November 5, 2013
nevver:

Hopper updated, Andy Leipzig

nevver:

Hopper updated, Andy Leipzig

October 31, 2013
Happy Halloween…
"The Cask of Amontillado" by Edgar Allan Poe
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled - but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
Read the rest…

Happy Halloween…

"The Cask of Amontillado" by Edgar Allan Poe

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled - but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

Read the rest…

October 31, 2013
I wore a costume to work once on Halloween.
I went as a doctor – I had on ER scrubs, the green kind, and a toy stethoscope. At this time in my life, I had long hair, a soul patch, and mutton chop side burns. In short, you probably wouldn’t have let me operate a vending machine, let alone on a human being.
I got off the subway at Union Square and a woman grabbed my arm.
"Thank goodness!" she said. "The man, over there! He got hit by a car, doctor."
It took me a second to realize what the deal was.
"Oh, sorry. I’m not a doctor. It’s Halloween," I said, as if that would make it all OK. 
She looked at me like I was a crazy. Then confused. Then ran off for real help.
I can only assume she is telling her version of the story, too.

I wore a costume to work once on Halloween.

I went as a doctor – I had on ER scrubs, the green kind, and a toy stethoscope. At this time in my life, I had long hair, a soul patch, and mutton chop side burns. In short, you probably wouldn’t have let me operate a vending machine, let alone on a human being.

I got off the subway at Union Square and a woman grabbed my arm.

"Thank goodness!" she said. "The man, over there! He got hit by a car, doctor."

It took me a second to realize what the deal was.

"Oh, sorry. I’m not a doctor. It’s Halloween," I said, as if that would make it all OK. 

She looked at me like I was a crazy. Then confused. Then ran off for real help.

I can only assume she is telling her version of the story, too.

6:45pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZibsZyz8r7I3
Filed under: halloween 
October 28, 2013

I guess I always believed that as long as Lou Reed was around there was a chance the old New York might still come back.

The New York that was for nobodies. 

October 28, 2013

1976 | MIKEY AND NICKY | Elaine May

This movie made me feel like I had a hangover. An I mean that in the best possible way.

(Source: filmandimage, via bbook)

5:51pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZibsZyyuNBim
  
Filed under: cassavetes film 
October 22, 2013
"I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling."

— Jack Kerouac, “The Dharma Bums”

9:59pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZibsZyyO6c-a
  
Filed under: kerouac dharma nature 
October 21, 2013
Sometimes the moon stays up all night and don’t wanna go home.

Sometimes the moon stays up all night and don’t wanna go home.

October 18, 2013
Rivers and tides…

Rivers and tides…

October 16, 2013
"There is an aesthetic crisis in writing, which is this: how do we write emotionally of scenes involving computers? How do we make concrete, or at least reconstructable in the minds of our readers, the terrible, true passions that cross telephony lines? Right now my field must tackle describing a world where falling in love, going to war and filling out tax forms looks the same; it looks like typing."

Quinn Norton (via dayofthedreamweavers)

(via slavin)

October 16, 2013
slavin:

"The New York I lived in, on the other hand, was rapidly regressing. It was a ruin in the making, and my friends and I were camped out amid its potsherds and tumuli. This did not distress me—quite the contrary. I was enthralled by decay and eager for more: ailanthus trees growing through cracks in the asphalt, ponds and streams forming in leveled blocks and slowly making their way to the shoreline, wild animals returning from centuries of exile. Such a scenario did not seem so far-fetched then. Already in the mid-1970s, when I was a student at Columbia, my windows gave out onto the plaza of the School of International Affairs, where on winter nights troops of feral dogs would arrive to bed down on the heating grates. Since then the city had lapsed even further. On Canal Street stood a five-story building empty of human tenants that had been taken over from top to bottom by pigeons. If you walked east on Houston Street from the Bowery on a summer night, the jungle growth of vacant blocks gave a foretaste of the impending wilderness, when lianas would engird the skyscrapers and mushrooms would cover Times Square.
At that time much of Manhattan felt depopulated even in daylight. Aside from the high-intensity blocks of Midtown and the financial district, the place seemed to be inhabited principally by slouchers and loungers, loose-joints vendors and teenage hustlers, panhandlers and site-specific drunks, persons whose fleabags put them out on the street at eight and only permitted reentry at six. Many businesses seemed to remain open solely to give their owners shelter from the elements. How often did a dollar cross the counter of the plastic-lettering concern, or the prosthetic-limb showroom, or the place that ostensibly traded in office furniture but displayed in its window a Chinese typewriter and a stuffed two-headed calf? Outside under an awning on a hot afternoon would be a card table, textured like an old suitcase with four metal corners, and around it four guys playing dominoes. Maybe they’d have a little TV set, up on a milk crate, plugged into the base of a streetlight, issuing baseball. On every corner was a storefront that advertised Optimo or Te-Amo or Romeo y Julieta, and besides cigars they sold smut and soda pop and rubbers and candy and glassine envelopes and sometimes police equipment. And there were Donuts Muffins Snack Bar and Chinas Comidas and Hand Laundry and Cold Beer Grocery and Barber College, all old friends. Those places weren’t like commercial establishments, exactly, more like rooms in your house. They tended to advertise just their descriptions; their names, like those of deities, were kept hidden, could be discovered only by reading the license tacked up somewhere behind the cash register. At the bodega you could buy plantains and coffee and malta and lard, or a single cigarette—a loosie—or a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a stamp.”From Luc Sante, My Lost City.

slavin:

"The New York I lived in, on the other hand, was rapidly regressing. It was a ruin in the making, and my friends and I were camped out amid its potsherds and tumuli. This did not distress me—quite the contrary. I was enthralled by decay and eager for more: ailanthus trees growing through cracks in the asphalt, ponds and streams forming in leveled blocks and slowly making their way to the shoreline, wild animals returning from centuries of exile. Such a scenario did not seem so far-fetched then. Already in the mid-1970s, when I was a student at Columbia, my windows gave out onto the plaza of the School of International Affairs, where on winter nights troops of feral dogs would arrive to bed down on the heating grates. Since then the city had lapsed even further. On Canal Street stood a five-story building empty of human tenants that had been taken over from top to bottom by pigeons. If you walked east on Houston Street from the Bowery on a summer night, the jungle growth of vacant blocks gave a foretaste of the impending wilderness, when lianas would engird the skyscrapers and mushrooms would cover Times Square.

At that time much of Manhattan felt depopulated even in daylight. Aside from the high-intensity blocks of Midtown and the financial district, the place seemed to be inhabited principally by slouchers and loungers, loose-joints vendors and teenage hustlers, panhandlers and site-specific drunks, persons whose fleabags put them out on the street at eight and only permitted reentry at six. Many businesses seemed to remain open solely to give their owners shelter from the elements. How often did a dollar cross the counter of the plastic-lettering concern, or the prosthetic-limb showroom, or the place that ostensibly traded in office furniture but displayed in its window a Chinese typewriter and a stuffed two-headed calf? Outside under an awning on a hot afternoon would be a card table, textured like an old suitcase with four metal corners, and around it four guys playing dominoes. Maybe they’d have a little TV set, up on a milk crate, plugged into the base of a streetlight, issuing baseball. On every corner was a storefront that advertised Optimo or Te-Amo or Romeo y Julieta, and besides cigars they sold smut and soda pop and rubbers and candy and glassine envelopes and sometimes police equipment. And there were Donuts Muffins Snack Bar and Chinas Comidas and Hand Laundry and Cold Beer Grocery and Barber College, all old friends. Those places weren’t like commercial establishments, exactly, more like rooms in your house. They tended to advertise just their descriptions; their names, like those of deities, were kept hidden, could be discovered only by reading the license tacked up somewhere behind the cash register. At the bodega you could buy plantains and coffee and malta and lard, or a single cigarette—a loosie—or a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a stamp.”

From Luc Sante, My Lost City.

(Source: -circa)