Oh heavens, this is PERFECT. Amazing noir-themed 2007 photoshoot by national treasure Annie Liebovitz for Vanity Fair, and featuring a whole slew of my favorite actors. Talk about writing prompts. (I’m shipping the Angelica Huston & Sharon Stone characters).
A few more images here.
You won’t allow me to go to school.
I won’t become a doctor.
Remember this:
One day you will be sick.
I won’t become a doctor.
Remember this:
One day you will be sick.
“
| — |
— Poem written by an 11 year old Afghan girl This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous), and their doubts about religion. One of the best articles I’ve read all year. Here’s the link (via katyuno) |
There was a young lady of Kent,
Who always said just what she meant;
People said, “She’s a dear -
So unique - so sincere - “
But they shunned her by common consent.
Who always said just what she meant;
People said, “She’s a dear -
So unique - so sincere - “
But they shunned her by common consent.
“
| — | The World’s Best Limericks by the Peter Pauper Press, 1951. (via ingridrichter) |
Serious blogging, Mt. Everest has a 3G network now. Live blogging happening now on the 29,029 ft ascent.
Performed this at a Slam For Change event earlier this evening.
Lost by seeingthehorizon / Nicolas Kelly
I want to get lost in you,
The same way I get lost in all seven of the Harry Potter Books,
Kinda to the point
Where you lose track of reality.
Where you see it filtering
Through your fingertips
Like a millon grains of sand,
A million little pieces to the puzzle
that never seem to fit.
I want to get lost in you.
I wanna take a couple turns in the wrong direction
Until I don’t know where I am
Because it’s only when you’re lost
that you really start to pay attention
to the little things,
And the little things,
are the most important things,
I want to get lost in you.
I want to whisper
from the depths of my soul
and not be afraid because I know
you’re the only one who understands me.
I want to reach out to the stars,
And I want to feel the stars reaching back,
And I want to know that it’s you
pointng me
in the right direction.
I want to get lost in you.
Lost like I’m in physics class
not knowing what the fuck’s going on
because I’m not thinking about physics,
I’m thinking about you.
And I’m thinking about that smile,
That smile that could
Melt hearts and
Swoon angels.
I’m thinking about the way your eyes light up
when I walk in the room.
I’m thinking about how perfectly you fit in my arms,
Almost like God himself intended it to be that way.
You see, our love is like the air,
Ever present, and surrounding.
Our love is like my pulse,
Invisible to those around me,
But still real because I can feel it.
I want to sleep with you,
Somehow share my dreams with you,
I want to seam our souls together,
So that my dreams come true.
And I,
I want to get lost in you.
the fault in your love is remarkable
I thought of the last four minutes of your life
this morning as I rode to work on the usual
decrepit bus, driven by the usual inane driver.
It briefly struck me as we flew past a mother and
her young (albeit aged) daughter, both in black:
the fault in your love was remarkable.
I thought it not in the least bit remarkable
as a pair of teen girls who, for the life
of them could not grasp that the color black
was not as flattering as one might, in usual
context, find it to be. I realized then, and
not too devastatingly so, they short-changed the driver.
I tried not to take in to account the driver
and his vulgar demeanor: instead on how remarkable
it was that he and his keen behind-sight cared not and
wanted not to realize that the counting machine came to life,
whirring and whining and missing its usual
fare, as the girls went to the back of the bus, black
hips swaying as I recalled how the black
arm of death took you from me. The driver
of a golf cart zoomed past us as we walked our usual
route in the park. You maintained how remarkable
it was that those crazy motorists never cared for a life,
even their own, as you took my arm and
lead me away from the paved walk on to a brown and
beaten dust path. It was getting darker, the sky nearly black,
and with a sheer disregard for (like your drivers) my life,
you took now my hand and lead me further from the driver.
I thought briefly the steadiness of your hand remarkable,
but then regarded it as nothing more than the usual––
With a screech of tires, we rounded the usual
corner, past the recently robbed Kwik-e Mart and
a couple of homeless chain smokers: remarkable,
I muttered, thinking of course to their black
lungs and yours. One man raised a finger to the driver
as we passed. The last I’d seen since you lost your life.
The fault in your life, not less than usual,
the driver behind the reckless car, and
no less black and remarkable.
