"Few people know how to take a walk. The qualifications are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye with nature, good humor, vast curiosity, good speech, good silence, and nothing else."

— Ralph Waldo Emerson  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: wildexpeditions, via explorenorth)

BO

BO

(Source: psychedelicway, via bongolenny)

Midwestern sunset

Midwestern sunset

"My motto as I live and learn, is Dig and be dug in return."

— Langston Hughes (via ifimable)

(Source: ventureandvirtue, via ifimable)

"Call me Ishmael."

— Ishmael Reed, probably

"I got in late last night. The kids were all asleep & the house felt very empty & that old haunted feeling of aloneness crept in along with all the accompanying thoughts of self-pity & in the morning now still this terrible feeling of disconnectedness, lack of purpose & all the negative shit."

— Sam Shepard, from a letter to John Dark, October 14th, 1999

Tags: sam shepard

Bob Dylan, Hurricane (Live 1975)

Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell
That’s the story of the Hurricane
But it won’t be over till they clear his name
And give him back the time he’s done
Put him in a prison cell but one time he coulda been
The champion of the world.

(Rest in peace Rubin Hurricane Carter, 1937-2014)

theparisreview:

INTERVIEWER
In 1912, you were in New York.  
CENDRARS
In 1912, at Easter, I was starving in New York, and had been for a number of months. From time to time I took a job, by force of necessity, but I didn’t keep it a week and if I could manage to get my pay sooner than that I quit sooner, impatient to get on with my sessions of reading at the central public library. My poverty was extreme and every day I looked worse: unshaven, trousers in corkscrews, shoes worn out, hair long, coat stained and faded and without buttons, no hat or tie, having sold them one day for a penny in order to buy a plug of the world’s worst chewing tobacco. Time passed. Came Easter. Easter Sunday the library was closed. In the evening I entered a Presbyterian church which was giving an oratorio, Haydn’s Creation, so said a lighted sign hung to the spire. In the church there was a scattered audience and, on a stage, fashionable young girls who played ancient instruments and sang divinely well. But a wretched bishop interrupted the oratorio every five minutes to preach I-know-not-what pious sanctimony and make an appeal to the good hearts of the faithful and, when the oratorio continued, another croaker of a preacher as tiresome as the first entered the stall where I had taken a place, and tried to convert me by surreptitious exhortation, all the time thumping my money pocket in an effort to draw out a dollar or two for expenses, shaking his leather money plate under my nose. Poor me! I left before the end and walked home to West Sixty-seventh Street where I was living, absolutely disgusted and dead beat. It could have been two or three o’clock in the morning. I gnawed a hunk of dry bread and drank a big glass of water. I went to bed. I went immediately to sleep. I woke up with a start. I began to write, to write. I went back to sleep. I woke up the second time with a start. I wrote until dawn and I went back to bed and back to sleep for good. I woke up at five o’clock that evening. I reread the thing. I had written Les Pâques à New-York.  
INTERVIEWER
The whole thing?  
CENDRARS
As it was published. There were three erasures.  
From the Art of Fiction No. 38 with Blaise Cendrars.

theparisreview:

INTERVIEWER

In 1912, you were in New York.  

CENDRARS

In 1912, at Easter, I was starving in New York, and had been for a number of months. From time to time I took a job, by force of necessity, but I didn’t keep it a week and if I could manage to get my pay sooner than that I quit sooner, impatient to get on with my sessions of reading at the central public library. My poverty was extreme and every day I looked worse: unshaven, trousers in corkscrews, shoes worn out, hair long, coat stained and faded and without buttons, no hat or tie, having sold them one day for a penny in order to buy a plug of the world’s worst chewing tobacco. Time passed. Came Easter. Easter Sunday the library was closed. In the evening I entered a Presbyterian church which was giving an oratorio, Haydn’s Creation, so said a lighted sign hung to the spire. In the church there was a scattered audience and, on a stage, fashionable young girls who played ancient instruments and sang divinely well. But a wretched bishop interrupted the oratorio every five minutes to preach I-know-not-what pious sanctimony and make an appeal to the good hearts of the faithful and, when the oratorio continued, another croaker of a preacher as tiresome as the first entered the stall where I had taken a place, and tried to convert me by surreptitious exhortation, all the time thumping my money pocket in an effort to draw out a dollar or two for expenses, shaking his leather money plate under my nose. Poor me! I left before the end and walked home to West Sixty-seventh Street where I was living, absolutely disgusted and dead beat. It could have been two or three o’clock in the morning. I gnawed a hunk of dry bread and drank a big glass of water. I went to bed. I went immediately to sleep. I woke up with a start. I began to write, to write. I went back to sleep. I woke up the second time with a start. I wrote until dawn and I went back to bed and back to sleep for good. I woke up at five o’clock that evening. I reread the thing. I had written Les Pâques à New-York.  

INTERVIEWER

The whole thing?  

CENDRARS

As it was published. There were three erasures.  

From the Art of Fiction No. 38 with Blaise Cendrars.

(Source: spacefinder, via broadminded)

Haunted Houses and Saloons

Some level on a scale of Three Musketeers was breached today amongst my brother and my son and myself.

An A.A. Milne level of adventure with a dash of Scooby Doo.

My brother had sunglasses and a flagon of local rye. My son had an adventure bag packed with compass, paper, pencils, handbook, and reference book. I had granola, fruit punch, road maps, sunglasses, and a harmonica.

We set North along State Road, past the charcoal husk of the house where I once lighted incense and listened to The Cure’s Disintegration one rare dry night in late July a couple of chapters ago. Past the rusting scraps and poisoned soil of the oil refinery shuttered as part of the long con to crimp supply and raise gasoline prices and maximize profits for the tycoons. Past the ruins of the sugar beet factory built in 1899 and decommissioned in 1924. Over the river nearing flood stage and downtown to the Scottish pub for meat and mead.

Now fortified we set about the treasure map. My son drew the surroundings on a sheet of 98lb 9x12 with a dotted line indicating our path to the abstruse reserve of abundant capital. Bounty was recovered and we forded the river again to investigate the sugar beet ruins. In thirty years, should any of us remember the abstracts of this day, they will most likely additionally recall the particular detail of a time constraint: though it was a perfect day for factory ruin investigation a decision was made against such an adventure because we didn’t posses the time required to breach the secure wall and climb down and through the empty canal labyrinth and into the works.

Instead we headed into the neighboring town and the mansions built in the mid 1800s along the Pine River for the lumber barons and oil barons and dealers of healing mineral water cures. We passed the Cook mansion, four stories with a turret and secret tunnels, and stopped at the three story haunted mansion with three graves in the backyard. Stories of apparitions and noises encountered on youthful explorations. Resumed tour past the chemical disaster and the peeling yellow paint on homes nearby. Old haunts with varying degrees of real and imagined haunting.

On the final freeway portion of our adventure through this perplexing area the conversation was muted and focused on the physics behind and style of time travel and all the paradoxical machinations pertaining thereto.

I felt a quiet moment and a negligible awareness that I’d been on these roads forever and will always be retracing their diagonal path over swollen river and along fallow field.

Tags: my writing

The Black Crowes, My Morning Song (The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion, 1992)

March me down to the seven seas.
Bury me with a ruby ring.
Kiss me baby, on an Easter Sunday day.
Make my haze blow away.

(Source: radionotfound, via broadminded)

Jesus is much easier to accept as your savior when he looks like Willem Dafoe.

(The Last Temptation of Christ, dir. Martin Scorsese, 1988)