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art blog(derogatory)
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
we're not kids anymore.
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@straygray-blog
I've moved.
"they id possible president and push they want to be president"
Avanc propaganda leaflet by Steve Thomas
"Mushrooms" by Sylvia Plath
Overnight, very Whitely, discreetly, Very quietly Our toes, our noses Take hold on the loam, Acquire the air. Nobody sees us, Stops us, betrays us; The small grains make room. Soft fists insist on Heaving the needles, The leafy bedding, Even the paving. Our hammers, our rams, Earless and eyeless, Perfectly voiceless, Widen the crannies, Shoulder through holes. We Diet on water, On crumbs of shadow, Bland-mannered, asking Little or nothing. So many of us! So many of us! We are shelves, we are Tables, we are meek, We are edible, Nudgers and shovers In spite of ourselves. Our kind multiplies: We shall by morning Inherit the earth. Our foot's in the door.
Here's a thousand photographs of contemporary Magnitogorsk.
Probably the most charming example of the later Hammer Film Productions, Dracula A.D. 1972 is particularly notable for its AMAZING soundtrack, in addition to serving as a kitschy register of a lost British swinging mod culture (and attendant cultural anxieties thereof). Original preview:
"Main Theme," composed by Mike Vickers:
Promotional video material:
Käthe Kollwitz, "The People" (1923)
Francis Alÿs, Nightwatch, 2004.
Surveillance cameras observe a fox exploring the Tudor and Georgian rooms of the National Portrait Gallery at night.
We're of some relation. I just finished school, and you've finished something as well, but you have to defend a thesis of some kind on Friday. We decide to go on a little trip to celebrate. I think it's Wednesday. After casually packing a few things, we drive deep into an imaginary Missouri. We drive and drive until the landscape changes, rather abruptly, from the dead, flat cornfields into Gothic backwoods, where huge willows drool Spanish moss as if transplanted from some nightmare of the deep South. I'm excited. We see a sign for the No Hope Hotel. No one's around. We try to find somewhere to stay, but the roads we follow change from asphalt into dirt, from dirt into mud, which gets thicker and thicker. You're resentful about something to do with work and seem to spend most of your time complaining about it, while I notice with some concern the increasing difficulty of the roads. We drive until the car gets stuck in a river of peat. Or perhaps it's still mud, thick enough to be impassable and thin enough to drift along, carrying with it clumps of black soil. The car drags along until finally we spot a little dreary clearing, where we park. The marshes slowly churn behind us like dark, clogged arteries. There's a huge barbed wire fence blocking a little road that exits the clearing. My concern turns to fear. Two black dogs approach us, seemingly unaffected by the thick mud. They're clearly supernatural in some way, and their fur is clean and lustrous. Friendly at first, sighting them nonetheless fills me with immense dread. The sky is gray and low like a cement ceiling in an unfinished basement. I try to convince you that the only way out is to take off and try to wade through the marshes back to a nearby town, but you don't want to abandon the car. "Let's just take the papers and go." We're poorly prepared. I'm scared of cold hands in the mud, under the mud, dragging us down, but a little hope remains while there's light. "You're being stupid. We can come back for the car." Perhaps with a guide. I climb a soggy tree and spy a man just standing in a clump of grass, still as a painting. We call him over to us. He's dressed like an officer and, when he arrives, he smiles. His teeth are sharp. We ask him for help, but he only laughs. Mocking us, he suggests that we try to squirm through the wire. He has friends nearby, he says, and they like watching. Suddenly angry, I throw a stone at him, and it strikes his head, knocking off his hat. There's a sound like a log falling into deep water, but no blood. He returns to his feet, the side of his head looking a bit like a smashed cake. "Thank God we don't have any bones!" He grins madly I see the black dogs reappear in the distance. Once Alsatian shadows, now they look like charred slugs.