#timothy moore

[multiversopersonale]

TIMOTHY MOORE - 5 IN THE MORNING

[musicletter]

Timothy Moore con il nuovo album «Life Is Your Show», tra pop, new wave e punk.

★ Timothy Moore con il nuovo album «Life Is Your Show», tra pop, new wave e punk.

«La vita di ciascuno di noi spesso supera la finzione nel bene e nel male, è questo il vero spettacolo», commenta così Timothy Moore, tra i cantautori più versatili della sua generazione, sul titolo del nuovo album Life Is Your Show, in uscita il 29 ottobre 2021. «È un lavoro introspettivo con uno sguardo curioso verso il mondo. Nato durante il lockdown, riflette vari stati d’animo, emozioni di…

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[paeseseratoscana]

Video. Timothy Moore 5 in the morning, presto dal vivo a Firenze

Video. Timothy Moore 5 in the morning, presto dal vivo a Firenze

Passa anche da Firenze il tour di Timothy Moore, che giovedì 18 luglio si esibirà all’Hard Rock Cafè di Via dei Brunelleschi. Una selezione degli ultimi brani dal suo repertorio – che comprende anche la hit 5 in the morning, in rotazione da aprile nei maggiori network italiani – e alcune cover dei musicisti che l’hanno ispirato nel corso della sua carriera: questo il programma del mini tour che

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[allinfoit]

Timothy Moore | il nuovo singolo è 5 in the morning

Timothy Moore | il nuovo singolo è 5 in the morning

Se vivi da sempre la musica come un dono che ti arriva dal cielo, come l’unico mezzo possibile per esprimerti con un approccio alla scrittura totalmente istintivo, mai pianificato a tavolino, ti chiami Timothy Moore. Artista italo-inglese, cantante, autore, musicista, Timothy percepisce le canzoni come entità già presenti nel vento che vanno solamente afferrate al volo. Devono essere carpite…

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[assemblepapers-blog]

ON OUR WEBSITE

In the first of a series of articles we’ll be republishing from Future West (Australian Urbanism), a new print publication considering the future of urbanism through the lens of Perth and Western Australia, editor Timothy Moore chats with Who Gives A Crap founder Simon Griffiths about creating a financially stable social enterprise and finding the fun side of sanitation.

Taking a lighthearted approach to the serious goals behind the social enterprise, in getting the organisation off the ground Griffiths live-streamed himself on a toilet for more than 50 hours. This antic helped bring attention to the crowdfunding campaign – eventually raising $66,000 to go towards producing a range of sustainable toilet paper, paper towels and tissues.

With 50 percent of the organisation’s profits donated to WaterAid (an international charity that gives access to safe water, hygiene and sanitation to some of the world’s most vulnerable people) Who Gives A Crap has donated close to half-a-million dollars to the charity to date. In spite of logistical problems around prohibitive shipping costs and storage in Who Gives A Crap’s early days, having now overcome such issues, Griffiths is focused on ensuring that his ongoing profit-for-purpose model continues to provide benefits for those in need, the customers and the enterprise.

Who Gives A Crap conceals the donation within a product that people use daily so that people give more. Griffiths remarks, “You can’t motivate a sale with guilt, but humour goes a long way.”

Images courtesy of Who Gives A Crap. 

[looklookhere]

At The Review Review, Joseph Dante asks me thorough, wonderful questions on writing and editing and grants me the joy of being able to talk about things I love: editing an online magazine, working with Timothy Moore, discovering new poets, re-gearing personal reading tastes, writing outside of comfort zones, Chicago, paraphrasing Ross Gay, etc.

[geopvnk]

genna kent: a study in a queen who has lost her queendom

The first thing Genna Kent does when she gets back is sneak onto the family computer. She goes to Google, and she searches for books on plumbing. She looks for books on auto repair and building, for how airplanes work and what parts you need to create them. She looks up the names of astronauts. She Wiki's each and every one of their accomplishments. She looks for books on quantum physics, this woman in the body of a child, this halfling being who knows her way around a sword and a ballroom, who never thought to learn about the world around her - who never saw the magic in it, in this. In us. She writes all of the titles down, and then pauses. She looks up books about how to build computers. She reads articles explaining how to code. She thinks she might try that, someday. Her little sister comes back in the early morning, long after Genna has finally settled into bed, her dreams spinning silver and gold and steel. She's fourteen years old again, but her eyes look even older than Genna's. "How long?" is all Genna asks, and Louise shakes her head, falling onto the bottom bunk, her dark eyes blank and miserable and longing. "Not long enough," she responds, quietly, and turns over and pretends to go to sleep.

(It's two years later that Genna researches depression and other mental illnesses, after she looked into physical ailments and modern cures. She looks at her sister, sleeping and crying and snapping, and her heart hurts.) She does not forget Sonder, though sometimes she wonders if it was all a dream - sometimes, when she's alone, she remembers the smell of the stables, and asks herself if that was even real. (She wonders and worries until she's half-insane, until Timothy drops by, his hands stained with ink and his arms full of short stories, or Tony picks up a stick on their walk to the bus and starts fighting an imaginary foe with the finesse of the warrior he is - the warrior he was.) (She wonders and worries until her eyes meet Louise's, and she knows that no child game could do this.) Louise cries through her sixteenth birthday, and Genna gathers her books and settles down next to the younger girl. She reads her stories of other lands, of magical worlds that don't exist down a hole in the back of the woods. She offers to go looking for one. "What's the point?" Louise asks, her dark eyes puffy and watery. "It won't work." "You never know," Genna replies, reaching out to put a hand on her sister's smaller one. "Magic is everywhere." "Not here," Louise responds, but Genna knows better. (They get a call just a month later, while they're doing homework and waiting for their mom to come home with ice cream.) (There's been an accident, her dad says.) (Genna's heart stutters and screams and falls out of her chest. She doesn't feel it beat again for years.) (She reads Frankenstein and studies the human anatomy and ways to heal injuries, ways to keep people from death, ways to keep mothers from getting hit by drunk drivers with ice cream melting in the passenger seat.) (She wears all black to the funeral. Her sister slips her their mother’s favorite ring. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t cry.) (She’s the first to make a speech. She’s already forgetting the way her mother’s eyes twinkled when Louise said something snarky. She cries.) (One day, a boy with pretty eyes and dimples will ask her what her biggest fear is. He's flirting, but all she can think of is silver sand and melted ice cream.) (She's scared of forgetting. She always has been, as a queen and as a student and as a warrior, there has nothing been so scary to her as forgetting.) (She forces a smile and a giggle and a roll of dark eyes.) ("What's yours?" she shoots back, and he laughs like it's a joke.) "What do you want to be when you grow up?" her friends ask her as they stare at the stars, beer cans littering the rooftop, picnic blanket spread out beneath them. (An astronaut. A doctor. A scientist. An oceanographer. A librarian. A writer. A reader. A chef. A plumber. A computer repair person. A hacker. A genealogist. A mechanic. A geologist. A wizard. A senator. An archaeologist. An astronomer. A teacher. An architect. A theologist. A mythologist. President.) She shrugs. She smiles. She presses a beer can to her lips and goes, "A queen, I think."

[geopvnk]

give me the kind of magic i can feel in my hands, that i can feel with every pinch of stardust left inside of me. give me the kind of magic that fills me up to the brim, that i can use and i can let overflow until i am glowing with it. give me the kind of magic that little girls dream about at night, the kind that i was once certain lingered in the whorls of my fingertips. give me the kind of magic that everybody forgets, the kind that whispers through  the leaves in the trees. give me the kind of magic i can feel, full stop - that sits in my chest for days, that steals the apathy from my lungs and replaces it with stardust. give me it, please - let me twist it back into my DNA, into the whorls of my fingertips and soles of my feet, for i do not think i can live another day without it.

i need it back || g.h.m.