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I’ve looked failure right in the eye, and kept right on going - Cindy Gallop (@cindygallop)  (via Kept Right on Going)

This is my mantra for today & fall…

I’ve looked failure right in the eye, and kept right on going - Cindy Gallop (@cindygallop) (via Kept Right on Going)

This is my mantra for today & fall…

Photo taken yesterday at the Shinnyo-en Lantern Floating ceremony…More to Follow…& even some video

Photo taken yesterday at the Shinnyo-en Lantern Floating ceremony

More to Follow…& even some video

Photographer Lachlan Bailey captured Smalls giving impeccable face…(continue reading)

Photographer Lachlan Bailey captured Smalls giving impeccable face…(continue reading)

"Close your eyes;
maybe you can imagine
that love is enough,
that you never knew the
sweet taste of doubt
in the throat,
that she is not slowly
forgetting your name
after you failed her,
after you watched
as hell’s fingers
gripped her waist
and yanked her back
into the darkness,
all the while she was
reaching out for your
cursed hand."

Emily Palermo, excerpt of Orpheus Is Still Singing Sad Songs (via camilla-macauley)

(via isaaclayhey)

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*MapQuest Tries It*
This is what happens when you tweet something and the social media person from that company thinks they will engage you and be pithy. It doesn’t work, and really should be avoided as a “strategy” for any business. (continue reading)

*MapQuest Tries It*

This is what happens when you tweet something and the social media person from that company thinks they will engage you and be pithy. It doesn’t work, and really should be avoided as a “strategy” for any business. (continue reading)

Be A Light for Peace
Sunday ~ September 21, 2014

Be A Light for Peace

Sunday ~ September 21, 2014

atane:

dynastylnoire:

sistabigtheoriginalpoet:

Big Mama Thornton - Hound Dog

You ain’t nothing but a hound dog (x)

The original FUCK Elvis!

You heard it right. Elvis stole the song from her and got all the credit.

White artists stealing black art and  sterilizing it for white audiences is nothing new. 

While I don’t care for Elvis, the above isn’t true.

It is true that Elvis stole musical stylings from Black musicians, but Hound Dog isn’t an example of that. Big Mama Thornton recorded it first, but Hound Dog isn’t her song and Elvis didn’t steal it from her. Hound Dog was written by Jerry Lieber and Mike Stoller, both white men. Lieber and Stoller wrote songs for Elvis and Hound Dog was one of their songs that Elvis recorded.

Oddly enough, Hound Dog is an example of Elvis jacking other white people. The version Elvis recorded was “borrowed” from the Freddie Bell and the Bellboys interpretation of the song after he saw them performing live. Hear their version here. That’s actually who Elvis copied.

If you want an actual example of a Black artist being erased by Elvis, then Otis Blackwell is the perfect example. He wrote the song ‘Don’t Be Cruel’. Elvis took most of the royalties. Blackwell wrote some of the biggest hits Elvis ever had btw. Elvis became a very rich and popular person because of Blackwell. Many don’t know who Blackwell is, even though he’s written some of the biggest hits in music history. He wrote hit after hit for a lot of people.

Blackwell also wrote ‘Great Balls of Fire' made popular by Jerry Lee Lewis and the song 'Fever' popularized by Peggy Lee and later on Madonna. The person who recorded Fever first was Black kid named Little Willie John who was 18 at the time. Click here for the original recording of Fever.

But he did “liberally borrow” (aka STEAL) from Sister Rosetta Tharpe - her guitar playing specifically… and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say he used some of her phrasing as well…

(Source: fallsonamemory, via defalternative)

wolfdiesel:

sizvideos:

Video

Ladies and Gentlemen, craftsmanship. One of the finest examples of taking pride in what you do, and making absolutely sure no detail is too small.

(via bookoisseur)

No Hair, Don’t Care…?
hair”. Trust me, that’s the last thing we want to hear. If you believe it is just hair, shave your head! It is not just hair. <continue reading…>

No Hair, Don’t Care…?

hair”. Trust me, that’s the last thing we want to hear. If you believe it is just hair, shave your head! It is not just hair. <continue reading…>

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nationalbook:

"For, as a great scientist has said and all children know, it is by the imagination, above all, that we achieve perception, and compassion, and hope."
— Ursula K. Le Guin, 1973, National Book Award acceptance speech.
Le Guin will return to the New York this November to receive the Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, one of Literature’s most prestigious honors.

nationalbook:

"For, as a great scientist has said and all children know, it is by the imagination, above all, that we achieve perception, and compassion, and hope."

— Ursula K. Le Guin, 1973, National Book Award acceptance speech.

Le Guin will return to the New York this November to receive the Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, one of Literature’s most prestigious honors.

(via bookoisseur)

"Hello, I’m Patsy Stone."

(Source: immaculateabortion, via jhames)

*90
theparisreview:

Duncan Hannah, from “Six Collages: Letters from Abroad.”

theparisreview:

Duncan Hannah, from “Six Collages: Letters from Abroad.”

What a world

One man gathers what another man spills.

One icy morning in January of 1984, as the University of Oregon’s wrestling team headed to their next tournament in Pullman, Washington, the driver of the bus on which they were travelling lost control of the vehicle on a mountain road and could do nothing to stop it tumbling through the guardrail and over a 300-ft cliff. One boy, Lorenzo West, was killed on impact; another, 20-year-old Jed Kesey, was left brain dead. He passed away within days.

Shortly after Jed’s funeral at his family’s farm, his dad, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest author Ken Kesey, wrote the following letter to five of his closest friends

Dear Wendell and Larry and Ed and Bob and Gurney:

Partners, it’s been a bitch.

I’ve got to write and tell somebody about some stuff and, like I long ago told Larry, you’re the best backboard I know. So indulge me a little; I am but hurt.

We built the box ourselves (George Walker, mainly) and Zane and Jed’s friends and frat brothers dug the hole in a nice spot between the chicken house and the pond. Page found the stone and designed the etching. You would have been proud, Wendell, especially of the box — clear pine pegged together and trimmed with redwood. The handles of thick hemp rope. And you, Ed, would have appreciated the lining. It was a piece of Tibetan brocade given Mountain Girl by Owsley 15 years ago, gilt and silver and russet phoenixbird patterns, unfurling in flames. And last month, Bob, Zane was goose hunting in the field across the road and killed a snow goose. I told him be sure to save the down. Susan Butkovitch covered this in white silk for the pillow while Faye and MG and Gretch and Candace stitched and stapled the brocade into the box.

It was a double-pretty day, like winter holding its breath, giving us a break. About 300 people stood around and sung from the little hymnbooks that Diane Kesey had Xeroxed — “Everlasting Arms,” “Sweet Hour of Prayer,” “In the Garden” and so forth. With all my cousins leading the singing and Dale on his fiddle. While we were singing “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” Zane and Kit and the neighbor boys that have grown up with all of us carried the box to the hole. The preacher is also the Pleasant Hill School superintendent and has known our kids since kindergarten. I learned a lot about Jed that I’d either forgotten or never known — like his being a member of the National Honor Society and finishing sixth in a class of more than a hundred.

We sung some more. People filed by and dropped stuff in on Jed. I put in that silver whistle I used to wear with the Hopi cross soldered on it. One of our frat brothers put in a quartz watch guaranteed to keep beeping every 15 minutes for five years. Faye put in a snapshot of her and I standing with a pitchfork all Grantwoodesque in front of the old bus. Paul Foster put in the little leatherbound New Testament given him by his father who had carried it during his 65 years as a minister. Paul Sawyer read from Leaves of Grass while the boys each hammered in the one nail they had remembered to put in their pockets. The Betas formed a circle and passed the loving cup around (a ritual our fraternity generally uses when a member is leaving the circle to become engaged) (Jed and Zane and I are all members, y’unnerstand, not to mention Hagen) and the boys lowered the box with these ropes George had cut and braided. Zane and I tossed in the first shovelfuls. It sounded like the first thunderclaps of Revelations…

But it’s an earlier scene I want to describe for you all, as writers and friends and fathers…up at the hospital, in cold grey Spokane:

He’d finally started moving a little. Zane and I had been carrying plastic bags of snow to pack his head in trying to stop the swelling that all the doctors told us would follow as blood poured to the bruised brain. And we noticed some reaction to the cold. And the snow I brushed across his lips to ease the bloody parch where all the tubes ran in caused him to roll his arms a little. Then more. Then too much, with the little monitor lights bleeping faster and faster, and I ran to the phone to call the motel where I had just sent most of the family for some rest.

"You guys better get back over here! He’s either going or coming."

Read the rest on the lettersofnote blog: (X)