“i think what kanye west is going to mean is something similar to what steve jobs means. i am undoubtedly, you know, steve of internet, downtown, fashion, culture. period. by a long jump. i honestly feel that because steve has passed, you know, it’s like when biggie passed and jay-z was allowed to become jay-z.”
yeah right kanye…. be careful, ego-licious interview here by pp.
link to above video: NSA – TMI
dear NSA staff, thank you for protecting us all. we do hope posting this is in no way an infringement of some recently approved law (or is it?) we somehow felt that it sits quite well in between architecture and art, just two of the tiny little things hitler banned in 1937 (cause he couldn’t draw, see entartete kunst). now, we do trust you guys are all well-meaning folks, but having all this surveillance in place, couldn’t it one day fall into the wrong hands? say sarah palin’s, or richard nixon’s third nephew? now, that could be some heavy shit! they will block any opponent from there on and sarah will become the queen of the united states. or worse, imagine sarah sporting the same clothes as us… real time!!! if i got this right, we now have all our facebook, google search, verizon calls, and probably personal diaries from high school recorded and monitored and we’re told that is the heavy price we’re paying to have 100% security. hmmm, how come this brilliant system didn’t catch the bad guys in boston when we had a lead on them to begin with? i bet the spies were too busy monitoring nk’s naked google searches, i know i would have been. if you ask me maybe too much information is… well too much information. but please people, seriously, i definitely don’t want to be somewhere in zurich, reading somebody else’s mein kampf part two when i’m 94. for a more accurate report see this bbc article. by xy
oh henry, how i love you so. i love his insistence on humanization, perhaps it can cure the masses. by sv
no more fear, no more loathing… by xy
that’s all it took, i placed the sea scape above my bed and the rest came to me like the dust in the morning rays. “you did not kill the fish only… to sell for food… you killed him for pride and because you are a fisherman. you loved him when he was alive and you loved him after…”
yes it’s true. from the old man and the sea – ernest hemingway by uh
frank o’hara reading perhaps his most famous work. reinstating the importance of moments, just sharing a soda, a smile, etc. always helps to hear it from the poet’s mouth too. by sv
Desert flower, flowers from the garland of our houses where families bicker in the open air, you browse on the stones of the day, simple, while field and sky like sky and sea appear all around. Rustic desert flower, no evening streaming with lights. No shepherds drenched by dew, slender fire of the hedges. No marsh-marigold, bilberry, swamp-violet or Florentine iris, or gentian, no angelica, no Parnassian grass or marsh-myrtle. You’re Pieruti, Zuan and tall Bepi with his walking-sticks of bone, slim at the helm of his wagon, pasture flower. You become hay. Burn, burn, sun of my town, little desert flower. The years pass over you, and so do I, with the shadow of the acacia tree, with the sunflower, on this quiet day.
a visionary on many fronts, the stunning words of mr. pier paolo pasolini. by sv
a little digression here…i was thinking, now that telling the truth by a reporter gets you a couch in the embassy of ecuador (julian assange) and also now that telling the truth gets you life in prison (bradley manning) how will we ever hear about the naughty business of such business? i guess we won’t? ok, now go back out and play. by dd
want to talk about fashion week dd? the best piece of the season is this article by suzy menkes in the new york times. fashion circus, blogger craze and this kind of thing…
“We were once described as “black crows” — us fashion folk gathered outside an abandoned, crumbling downtown building in a uniform of Comme des Garçons or Yohji Yamamoto. “Whose funeral is it?” passers-by would whisper with a mix of hushed caring and ghoulish inquiry, as we lined up for the hip, underground presentations back in the 1990s.
Today, the people outside fashion shows are more like peacocks than crows. They pose and preen, in their multipatterned dresses, spidery legs balanced on club-sandwich platform shoes, or in thigh-high boots under sculptured coats blooming with flat flowers.
There is likely to be a public stir when a group of young Japanese women spot their idol on parade: the Italian clothes peg Anna Dello Russo. Tall, slim, with a toned and tanned body, the designer and fashion editor is a walking display for designer goods: The wider the belt, the shorter and puffier the skirt, the more outré the shoes, the better. The crowd around her tweets madly: Who is she wearing? Has she changed her outfit since the last show? When will she wear her own H&M collection? Who gave her those mile-high shoes?!…” more here
by pp.
when i was young i met a lovely girl and i had the longest crush on her. i was a bit passive and would quietly observe and she took me for the longest ride. i mean i’d see her and wed go out all night but she would never let out. we even slept in the same bed and said good night and still nothing went further. i knew her for over 10 years when i finally came to terms with the fact that she was simply not interested in me. i swallowed it like a big boy but just when i settled on that thought she turned around. but by then i was locked up in the house of love. it was a total fairy tale and i must say she looks like a fairy tale looking back at this. by xy
marcel proust as photographed by emmanuel radnitzky also known to friends and family as man ray. as far as i know marcel was simply sick in bed…. as usual and pre dead years. long-live his long novels. by dd
completely brilliant but partially insane poet anne sexton was a master of language, and quite the absolute beauty. her birthday being last week, i have had her on the mind, and the struggles she went through as a mother, writer and human being. sexton attempted several times, and finally took her own life; however, before that tragedy she left behind a remarkable world of honesty. embracing topics that very few had sought out before her, sexton was undoubtedly a paragon of sorts. a few lines from her poem, as it was written:
All in all, I’d say,
the world is strangling.
And I, in my bed each night,
listen to my twenty shoes
converse about it.
And the moon,
under its dark hood,
falls out of the sky each night,
with its hungry red mouth
to suck at my scars.
by sv
a visual collective outlet of inspiration
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