somethings new. hand knit hats of a japanese wool-silk yarn.
"love what you have and you’ll have more love."
such a beauty by regina spektor.
i’m here a thousand miles from my home
walking a road other men have gone down
i’m seeing your world of people and things
here paupers, and peasants, and princes, and kings
hey, hey woody guthrie i wrote you a song
about a funny old world that’s coming along
it’s seems sick and it’s hungry and it’s tired and it’s torn
it’s looks like it’s dying but it’s hardly been born
hey, woody guthrie but i know that you know
all the things that i’m saying and many times more
i’m singing you this song but i can’t sing enough
because there’s not many men who’ve done the things that you’ve done
here’s to cisco and sonny and leadbelly, too
and to all the good people who have traveled with you
here’s to the hearts and the hands of the men
that come with dust and are gone with the wind
i’m leaving tomorrow but i could leave today
somewhere down the road someday
the very last thing that i’d want to do
is to say i’ve been hitting some hard traveling, too
mes parents. the cutest.
so lucky for these friends that i have.
Dear, dear, dear Abby….there is much to say, friend! You are so gracious, loving, and kind. You are the type of person who touches everyone they meet in some way. You likely don’t realize it, which is part of the beauty of it all.
I have gained so much through our friendship and for that, I am beyond grateful.
Some of the best times I’ve had with you have involved making: food, silly music, art, crafts, scavenger hunts and cardboard cutouts….
Here’s to being makers and friends.
Fifteen years ago I found my father’s
in the family attic, so used
the shoemaker had to
repair it, and I kept it like love
until it couldn’t be kept anymore.
Then my father-in-law died
and I got his, almost
identical, just the wrong initials
embossed in gold. It’s forty years old,
falling apart, soon
there’ll be nothing
that smells of father-love and that difficulty
of living with fathers, but I’d prefer
a paper bag to those
made for men living fast-forward
or those attaché cases that match
your raincoat and spring open
like a salute
and a click of heels. I’m going
to put an ad in the paper, “Wanted:
Old briefcase, accordion style,”
and I won’t care
whose father it belonged to
if it’s brown and the divider keeps
things on their proper side.
Like an adoption
it’s sure to feel natural before long—
a son without a father, but with this
one briefcase carrying
comfortably into the future,
something for an empty hand, sentimental
the way keeping is
sentimental, for keep-
sake, with clarity and without tears.
"Briefcases" by Stephen Dunn, from New and Selected Poems 1974-1994. From The Writer’s Alamanac on March 2, 2013.
Wall Dogs: The Midair Muralists Who Paint New York
It’s 8am in Soho, the thermometer reads just above freezing, and the sky is bleak. Taxis splash down the streets; New Yorkers stride with their heads down, leaping over puddles, carelessly bumping into each other. Everyone wants to get out of the cold, out of the rain, into the warmth.
Ten stories above — on a long, skinny platform hanging from the facade of a building at Canal and Mercer in downtown Manhattan — it’s a different story. Climbers’ ropes secured around their torsos, Jason Coatney and Armando Balmaceda stand in a melange of open paint cans and brushes. These two muralists of Colossal Media, the largest hand-painted advertising company in America, are heavily layered in sweatshirts and raincoats. But in this industry, c’est la vie. Paintbrushes in their fingerless-gloved hands, earbuds in their ears — “I like to start out with Miles Davis in the morning,” Coatney smiles, his breath visible in the frigid air — they begin yet another workday in the sky.
'north side gal' by j.d. mcpherson. (this never gets old.)
finally started reading the steve jobs biography this week.