This photograph is worth 1000 times more than a picture of a bottle of nail varnish or food etc. Only about 10 of my followers will reblog this, and the rest will not. It won’t spoil your blog. God bless him.
The poems on Old Street are set in capital white letters on a brushed black background, in a sort of mangled Futura; it’s a type treatment that should send his words running and screaming through the streets but somehow does not. Instead, the words lean calmly against the wall and arouse a kind of subtle and unnoticed reflection. People pass by on their way to or from here or there. They do double-takes and slow down. Intrigue wraps their faces. They stop, read, think, and eventually move on, carrying something with them that maybe wasn’t there before. Something that came free, silent and unexpected, set in capital white letters on a brushed black background.
stop talking about me
Neurons, synapses connecting, reconnecting, attaching, shriveling, growing, blossoming into a cluster of networks of neighborhoods of cells. Interlocking strings, of wires, of yarn. Firing back and forth, to and fro, propelling electrical currents from one region to another, fueling each neighborhood with its own source of power, of thought, of function. An electrical surge of energy teetering between neurons, looking for a humble abode to nestle itself under, for a place of refuge. A balancing act of swinging energy. Emotion, thought, curiosity, anger, hatred, hidden ambitions, a cowardly demeanor, a facade of an unyielding exterior, a sense of order, love, a flowing current of movement, ever remaining constant, unyielding to the adversity of sleep. A kindling to the flux of operation. What is a thought but a simple firing of energy through the tubes and tubes of bountiful neurons? Lighting up, activating, igniting neighborhoods with its immense faculty of raw power, inviting each other for dinner, for a conglomeration of ideas over a grand feast of electricity. Discombobulated, shattered, realign, solidify, mold together. A kind of electricity spawned from the likes of oxygen, of atmosphere, of mother nature’s breath. The kilotons of oxygen in the atmosphere are so concrete, their amount so finite, limited by their very definition. Yet the amount of human breaths is uncountable through the course of history. Have you ever pondered over the source of the particles you breathe in? Each inhalation has the possibility to contain unfathomably countless (INFINITE!) microscopic particles of exhalation from each and every single person in existence, from the sweat-soaked breaths of the first people to a new born baby’s first exhalation born just a millisecond ago. You could inhale history, inhale culture, inhale philosophies, inhale emotions, inhale dreams, inhale lonely days, inhale the disjointed thoughts of those living on another continent, of those living in another time, of those not even in existence. You could potentially inhale Julius Caesar’s first breath, Albert Einstein’s 314223098085th breath, and Salinger’s last breath from a single deep insufflation. If particles of air contained traces of thoughts, however minuscule, in turn, each thought stirred in your brain is triggered from the atoms - with each inscribed a story - that you breathe in. Recycled concepts, rehashed outlines of overrun ideas. Cliche? But yet, to each unadulterated brain and untouched mind, it is new and embryonic. A reincarnation of ideas, forever shape-shifting to fit the mindset of the individual and passing itself on to a new recipient with each respiration. I hear you, I breathe you, I see you. A sense of camaraderie lying beneath that film of ice that bubblewraps us in our own world revealed, like a half-developed scab peeled off to unveil tender, pink skin. To be born is to be reborn. A conglomeration of ideas stitched together with dental floss, but with the utmost of care, none right, none wrong, all confluence. A fuel to the fire to life. We’re operating under an unchanging, underlying, unspeakable, eternal force that propels everything forward with each flawless winding movement, oscillating with each tiny pulsation and fluxing in universal clockwork.
“The more you know, the more you can make fun of”
– Del Close (Work at the top of your intelligence.) (via iowest)
“It is easy to become deluded by the audience, because they laugh. Don’t let them make you buy the lie that what you’re doing is for the laughter. Is what we’re doing comedy? Probably not. Is it funny? Probably yes. Where do the really best laughs come from? Terrific connections made intellectually, or terrific revelations made emotionally.”
– Del Close (via comedytimewarp)
“Some of the worst things in my life never happened.”
– Mark Twain (via unephilosophe)
¿Las muertes?Perdidas en general
Las perdidas de las cosas, le confieso que nunca me importaron mucho.
Pero las perdidas de las personas si, que me han dolido y en algunos casos, si que me han dejado un huequito muy difícil de llenar.
Pero bueno, este mundo esta armado así.
Eduardo Galeano (Entrevista Sangre Latina)