(by Lee Price)
Beard and Dinos
Sounds of life and movement, people getting ready and people giving up, the sound of hope and the sound of hanging on, and behind them all, the quiet, deadly ticking of a thousand hungry clocks.
Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary
(by mystery badger)
Read poetry every day of your life. Poetry is good because it flexes muscles you don’t use often enough. Poetry expands the senses and keeps them in prime condition. It keeps you aware of your nose, your eye, your ear, your tongue, your hand. And, above all, poetry is compacted metaphor or simile. Such metaphors, like Japanese paper flowers, may expand outward into gigantic shapes. Ideas lie everywhere through the poetry books, yet how rarely have I heard short story teachers recommending them for browsing. What poetry? Any poetry that makes your hair stand up along your arms. Don’t force yourself too hard. Take it easy. Over the years you may catch up to, move even with, and pass T. S. Eliot on your way to other pastures. You say you don’t understand Dylan Thomas? Yes, but your ganglion does, and your secret wits, and all your unborn children. Read him, as you can read a horse with your eyes, set free and charging over an endless green meadow on a windy day.
Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
my godfather took this picture some years (1998) before he died of cancer, he loved photography so much even when he was in hospital he used to carry his camera.
ive got tones of pictures but this one its kinda special, the woman reading in Rio de janeiro, shes a stranger, he stood there for a couple of minutes waiting to get the perfect angle and took the picture, when he developed it he gave me his camera (even tough i was a toddler), if he was alive, he would be one more blogger in here, he was so special, the kind of person that could see your soul before your face.