schwendigo

#howtonotgiveaFUCK: How do you start not giving a fuck?

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 18:24:08 -0400

#howtonotgiveaFUCK: How do you start not giving a fuck?:

Why should you not give a fuck?

Don’t ignore the problems you face. Rather, come to terms with them.

Realize your insignificance amidst the rest of the universe – It is the epitome of narcissism to think that our individual actions have any consequence in a universe where the…

fer1972: Miles Johnston

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 12:51:52 -0400

fer1972:

Miles Johnston

so beautiful.

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 12:49:41 -0400

so beautiful.

haircut in greenpoint

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 16:05:58 -0400

I went to get my hair cut today. It was one of those rockabilly places that seem to be gaining traction as of late. 50’s ephemera on the walls, nods to greasers and Elvis, pomade for sale at the counter. A nice mousey girl with neck tattoos offered me a free PBR while I waited for my barber.

I was about to work up the courage to ask for a second can of beer when he approached me. His name was David. He had buzzed sides and a sweet, swollen pompadour that I almost rudely stared at, a big frozen tidal wave the color of dark coffee. He shook my hand and led me to the chair, where I instructed him to do “whatever looks good - just no buzzer”. My hairdresser friend once said that buzzers were plebian.

At first, I thought maybe David had the hiccups. His fingers smelled like camel lights and as he parted and cut little swatches of my hair, his whole body would lurch intermittently. The scissors snipped away steadily though, with nary an interruption while the armature behind them seemed to bear the force of an invisible shove every few seconds. I was amazed that he managed to keep his fingers still, suspended at the same height and distance while everything behind his elbows shifted and hopped. I thought of that youtube video with the chicken keeping it’s head floating in perfect stasis while a goggled farmer moved it’s body around on all axes. No, I thought … this couldn’t be the hiccups, no one handled the hiccups this way. The guy could be defusing a bomb.

I decided that I was on David’s team. I didn’t know him well, or even his condition (tic or hiccups? ticcups?), I didn’t even know if I was going to like the haircut, but I decided then that I had his back. A little monologue started to sound off in my head, rooted in solidarity and compassion. I knew what it was like to be a freelancer, people talking shit about you, people doubting you, not being perfect but trying your best. Me and David, we were the same. We were homies.

It was when the straight razor came out that I momentarily doubted my confidence and resolve in David. He slathered my neck in warm shaving cream, which did temporarily mitigate my anxiety, but when the blade touched my skin I found my breath quickening and my butthole contracting. This could be the end. Thirty two years old, never been to India or had a proper threesome, dead at the hands of a hipster Greenpoint barber with a tic, the proud taste of solidarity quickly turning to niavete in my mouth. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the only evidence of his tic of death was the muted thump in his breathing. He scraped the last swath of soap and hair off by neck, easily, wiped it down, and patted powder on the skin.

In times like this

Mon, 01 Apr 2013 19:24:11 -0400

I sincerely thank God for my friends, and my dog.

oh hi there, galactic core. it’s been awhile.

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 01:26:59 -0400

oh hi there, galactic core. it’s been awhile.

raindrop150: ilovemysassysuperman: itskalynbitch: notanothergi...

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 21:47:39 -0400

raindrop150:

ilovemysassysuperman:

itskalynbitch:

notanotherginger:

Those who say the Black Widow’s fighting style is just movie bullshit can see the above. ^ Shit is terrifyingly real.

I think I’m in love.

She’s so tiny.

But she could kill me.

Great.

In Honor of International Women’s Day. Ya’ll can have your awesome starletts and actresses. I’ll take this kick woman any day.

In Honor of International Women’s Day.

youmightfindyourself: TREATISE ON ELEGANT LIVINGBy Honoré de...

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 21:43:49 -0400

youmightfindyourself:

TREATISE ON ELEGANT LIVING
By Honoré de Balzac

Honoré de Balzac’s 1830 Treatise on Elegant Living was a keystone text on dandyism, preceding Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly’s Anatomy of Dandyism (1845) and Charles Baudelaire’s “The Dandy” (in The Painter of Modern Life, 1863), and marking an important shift from the early dandyism of the BritishRegency to the intellectual and artistic dandyism of nineteenth-century France. The Treatise is the first true philosophical expression of dandyism, and is full of well-crafted aphorisms: “Elegant living is, in the broad acceptance of the term, the art of animating repose,” runs one classic definition of dandyism, and “The man of taste must always know how to reduce need to a minimum” asserts the role elegant living can play in times of both opulence and strife. Further embellished with anecdotes and historical and personal illustrations, Balzac’s Treatise even features a fictitious encounter with the original dandy himself, Beau Brummell. Never before translated into English, this witty tract makes for an illuminating cornerstone to Balzac’s Human Comedy (which was originally to have included a never-completed four-part philosophical “Pathology of Social Life”). Above all, it represents a decisive moment in the history of dandyism, and an entertaining exposition on the profundities of what lies deepest within all of us: our appearance.

THEYOUNGGIRL’S HANDBOOK OF GOOD MANNERS FOR USE IN EDUCATIONAL ESTABLISHMENTS
By Pierre Louÿs

The first of Pierre Louÿs’s erotic works to see publication after his death, The Young Girl’s Handbook of Good Manners is also his most outrageous, and one of the few erotic classics in which humor takes precedence over arousal. By means of shockingly filthy advice and a parodic format, Louÿs turns late nineteenth-century manners roundly upon their head, with ass prominently skyward. Whether he is offering rules for etiquette in church, school, or home, or outlining a girl’s duties toward family, neighbor, or God, Louÿs manages to mock every institution, leaving no hypocrisy unexposed. The book has only grown more scandalous and subversive than when it first appeared in 1926.

THE HIERARCHIES OF CUCKOLDRY AND BANKRUPTCY
By Charles Fourier

In this zoological guidebook to cuckoldry and commerce, Fourier offers a caustic critique of the bankruptcy of marriage and the prostitution of the economy, and the hypocrisies of a civilization that over-regulates sexual congress while allowing the financial sector to screw over the public. Gathered together here for the first time are Fourier’s two “Hierarchies”—humorously regimented parades of civilization’s cheated and cheated-on in the domestic sphere of sex and the economic sphere of buying and selling commodities. “The Hierarchy of Cuckoldry”—translated into English for the first time—presents 72 species of the male cuckold, ranging from such “common class” cases as the Health-Conscious Cuckold to the Short-Horned Sympathetic, Optimist and Mystical Cuckolds, and the Long-Horned varieties of the Irate, Disgraced and Posthumous Cuckolds. For Fourier, these amount to 72 manifestations of women’s “secret insurrection” against the institution of marriage. “The Hierarchy of Bankruptcy” presents 36 species of the fraudulent bankrupt: a range of Light, Grandiose, and Contemptible shades of financial manipulators who force creditors, cities and even nations to bail them out of ultimately profitable bankruptcies. In these attacks on the morality of monogamy and the perils of laissez-faire capitalism, Fourier’s “Hierarchies” resonate uncannily with our contemporary world.

AN ATTEMPT AT EXHAUSTING A PLACE IN PARIS
By Georges Perec

One overcast weekend in October 1974, Georges Perec set out in quest of the “infraordinary”: the humdrum, the nonevent, the everyday—“what happens,” as he put it, “when nothing happens.” His choice of locale was Place Saint-Sulpice where, ensconced behind first one café window, then another, he spent three days recording everything to pass through his field of vision: the people walking by; the buses and driving-school cars caught in their routes; the pigeons moving suddenly en masse, as if in accordance to some mysterious command; the wedding (and then funeral) at the church in the center of the square; the signs, symbols, and slogans littering everything; and the darkness that eventually absorbs it all. In An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris, Perec compiled a melancholic, slightly eerie, and oddly touching document in which existence boils down to rhythm, writing turns into time, and the line between the empirical and the surreal grows surprisingly thin.

(Editor’s note: My picks for short (~100 pages) books that you can read or pretend to read.)

fuckyeablackart: Goddess of Earth by Ry-SpiritVisit...

Sun, 10 Mar 2013 14:50:02 -0400

fuckyeablackart:

Goddess of Earth by Ry-Spirit
Visit fuckyeablackart.tumblr.com

daingifs: creature in field with gem. ink pen and color dye...

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 09:09:42 -0500

daingifs:

creature in field with gem.

ink pen and color dye marker on paper

GIF

©2013 DAiN8)

i usually hate these things, but this one does it.

catching errant fireflies in some july a forgotten park, green bokeh the valves of our minds...

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 01:33:00 -0500

catching errant fireflies in some july

a forgotten park, green bokeh

the valves of our minds cooperating for the first and last time

so perfect. time stopped. like breathing on opiates.

then someone misspoke, drunk on synergy

a fit of assertion

one of us salted the slugs

the chemistry was too much to watch -

sky paled, the green drained away, fences grew

i started to believe in aliens

status and wealth

this new doubt

pooling in ankles, crowds forming

there was the face of a redhead muse

an idealist

culturally significant loft parties

the mythology of better men

a posse

thieving, conniving saints

fueled by a dozen testicles

half as many starving egos

like termites quietly they

ate the substance out of it all

leaving the skin untouched

to congregate around you

their beautiful translucent queen

all the heads of the baby birds are singing together like they’ve known it for years,...

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 01:30:04 -0500

all the heads of the baby birds are singing together

like they’ve known it for years, they’ve been saying it from the first peep it’s

just now that you noticed

they sing a hymn of potassium yellow

of lost ochre scrolls in the garden

a song of simple stones and convex falloff

little ramps leading into the fog of nature

when skeletons dance without muscles

when muscles anchor to air

love precipitates before it festers

tongues meeting for the first time over radio waves

for the second, a touching of tips, hydrophilic cohesion

the viruses swim upstream like late salmon

no time to exchange pleasantries

pink superhighway

ice cold beer as asphalt for traction

deep in the city of you

bundled apart from the wind and the cold

each organ hums and trades blood for bile, bile for plasma, marrow for semen, lymph for mucous

the first pokerface passed down from the first mammal -

only hidden teeth

proboscis

Photographer’s girlfriend leads him around the world sigh. :)

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 09:16:35 -0500

Photographer’s girlfriend leads him around the world

sigh. :)

"There’re three kinds of death in this world; there’s heart death, there’s brain death, and there’s..."

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 23:33:28 -0500

“There’re three kinds of death in this world; there’s heart death, there’s brain death, and there’s being off the network.”

- Guy Almes

i sit and click for hours on end, a slow fluorescent tan creeping on my skin. i get home and click...

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 23:21:46 -0500

i sit and click for hours on end, a slow fluorescent tan creeping on my skin.

i get home and click some more. then i consume. i consume while consuming, the eyes and mouth working at the same time, brian on standby. so much going in, with not much coming out, save for more appetite.

i fight the alarm in the morning. it takes three of them, ganged up, maxed out. i rise, joints crackling. my nakedness disgusts me, i hurry to put clothes on, then quickly resent the fit. but i need to keep moving. i was already late yesterday.

clothed like this, i shuffle to work. nearly shapeless, formless, in stitched cohesive patterns that i feel nothing for. i strike no profile, make no impression. everything about my presence is muted. looking at the people walking by me, i’m on the other side of something.

on occasion, one starts to think and tunnel out an original enthusiasm, or perhaps visit a former comfort violated by heartbreak or nostalgia, thinking that time away may have restored the majesty. but the endeavors don’t forget that you’ve abandoned them. all elasticity in these past immersions has dissipated. the beds are dried out, and you never bothered to sow them before you left. lie in them anyway, and the axe comes down.

the axe is the present experience of a life spent without optimism. a life bent on “getting it”. having the upper hand of understanding. it’s post-awareness. post-irony. post-internet. post-social network. post-hallucinogen. post-hipster. post-exploration. post-judgement. post-religion. post-nihilism. these are the thirties, the insecurity of wasted youth starting to mount a nagging chorus of regret behind you, and the steady decline of oxidation possibly without purpose lurking in the shadows ahead. somewhere there’s the path of your father and mother going in both directions, converging on you, the spring chicken that stuck around and forestalled it’s execution, alone in the yard, strange with it’s head. wondering if it would be more dignified as a corpse. roaming but idle, like a sheep that fell through the cracks. an escaped grain, trying to get back into the hourglass. a chickpea that rolled away from the hummus.

looking at pictures of stars used to take you away from this. the unknown. then you started thinking about how they’re all false-color radiation crammed into the visible spectrum. pre-digested and processed for your own limited faculties, and this changed the taste of them. FD&C violet gamma ray #5. And, … they’re all dead now. NASA disbanded. You have no health insurance.

Back on earth, the color of lightning, to ride in it, to be blue and white in the middle, pale blue skin with a white liver too bright to look t, a glowing coruscating spleen, brilliant plasma eyeballs and arcing digits, a radiated fucking crayfish, it’s not poetry any more, it’s an aesthetic visited by a video game that sells for 59.99. It’s watered down Alex Grey coffee table books. All your imaginary exodus shaken out of your spine to your peripherals, that great big shudder like a dog oscillating away the dirty water, has already been summed up and marketed. The stock in your angst has been liquidated.

This is not depression or pessimism; it’s hanging your hat up, sitting down, and wondering “what now”?

Video

Thu, 28 Feb 2013 11:23:51 -0500

nevver: — James Baldwin

Mon, 25 Feb 2013 00:27:59 -0500

nevver:

— James Baldwin

nevver: Benoit Paillé

Sun, 24 Feb 2013 17:23:03 -0500

nevver:

Benoit Paillé

devidsketchbook: FREEKHAND Spain, Barcelona based illustrator...

Sun, 24 Feb 2013 03:50:58 -0500

illustrator Miguel Herranz | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

illustrator Miguel Herranz | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

illustrator Miguel Herranz | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

illustrator Miguel Herranz | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

devidsketchbook:

FREEKHAND

Spain, Barcelona based illustrator Miguel Herranz (flickr

misscannabliss: man o war by Bruce Riley on Flickr.

Thu, 21 Feb 2013 22:56:39 -0500

misscannabliss:

man o war by Bruce Riley on Flickr.