NASA
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Misplaced Lens Cap

JVL
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The Bowery Presents
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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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Origami Around
will byers stan first human second
official daine visual archive

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

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@spurloser
Manfred Butzmann: Palast und Dom. 1974 https://agora.ifa.de/de/themen/kosmos
Tunnels (1989). Also known as: "Criminal Act" https://www.imdb.com/de/title/tt0097124/
Die sich ständig verschiebenden Wörter im Gesamttext Graffiti sind hier zu einem unmöglichen Skript verschmolzen, das flüchtig erschien und in den 3200 Kacheln der Installation von @bigtimebrad mit Unterstützung von @akimakimberlin und vielen anderen ewig gemacht wurde. Knapp 300 Worte der frei flottierenden Bestandteile einer imaginären Geschichte sind hier auf einer Wand verkittet. Am 2. Juli um 17.50 Uhr liest das Graffitimuseum die Wand.
"Hast Du nichts Besseres zu tun als über Pappkartons zu springen?
"Kai Reinhart: "Wir wollten einfach unser Ding machen": DDR-Sportler zwischen Fremdbestimmung und Selbstverwirklichung, Campus Forschung 2010.
Seamus Heaney: „Digging“
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney: „Die Amsel von Glanmore. Gedichte 1965 bis 2006“. Hrsg. von Michael Krüger. Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, Frankfurt am Main 2011.