Retrograde.

Joe. 24. Thermodynamic Process.

[ghaas]

[ryhopes]

When you get there you will already be there.

[okarintarou]

[oregon--donor]

Howdy.

[k-a-t-i-e-]

Joe Strummer & Paul Simonon

London, 1978

[kingwally231]

[oregon--donor]

[vintageeveryday]

[oregon--donor]

Good morning.

[oregon--donor]

Margerie...

[oregon--donor]

Heyo

[oregon--donor]

St. George’s Blues

Donut shops are the formal dispensaries of American goodwill. Every bite registers somewhere in the mind the collective memory of postwar industrial promise, the smell of a clean automobile, country and western music broadcasts to wheat haulers in rural Mississippi (”alright folks, it’s the Lovesick Blues boy himself--Haaaaaaaaank Williams!”), corn mash advertisements, and somehow collapses the inequities of past and present along the length of a highly caloric torus. A donut is a ticket to the Old America, adjusted for inflation. I am ensconced somewhere in a quiet corner of the suburbs, sconed out of my mind. It is 9:40am and nothing is happening. The cul-de-sacs are joined by synapses of streets bearing pleasant names, Windsong, Serenade, Forrest Heights, and each house appears solid and stately. All distances within zoning regulation. I have family out here, but I couldn’t tell you where. This place feels like an art installation that no one bothered to explain. A Pripyat quiet of ascending tax brackets. Each of the houses are mired in some kind of private trapezoid war, all roofs at the ready. The more impressive fiefdoms are still further west, their build-up already in more advanced stages. There is an air of enduring internecine conflict, subtle and unspoken, with lingering questions of succession. But there is an equal understanding inside of the swirl that the real threats are those beyond the gates, with names like municipal funds, public schools, outreach services, community initiatives--the kinds of nebulous and unspecified Others strictly outside of the sinecure. We are nothing if not the interior. We fought for this. We rose to this. We all got out of whatever we were in, survivors, named among the nameless, sons and daughters of Alger, our own sons and daughters in training for the mantle, the golden trough, the open secret of our providence, and who in the hell are you to have gotten through the gates. This is a place where donuts are bad for your health.

[oregon--donor]

Me & My Gorilla

Me and my gorilla, Who ride bicycles and communicate nonverbally, Who took two talismans from a brown booth by the pier, Who laugh at John Cleese doing slapstick, Who have perfected our silly walks, Me and my gorilla, Who distribute left-wing leaflets in Little Havana, Who demand Fair Play For Cuba Gooding Jr., Who paint apostrophes on billboard posters where they don’t belong, Who harangue orangutans when it rains at the zoo, Me and my gorilla, Who need to use Sylow’s Theorem to obtain a contradiction, Who live inside of ourselves underneath the stars, Who vacate, placate, irritate, and wait, Who change chalkboards at a dime a dozen, Me and my gorilla, Who don’t believe in solicitation, Who are offended by music in supermarkets, Who feel the follies of late capitalism coasting through the airwaves, Who need the sun to survive, Me and my gorilla, Who expire each second under the stars, Who benefit from modern consumer appliances, Who reach for conclusions we can’t seem to find, Who had to love to learn to learn to love, Who believe in grand banquets, Who feel the trembling underneath, Me and my gorilla, Who rear view mirrors can’t seem to hide.

[brandybonin]

Visit Original Link

Bruce Springsteen || Thunder Road

Show a little faith there’s magic in the night You ain’t a beauty but hey you’re alright

[oregon--donor]

[oregon--donor]

Deeply and truly alone.

[oregon--donor]

Hi.