorge Luis Borges, 1934

"A Handy Tip for the Easily Distracted" by Miranda July

(Source: youtube.com)

unconsumption:

junkculture:

Artist Transforms a Pile of Trash into a Mind-Bending Anamorphic Illusion

French artist Bernard Pras creates artwork using a technique called anamorphosis, a distorted projection or perspective requiring the viewer to use special devices to see the complete artwork.
His latest project on exhibit at Palais Idéal du Facteur Cheval, near Lyon, France is a portrait of Ferdinand Cheval (a French postman who spent thirty-three years of his life building Le Palais idéal in Hauterives), made up of various objects found around the installation site which requires being viewed from a specific vantage point to reconstitute the image.
More here.

(Source: boredpanda.com)

vicemag:

Hair Everywhere

Ask yourself this: Am I really in a position to be complaining about what a woman does with her body hair? No. You should be down on your knees, praising any woman who’d allow you to take as much as a whiff of her sweat wicks.