A young girl’s life gets turned upside-down in this tragic second a day video. This is what war does to children. Find out more at http://bit.ly/3yearson
"It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world."
John Green, Paper Towns
And it was so that Bruce Lee challenged Chuck Norris to a duel, rousing the beast with his beckoning fingers, palms-up. Chuck replied by snatching a pigeon out of the air and consuming it with one bite, then spitting out a grey feather, tipped white, striped black, into the cold air of their impromptu battle arena (a flat stony clearing atop a cliff by the sea). Bruce struck out his arm, straight as a lightning rod, and let the edge of his palm down like a guillotine, which split the pigeon feather into two equal parts, both halves peeling away from one another, swirling. Chuck followed by round-house kicking one half of the feather into two more equal parts, peeling away in the air, dashing about erratically in the heat between them. Then Bruce one-inch punched the half of the half of the feather in two parts. Then Chuck hooked the half of the half of the half of the feather, with his ankle, into two parts… and you see here how quickly two men will recognize the game at hand, and so then Bruce continued to follow suit… and then Chuck followed suit… and so on until the feather was reduced to half of a half of a half of a half of a half of an exponentially decaying half, both Bruce and Chuck, halving the halves in many continuing increments, like two chefs, entremetiers, pureeing the diminishing feather with their bodies down to its last atom. Then together Bruce and Chuck, with sharp eyes and the last atom homed-in, on auto-lock, reared for a strike in unison and, thrusting forward, to no surprise, they split the atom in two. The force of such a split was enough to shatter even these two giants, who were now nothing more than the silt and powder of the very star-dust that makes the cosmos. As the air around the arena settled, the whole remaining other half of the grey feather and all the remaining halves swayed to-and-fro downward, landing lightly where they did. And in the glimmer of that slow-falling confetti of feather dust and Bruce-dust and Chuck-dust, we saw, too, our reductions and our bits made in blows-for-blows, dividing, until all that is ever left is the imprint of our fists, touching, knuckle-to-knuckle; the one forgotten half-feather, tipped white, striped black, swirling gently, still whole.
Track by a good friend of mine, POHEX. In this one he samples Doc Watson into this dope mix. This is the sound of my South Texas, in all of its parts. Super fresh!
Thermochromic table by Jay Watson
imagine banging someone on that table
imagine being home alone and seeing imprints on that table
imagine if the guy never got up or moved at all and so he never realized that this was a special thermal imprint table, didn’t get to see what was so special, and instead stared into the distance lost in his thoughts, two cups of cold coffee, never to feel delight at the novelty of where he is sitting.
[The Kim Sisters] were a South Korean trio who had a successful career in America during the 50’s and 60’s. To support their family during the Korean War, they performed songs for American GIs who then spread word of them after returning home. They were signed to a contract and went to the US, eventually performing 22 times on The Ed Sullivan Show.
I won’t tell you to believe in ghosts, but be mindful if there is a spirit somewhere, of something, that you are disrespecting — the spirit that resides with you in your house (maybe try sweeping the floors by the doormat) — your own spirit and the spirit between others that maybe conjures regardless of you — the spirit of objects you remember meaning very much to you (treasures, otherwise trash) — don’t forget them, and pick up after yourself, so the spirits don’t follow you, picking up after you when maybe they would rather be guiding you instead.
We Dogs of a Thursday Off, by Alberto Ríos
The wine of uncharted days,
Their unsteady stance against the working world,
The intense intoxication of nothing to be done,
A day off,
The dance of the big-hearted dog
In us, freed into a sudden green, an immense field:
Off we go, more run than care, more dance—
If a polka could be done not in a room but straight
Ahead, into the beautiful distance, the booming
Sound of the phonograph weakening, but our legs
Getting stronger with their bounding practice:
This day, that feeling, drunkenness
Born of indecision, lack of focus, but everything
Forgiven: Today is a day exposed for what it is,
A workday suddenly turned over on its back,
Hoping to be rubbed.