Photo 26 Jul 3,481 notes aruspices:

Kids 
a film by Larry Clark 

Leo Fitzpatrick is the original McLovin!

aruspices:

Kids 

a film by Larry Clark 

Leo Fitzpatrick is the original McLovin!

Photo 24 Jul The Last Name

The Last Name

Quote 7 Jul 43,110 notes
Lolita is not about love, because love is always mutual; Lolita is about obsession, which is never, ever love, and Nabokov himself was so disappointed that people did not understand this and take away the right message… For how could anyone call this feeding frenzy of selfishness, devouring, and destruction “love”?
—  In her preface to LOLITA, Mary Gaitskill reflects on a review by Vanity Fair’s Gregor von Rezzori in which he calls the novel: “The only convincing love story of the century (via dollymyfolly)
Photo 5 Jul Bonfire, the Belligerent Pacifier

Bonfire, the Belligerent Pacifier

Video 2 Jul 447 notes

reservoir-of-blood:

Gwen’s face is like…Here we go again.

Tony is her inspiration for writing the song Don’t Speak.

Video 28 Jun 1 note

When I’m feeling blue, all I have to do is take a look at you, then I’m not so blue.

Photo 26 Jun 218 notes venuskind:

☆ living your truth ☆☽☆☾Venuskind

venuskind:

☆ living your truth ☆

☽☆☾
Venuskind

via Venuskind.
Quote 25 Jun
I’ll never find you. It’s my fault I wanted more than you were willing to give.
— Chicosci
Photo 18 Jun 118 notes dadsaretheoriginalhipster:

Your dad wore shorter short than you and he’s got the upper thigh tan line to prove it. 

dadsaretheoriginalhipster:

Your dad wore shorter short than you and he’s got the upper thigh tan line to prove it. 

Text 17 Jun The Advice

A father’s advice to his son seeking guidance on what specialization to take. Read on.

June 17, 1944

Dear George,

Your letter of June 4th reached me yesterday and found me reading about the Philippine war of 1899-1903 instead of fighting in this one. I feel like a slacker but it is all according to plan so I have to possess my soul in patience. However, I worry all the time for fear that it will be over before I get in, though I know damned well that it won’t.

…It is hard to advise a man on what branch to take. You have to follow your own convictions. All I can say is that the Artillery live the longest but get the least glory and promotion. The Armored Force is fairly healthy but ut is hard to get above a Major General (don’t laugh[;] you will beat that grade). The Paratroops are used only on targets of opportunity and while they get a lot of honor they don’t stay on a job long enough to get real promotion. The Air Force gets lots of excitement and promotion but I doubt if a C in C [commander in chief] ever will come from the air. I may be wrong in this but i can’t see it. The bombing is not as effective as lots of people think and there is a little chance for great leadership. As soon as you get rank you have to stop flying. Besides, there will be a lot of aviators with combat experience and only a few years older than you at the beginning of the next war. That would seem to leave only the infantry, as I fear that the cavalry is extinct—more is the pity. Also since the infantry always has and probably always will be the largest branch they naturally have the big say in selecting future commanders. But it is your life, not mine, and make your own choice. Whatever arm you take you must feel that it is the best.

A lot of us think that men should not choose arms but simply be commissioned in the U.S. Army and then spend a year or so in several branches before they are allowed to specialize. Such a course would make a much more homogenous army.

Video 16 Jun 1 note

wantedchino:

One’s life does not consist of possessions. 

Yan ang sermon kanina sa misa at tinamaan ako. Trabaho ako ng trabaho, bili ako ng bili ng stocks sa stock market, ngunit parang kulang pa rin. Wala. Puro nalang ako stocks. Mukha na akong stocks. LOL

Oo nga pala. Ngayon ang first month ko sa stock market. Ang bilis ng panahon, no? Hopefully by December may kalahating milyon na ako. CHOS

May nabasa akong article: 1% lang ng mga Pinoy ang nag-i-invest sa stock market. Well, dahil kasama ako sa 1%, siguro kailangan ko na ring seryosohin right? May tatlo akong libro na binabasa ngayon. 

Kanina, habang nakikinig ako sa sermon, naalala ko ang kwento ni William O’Neil sa kanyang libro. Ang kwento niya ay tungkol sa greed. Madalas, ‘pag stock market ang pinaguusapan, iniisip agad ng iba na “Ay, sugal ‘yan.” Sugal? I dunno kung may nakita na kayong nagsusugal sa palengke. Ako wala pa.

May mga nakikita akong expert sa haggling skills (pakikipagtawaran) at marketing skills (pakikipagkalakal), pero pagsusugal? Ah, ah, ah. Wala. Nagiging sugal ang stock market ‘pag hindi mo alam ang ginagawa mo. May sinabi si Warren Buffet tungkol diyan. “Risk comes from not knowing what you’re doing.” (Hmmmm… In-English ko lang, okay. LOL) Eniweys, eto ang kwento.

A little boy was walking down the road when he came upon an old man trying to catch wild turkeys. The man had a turkey trap, a crude contrivance consisting of a big box with the door hinged at the top. 

This door was kept open by a prop to which was tied a piece of twine leading back a hundred feet or more to the operator. A thin trail of corn scattered along a path lured turkeys to the box. Once inside the turkeys found an even more plentiful supply of corn. When enough turkeys had wandered inside the box, the old man would jerk away the prop and let the door fall shut. Having once shut the door, he couldn’t open it again without going up to the box and this would scare away any turkeys lurking outside. The time to pull away the prop was when as many turkeys were inside as one could reasonably expect.

One day he had a dozen turkeys in his box. Then one sauntered out, leaving 11. “Gosh, I wish I had pulled the string when all 12 were there,” said the old man. “I’ll wait a minute and maybe the other one will go back.”

But while he waited for the twelfth turkey to return, two more walked out on him. “I should have been satisfied with 11,” the trapper said. "Just as soon as I get one more back, I’ll pull the string." But three more walked out. Still the man waited. Having once had 12 turkeys, he disliked going home with less than eight. He couldn’t give up the idea that some of the original number would return. When finally only one turkey was left in the trap, he said, “I’ll wait until he walks out or another goes in, and then I’ll quit.” The solitary turkey went to join the others, and the man returned empty-handed.

Ang husay.

Pareho sila ng idea ni Jesse Livermore. “Bakit hindi pa okay sa’yo ang 12? Two days ago, hindi ka naman nakahuli ng 12 right? Do you seriously think makakahuli ka ng 12 next week?”

via Chino.
Text 14 Jun

A Piece of String

It was market-day, and from all the country round Goderville the peasants and their wives were coming toward the town. The men walked slowly, throwing the whole body forward at every step of their long, crooked legs. They were deformed from pushing the plough which makes the left- shoulder higher, and bends their figures side-ways; from reaping the grain, when they have to spread their legs so as to keep on their feet. Their starched blue blouses, glossy as though varnished, ornamented at collar and cuffs with a little embroidered design and blown out around their bony bodies, looked very much like balloons about to soar, whence issued two arms and two feet.

     Some of these fellows dragged a cow or a calf at the end of a rope. And just behind the animal followed their wives beating it over the back with a leaf-covered branch to hasten its pace, and carrying large baskets out of which protruded the heads of chickens or ducks. These women walked more quickly and energetically than the men, with their erect, dried-up figures, adorned with scanty little shawls pinned over their flat bosoms, and their heads wrapped round with a white cloth, enclosing the hair and surmounted by a cap.

     Now a char-a-banc passed by, jogging along behind a nag and shaking up strangely the two men on the seat, and the woman at the bottom of the cart who held fast to its sides to lessen the hard jolting.

     In the market-place at Goderville was a great crowd, a mingled multitude of men and beasts. The horns of cattle, the high, long-napped hats of wealthy peasants, the headdresses of the women came to the surface of that sea. And the sharp, shrill, barking voices made a continuous, wild din, while above it occasionally rose a huge burst of laughter from the sturdy lungs of a merry peasant or a prolonged bellow from a cow tied fast to the wall of a house.

     It all smelled of the stable, of milk, of hay and of perspiration, giving off that half-human, half-animal odor which is peculiar to country folks.

<  2  >

     Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, had just arrived at Goderville and was making his way toward the square when he perceived on the ground a little piece of string. Maitre Hauchecorne, economical as are all true Normans, reflected that everything was worth picking up which could be of any use, and he stooped down, but painfully, because he suffered from rheumatism. He took the bit of thin string from the ground and was carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maitre Malandain, the harness maker, on his doorstep staring at him. They had once had a quarrel about a halter, and they had borne each other malice ever since. Maitre Hauchecorne was overcome with a sort of shame at being seen by his enemy picking up a bit of string in the road. He quickly hid it beneath his blouse and then slipped it into his breeches, pocket, then pretended to be still looking for something on the ground which he did not discover and finally went off toward the market-place, his head bent forward and his body almost doubled in two by rheumatic pains.

     He was at once lost in the crowd, which kept moving about slowly and noisily as it chaffered and bargained. The peasants examined the cows, went off, came back, always in doubt for fear of being cheated, never quite daring to decide, looking the seller square in the eye in the effort to discover the tricks of the man and the defect in the beast.

     The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, had taken out the poultry, which lay upon the ground, their legs tied together, with terrified eyes and scarlet combs.

     They listened to propositions, maintaining their prices in a decided manner with an impassive face or perhaps deciding to accept the smaller price offered, suddenly calling out to the customer who was starting to go away:

     “All right, I’ll let you have them, Mait’ Anthime.”

     Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the Angelus struck midday those who lived at a distance poured into the inns.

<  3  >

     At Jourdain’s the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast court was filled with vehicles of every sort — wagons, gigs, chars-a- bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name, yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to heaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose on the ground and their rear in the air.

     Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge fireplace, with its bright flame, gave out a burning heat on the backs of those who sat at the right. Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens, with pigeons and with joints of mutton, and a delectable odor of roast meat and of gravy flowing over crisp brown skin arose from the hearth, kindled merriment, caused mouths to water.

     All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Mait’ Jourdain’s, the innkeeper’s, a dealer in horses also and a sharp fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day.

     The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales. They exchanged news about the crops. The weather was good for greens, but too wet for grain.

     Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house. Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet at once and ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full and napkins in their hand.

     When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth in a jerky voice, pausing in the wrong places:

     “Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to all persons present at the market that there has been lost this morning on the Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o’clock, a black leather pocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers. You are requested to return it to the mayor’s office at once or to Maitre Fortune Houlbreque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francs reward.”

<  4  >

     Then the man went away. They heard once more at a distance the dull beating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier. Then they all began to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which Maitre Houlbreque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.

     The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared on the threshold.

     He asked:

     “Is Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, here?”

     Maitre Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table answered:

     “Here I am, here I am.”

     And he followed the corporal.

     The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair. He was the notary of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech.

     “Maitre Hauchecorne,” said he, “this morning on the Beuzeville road, you were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maitre Houlbreque, of Manneville.”

     The countryman looked at the mayor in amazement frightened already at this suspicion which rested on him, he knew not why.

     “I — I picked up that pocketbook?”

     “Yes, YOU.”

     “I swear I don’t even know anything about it.”

     “You were seen.”

     “I was seen — I? Who saw me?”

     “M. Malandain, the harness-maker.”

     Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening with anger, said:

     “Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking up this string here, M’sieu le Maire.”

     And fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it the little end of string.

<  5  >

     But the mayor incredulously shook his head:

     “You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that M. Malandain, who is a man whose word can be relied on, has mistaken this string for a pocketbook.”

     The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spat on the ground beside him as if to attest his good faith, repeating:

     “For all that, it is God’s truth, M’sieu le Maire. There! On my soul’s salvation, I repeat it.”

     The mayor continued:

     “After you picked up the object in question, you even looked about for some time in the mud to see if a piece of money had not dropped out of it.”

     The good man was choking with indignation and fear.

     “How can they tell — how can they tell such lies as that to slander an honest man! How can they?”

     His protestations were in vain; he was not believed.

     He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and sustained his testimony. They railed at one another for an hour. At his own request Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. Nothing was found on him.

     At last the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning him that he would inform the public prosecutor and ask for orders.

     The news had spread. When he left the mayor’s office the old man was surrounded, interrogated with a curiosity which was serious or mocking, as the case might be, but into which no indignation entered. And he began to tell the story of the string. They did not believe him. They laughed.

     He passed on, buttonholed by every one, himself buttonholing his acquaintances, beginning over and over again his tale and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that he had nothing in them.

<  6  >

     They said to him:

     “You old rogue!”

     He grew more and more angry, feverish, in despair at not being believed, and kept on telling his story.

     The night came. It was time to go home. He left with three of his neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the string, and all the way he talked of his adventure.

     That evening he made the round of the village of Breaute for the purpose of telling every one. He met only unbelievers.

     He brooded over it all night long.

     The next day, about one in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle, a farm hand of Maitre Breton, the market gardener at Ymauville, returned the pocketbook and its contents to Maitre Holbreque, of Manneville.

     This man said, indeed, that he had found it on the road, but not knowing how to read, he had carried it home and given it to his master.

     The news spread to the environs. Maitre Hauchecorne was informed. He started off at once and began to relate his story with the denoument. He was triumphant.

     “What grieved me,” said he, “was not the thing itself, do you understand, but it was being accused of lying. Nothing does you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying.”

     All day he talked of his adventure. He told it on the roads to the people who passed, at the cabaret to the people who drank and next Sunday when they came out of church. He even stopped strangers to tell them about it. He was easy now, and yet something worried him without his knowing exactly what it was. People had a joking manner while they listened. They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel their remarks behind his back.

<  7  >

     On Tuesday of the following week he went to market at Goderville, prompted solely by the need of telling his story.

     Malandain, standing on his doorstep, began to laugh as he saw him pass. Why?

     He accosted a farmer of Criquetot, who did not let hire finish, and giving him a punch in the pit of the stomach cried in his face: “Oh, you great rogue!” Then he turned his heel upon him.

     Maitre Hauchecorne remained speechless and grew more and more uneasy. Why had they called him “great rogue”?

     When seated at table in Jourdain’s tavern he began again to explain the whole affair.

     A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him:

     “Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string.”

     Hauchecorne stammered:

     “But since they found it again, the pocketbook!”

     But the other continued:

     “Hold your tongue, daddy; there’s one who finds it and there’s another who returns it. And no one the wiser.”

     The farmer was speechless. He understood at last. They accused him of having had the pocketbook brought back by an accomplice, by a confederate.

     He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh.

     He could not finish his dinner, and went away amid a chorus of jeers.

     He went home indignant, choking with rage, with confusion, the more cast down since with his Norman craftiness he was, perhaps, capable of having done what they accused him of and even of boasting of it as a good trick. He was dimly conscious that it was impossible to prove his innocence, his craftiness being so well known. He felt himself struck to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.

<  8  >

     He began anew to tell his tale, lengthening his recital every day, each day adding new proofs, more energetic declarations and more sacred oaths, which he thought of, which he prepared in his hours of solitude, for his mind was entirely occupied with the story of the string. The more he denied it, the more artful his arguments, the less he was believed.

     “Those are liars proofs,” they said behind his back.

     He felt this. It preyed upon him and he exhausted himself in useless efforts.

     He was visibly wasting away.

     Jokers would make him tell the story of “the piece of string” to amuse them, just as you make a soldier who has been on a campaign tell his story of the battle. His mind kept growing weaker and about the end of December he took to his bed.

     He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of death agony, he protested his innocence, repeating:

     “A little bit of string — a little bit of string. See, here it is, M’sieu le Maire.”

Photo 7 Jun 55 notes fictional-history:

"In 2011, the Hulk battles military forces at Culver University." (Source)

fictional-history:

"In 2011, the Hulk battles military forces at Culver University." (Source)

Text 31 May 1 note Verboten

Our love is verboten they tell us we are worlds apart

and we are forbidden to care.

Verboten, verboten, the dream I treasure in my heart;

a dream we’re forbidden to share.

It’s just like forbidding the morning sun to rise at dawn,

forbidding the stars to shine above.

For we know

true love cannot be verboten

and no matter what they say

I’ll give you my love.

Photo 30 May 214 notes muro-buro:

QUE SERA SERA. Limited edition print. Buy me here!

muro-buro:

QUE SERA SERA. Limited edition print. Buy me here!


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