"I once heard of a jukebox that smashed records; isn't that the most marvelous thing?”
John Cage
taylor price
we're not kids anymore.
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
No title available

oozey mess
Sweet Seals For You, Always
AnasAbdin
Cosmic Funnies

blake kathryn

tannertan36
cherry valley forever
Xuebing Du
Jules of Nature
Cosimo Galluzzi
sheepfilms
trying on a metaphor

★
$LAYYYTER
Claire Keane

Love Begins

seen from Moldova
seen from Ukraine

seen from Malaysia

seen from Portugal

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Hungary
seen from Romania

seen from Algeria
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Türkiye
seen from Italy
@thingsiwishicouldshowyou
"I once heard of a jukebox that smashed records; isn't that the most marvelous thing?”
John Cage
Remember this... develop a sense of nostalgia for something, or you'll never figure out what's important.
Gary Shteyngart, Super Sad True Love Story
New York was no mere city. It was instead an infinitely romantic notion, the mysterious nexus of all love and money and power, the shining and perishable dream itself.
Joan Didion, "Goodbye to All That"
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
Lord Byron, "The Eve of Waterloo"
All available at DROMENYC.com
#dromenyc
Model friends
Music with unintelligible lyrics is an object lesson in our ability to detect feeling in the voice regardless of language.
From "The New Analog"
The lucky few who can be involved in creative work of any sort will be the true elite of mankind, for they alone will do more than serve a machine.
Isaac Asimov
The world could use a few more grace notes. And singing rounds. And clapping hands. And stomping feet.
A haiku from the article: Bob Dylan: Musician or Poet?
Animals
Frank O'Hara
Have you forgotten what we were like then when we were still first rate and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth it's no use worrying about Time but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves and turned some sharp corners the whole pasture looked like our meal we didn't need speedometers we could manage cocktails out of ice and water I wouldn't want to be faster or greener than now if you were with me O you were the best of all my days
A haiku from the article: Girl in the Shadows: Dasani’s Homeless Life
I regret nothing. There have been things I missed, but I ask no questions, because I have loved it, such as it has been, even the moments of emptiness, even the unanswered--and that I loved it, that is the unanswered in my life.
Ayn Rand
Locks
Neil Gaiman
We owe it to each other to tell stories,
as people simply, not as father and daughter.
I tell it to you for the hundredth time:
"There was a little girl, called Goldilocks,
for her hair was long and golden,
and she was walking in the Wood and she saw — "
"— cows." You say it with certainty,
remembering the strayed heifers we saw in the woods
behind the house, last month.
"Well, yes, perhaps she saw cows,
but also she saw a house."
"— a great big house," you tell me.
"No, a little house, all painted, neat and tidy."
"A great big house."
You have the conviction of all two-year-olds.
I wish I had such certitude.
"Ah. Yes. A great big house.
And she went in . . ."
I remember, as I tell it, that the locks
Of Southey's heroine had silvered with age.
The Old Woman and the Three Bears . . .
Perhaps they had been golden once, when she was a child.
And now, we are already up to the porridge,
"And it was too— "
"— hot!"
"And it was too— "
— cold!"
And then it was, we chorus, "just right."
The porridge is eaten, the baby's chair is shattered,
Goldilocks goes upstairs, examines beds, and sleeps,
unwisely.
But then the bears return.
Remembering Southey still, I do the voices:
Father Bear's gruff boom scares you, and you delight in it.
When I was a small child and heard the tale,
if I was anyone I was Baby Bear,
my porridge eaten, and my chair destroyed,
my bed inhabited by some strange girl.
You giggle when I do the baby's wail,
"Someone's been eating my prridge, and they've eaten it —"
"All up," you say. A response it is,
Or an amen.
The bears go upstairs hesitantly,
their house now feels desecrated. They realize
what locks are for. They reach the bedroom.
"Someone's been sleeping in my bed."
And here I hesitate, echoes of old jokes,
soft-core cartoons, crude headlines, in my head.
One day your mouth will curl at that line.
A loss of interest, later, innocence.
Innocence; as if it were a commodity.
"And if I could," my father wrote to me,
huge as a bear himself, when I was younger,
"I would dower you with experience, without experience."
and I, in my turn, would pass that on to you.
But we make our own mistakes. We sleep
unwisely.
It is our right. It is our madness and our glory.
The repetition echoes down the years.
When your children grow; when your dark locks begin to silver,
when you are an old woman, alone with your three bears,
what will you see? What stories will you tell?
"And then Goldilicks jumped out of the window and she ran —
Together, now: "All the way home."
And then you say, "Again. Again. Again."
We owe it to each other to tell stories.
These days my sympathy's with Father Bear.
Before I leave my house I lock the door,
and check each bed and chair on my return.
Again.
Again.
Again..
http://www.endicott-studio.com/cofhs/coflocks.html