Showing posts with label young girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label young girl. Show all posts
Thursday, 15 November 2018
Wednesday, 12 April 2017
clock on // log in
clock on // log in
Do say: Rider community/Roo community
Don’t say: (Driver) fleet/(driver team/team members/our riders
http://whatisamedialab.com/overview/
Do say: Rider community/Roo community
Don’t say: (Driver) fleet/(driver team/team members/our riders
http://whatisamedialab.com/overview/
Saturday, 22 October 2016
Monday, 22 August 2016
Thursday, 15 October 2015
Wednesday, 7 October 2015
Wednesday, 17 December 2014
Hardwick on Holiday
She was fat the first time we saw her, large, brilliantly beautiful,
fat. She seemed for this moment that never again returned to be almost a
matron, someone real and sensible who carried money to the bank, signed
papers, had curtains made to match, dresses hung and shoes in pairs,
gold and silver, black and white, ready. What a strange, betraying
apparition that was, madness, because never was any woman less a wife or
mother, less attached; not even a daughter could she easily appear to
be. Little called to mind the pitiful sweetness of a young girl. No, she
was glittering, somber, and solitary, although of course never alone,
never. Stately, sinister, and absolutely determined.
The creamy lips, the oily eyelids, the violent perfume—and in her voice the tropical l’s and r’s. Her presence, her singing created a large, swelling anxiety. Long red fingernails and the sound of electrified guitars. Here was a woman who had never been a Christian.
To speak as part of the white audience of “knowing” this baroque and puzzling phantom is an immoderation; and yet there are many persons, discrete and reasonable, who have little splinters of memory that seem to have been personal. At times they have remembered an exchange of some sort. And always the lascivious gardenia, worn like a large, white, beautiful ear, the heavy laugh, marvelous teeth, and the splendid archaic head, dragged up from the Aegean. Sometimes she dyed her hair red and the curls lay flat against her skull, like dried blood.
http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/1976/mar/04/billie-holiday/
The creamy lips, the oily eyelids, the violent perfume—and in her voice the tropical l’s and r’s. Her presence, her singing created a large, swelling anxiety. Long red fingernails and the sound of electrified guitars. Here was a woman who had never been a Christian.
To speak as part of the white audience of “knowing” this baroque and puzzling phantom is an immoderation; and yet there are many persons, discrete and reasonable, who have little splinters of memory that seem to have been personal. At times they have remembered an exchange of some sort. And always the lascivious gardenia, worn like a large, white, beautiful ear, the heavy laugh, marvelous teeth, and the splendid archaic head, dragged up from the Aegean. Sometimes she dyed her hair red and the curls lay flat against her skull, like dried blood.
http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/1976/mar/04/billie-holiday/
Friday, 12 April 2013
Monday, 25 February 2013
Before you came into my life I missed you so bad I missed you so bad I missed you so, so bad
trash theory
a fractalized battlefront
alienation by contagion
unclassified background material
alienated humanity in its final stage of decomposition
materials accumulated randomly in encounters with, visits with, and observation of ...
Monday, 15 October 2012
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