London in 1927 from Tim Sparke on Vimeo.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
"Incredible colour footage of 1920s London shot by an early British pioneer of film named Claude Friese-Greene, who made a series of travelogues using the colour process his father William - a noted cinematographer - was experimenting with. It's like a beautifully dusty old postcard you'd find in a junk store, but moving."
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Monday, May 20, 2013
"I stayed under the moon too long.
I am silvered with lust.
Dreams flick like minnows through my eyes.
My voice is trees tossing in the wind.
I loose myself like a flock of blackbirds
storming into your face.
My lightest touch leaves blue prints,
bruises on your mind.
Desire sandpapers your skin
so thin I read the veins and arteries
maps of routes I will travel
till I lodge in your spine.
The night is our fur.
We curl inside it licking."
Leave your house.
Go to a movie theater (preferably IMAX).
Witness Benedict Cumberbatch absolutely own your life/the universe and win the award for most attractive villan of all time.
Seriously. Forget about everything and just go.
Afterward, find whatever store this shirt is at and buy it.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
The shiv'ring piano, foaming at the mouth,
Will wrench you by its ravings, discompose you.
"My darling," you will murmur. "No!" I'll shout.
"To music?!" Yet can two be ever closer
Than in the dusk, while tossing vibrant chords
Into the fireplace, like journals, tome by tome?
Oh, understanding wonderful, just nod,
And you will know I do not claim to own
Your soul and body. You may go where'er
You want. To others. Wether has been written
Already. Death these days is in the air.
One opens up one's veins much like a window.
Fugitive lung, prodigal intestine—
where’s the pink crimp in my side
where they took you out?
It must be a dull world, indeed,
where everything appears
to be a version or extrapolation
The birds are you.
The springtime is you.
Snails, hurricanes, saddles, elevators—
I, with a shift
of my skin, divest my self
to become the rock
that shadows it.
Think of when
your reading eyes momentarily drift,
and in that instant
you see the maddening swarm of alien ciphers submerged within the text
gone before you can focus.
Or your dozing revelation
on the subway that you are
digested. Me again.
I am the fever dream
in which you see your loved ones
as executioners. I am also their axe.
Friend, while you’re exhausting
the end of a day
with your sad approximations,
I’m a mile deep
in the earth, vamping
my most flawless impression
of the abyss
to the wild applause of eels."
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
"Most of what has been written about me is one big blur, but I do remember being described in one simple word that I agree with. It was in a piece that tore me apart for my personal behavior, but the writer said that when the music began and I started to sing, I was “honest.” That says it as I feel it. Whatever else has been said about me personally is unimportant. When I sing, I believe. I’m honest. If you want to get an audience with you, there’s only one way. You have to reach out to them with total honesty and humility…You can be the most artistically perfect performer in the world, but an audience is like a broad—if you’re indifferent, endsville. That goes for any kind of human contact: a politician on television, an actor in the movies, or a guy and a gal. That’s as true in life as it is in art."