#jan. 3

[newyorkthegoldenage]

The boy wonder, 23-year old Orson Welles, whose production of Julius Caesar was then a hit on Broadway, talks to British producer Charles Cochrane about a possible London production, January 3, 1938.

Photo: Associated Press

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Inspector Edward P. Mulrooney and members of the bomb squad of the NYPD paid a visit to an apartment house on January 3, 1929, that was partly owned by the crime boss Arnold Rothstein. The cops opened a safe, built into the building's cellar, in hopes of obtaining clues to Rothstein's murder. From left: Inspector Mulrooney next to safe wall, Capt. John Lyons, and Sgt. Charles Newman of the bomb squad, watching Robert F. Murray, safe expert, opening the safe.

Photo: Associated Press

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Alice Macy Beers, left, and Maude Burnside rehearse for the animated card dance to be given for St. Vincent's Hospital, January 3, 1923.

Photo: Interim Archives/Getty Images

[newyorkthegoldenage]

When Christian Dior died in the fall of 1957, he left some designs unshown. This short white lace evening dress and matching coat was among those on display at the National Press Week showings in New York, January 3, 1958. They were fashions for spring, 1958. Dior called this collection, designed for the American market, the “New Era.”

Photo: Associated Press via Haute Living

[tigb]

January 3, 2017

and I’m back in Kingston. yay.

today I’m grateful to have this apartment to myself. I share it with 2 beautiful ladies during the school year but I’m definitely the type that needs some alone time to adjust to being away from home again so this is good. school doesn’t start til the 9th and I don’t start working again (I work at a sushi place) til the 6th so I’ve got a couple days to just chill and organize everything so I’m not flustered once classes start.

[richking66]

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EVpvrDeVg8)

[openjaws]

Of you I'll remember only a blue  square - the window I face while your skin relentlessly ate mine. Two rooftops and a tree without leaves and the bitter cold that made the stars look bare up there in the sky. I'll remember the coldness of my heart when I told myself "you will remember this from such a peculiar moment, and the unreasonable warmth of our bodies under our coats in the dark". What was strange was that although there was no more privacy, although my fingers were coming at the very edge of your body, I kept my coat on, just as if the length of the cloth could help me, just as if it could make my hand firmer and my breath steadier. Waves of warmth were hitting slowly the walls of my consciousness - but still I kept my coat on. Doesn't it seem odd to you? On the fifth I'm out with a boy again and the only thing I can think of is the coat I'll wear on that day. Am I trying to impress myself with love conquests? Am I trying to fool myself by keeping my coat on and looking at the infinitely blue night sky through the window while kissing you and glueing my skin to yours? All I want - all I crave - is that one day the coat falls off by itself, and on this day I shall b r e a t h e.

[upsideofwriting]

Red - Female

She is impulses. She is tattoos trailing down sinewy arms, wrapping around wrists and ankles, hovering over a black-thonged bottom, marching across sharpened shoulder blades and collarbones, hiding inside ears pierced and pierced and pierced again. She is jagged strands of dye-streaked hair (a new color every other Wednesday), chopped off without a second thought when it grew too long into her wing-lashed eyes. She is bruises and scrapes and broken bones from when her Harley-Davidson stops wrong under her constantly moving body.

She is love, but also lust. She is a too-short skirt and miles of smooth leg. She is lace under her leather jacket, her shirt cut just deep enough to reveal black fringe teasing above bolstered breasts. She is a full figure and not enough clothes to go around. She is bright lipstick that leaves stains as her tongue leads a dance. She is bedroom eyes watching every beautiful thing from the other side of the room, present and unaccounted for.

She wears her heart on her sleeve and her shirt and her skirt and her smile. It beats a rhythm and she is a dancer, moving to her own pulse and those who watch her fall in step behind her.