The world is big and I want to have a good look at it before it gets dark.
John Muir 
exotichobbies:

Camp Wandawega

exotichobbies:

Camp Wandawega

brightwalldarkroom:

"There are a handful of shows I ask everyone I talk to about television if they have seen: The Wire, Mad Men, Friday Night Lights. But when I ask them if they’ve watched and loved Friday Night Lights, what I mean is are you my kind of person? Are you all heart? Are you bothered by this 21st-century lack of earnestness, our abundance of irony? Do you wonder how we forgive and coach ourselves to do better? How we can strive again for valor and loyalty and daring and redemption? 
I fear we are defaulting to needless negativity as some kind of social currency. But Friday Night Lights is the most earnest show I’ve ever watched. Not sentimental, however: these characters aren’t perfect. In fact, this show is incredibly astute at allowing humans to have stratums of complexity: to have character and occasionally act without it, and then to live in the mire of their own dumb choices. Do I adore Coach? Yes. Do I think, as Tammy says, he is a molder of men and a husband of fierce devotion? Absolutely. Do I also think he can also be a self-involved, sexist prick who values his career over his wife’s? No question.
Regardless of the scale of the battle, the stakes in Friday Night Lights are rarely phony or contrived. It’s about winning games, sure, but its scope far exceeds that. This is a show that tests and reflects commitment not just on the football field, but back in the locker room. And in Street’s rehab room, and Saracen’s grandmother’s living room, and Julie’s bedroom, and eventually out to Luke’s farm and Tim’s prison and Tammy’s dream in Philadelphia. This commitment is not about obligation, but something more sacred. Duty. The hidden gale that blusters and grows within us and makes us yearn to give someone else exactly what they need.”
—Erica Cantoni on Friday Night Lights (Bright Wall/Dark Room, Issue #14, July 2014)

yes. 

brightwalldarkroom:

"There are a handful of shows I ask everyone I talk to about television if they have seen: The Wire, Mad Men, Friday Night Lights. But when I ask them if they’ve watched and loved Friday Night Lights, what I mean is are you my kind of person? Are you all heart? Are you bothered by this 21st-century lack of earnestness, our abundance of irony? Do you wonder how we forgive and coach ourselves to do better? How we can strive again for valor and loyalty and daring and redemption? 

I fear we are defaulting to needless negativity as some kind of social currency. But Friday Night Lights is the most earnest show I’ve ever watched. Not sentimental, however: these characters aren’t perfect. In fact, this show is incredibly astute at allowing humans to have stratums of complexity: to have character and occasionally act without it, and then to live in the mire of their own dumb choices. Do I adore Coach? Yes. Do I think, as Tammy says, he is a molder of men and a husband of fierce devotion? Absolutely. Do I also think he can also be a self-involved, sexist prick who values his career over his wife’s? No question.

Regardless of the scale of the battle, the stakes in Friday Night Lights are rarely phony or contrived. It’s about winning games, sure, but its scope far exceeds that. This is a show that tests and reflects commitment not just on the football field, but back in the locker room. And in Street’s rehab room, and Saracen’s grandmother’s living room, and Julie’s bedroom, and eventually out to Luke’s farm and Tim’s prison and Tammy’s dream in Philadelphia. This commitment is not about obligation, but something more sacred. Duty. The hidden gale that blusters and grows within us and makes us yearn to give someone else exactly what they need.”

—Erica Cantoni on Friday Night Lights (Bright Wall/Dark Room, Issue #14, July 2014)

yes. 

Somewhere in Ohio. 

#afterlight

Somewhere in Ohio.

#afterlight

On religion in general

dearcoquette:

We know your view of the Abrahamic faiths, but I’m curious to know if it extends to the other religions of the world, such as religious Buddhism, Hinduism, Bahá’í, persisting indigenous faiths, the various branches of modern paganism, etc.?


I’m opposed to any organized belief system with fundamental tenets based on revealed knowledge from a supernatural entity, and I am radically opposed to any closely held belief that allows for a supernatural entity (deity or otherwise) to be used as the proximate cause or justification for human behavior.

That said, I am not opposed to maintaining certain religious traditions as an important part of cultural heritage, except (as is often the case) when those traditions are used as the proximate cause or justification for human suffering.

Hey this is me! Thanks Brandon!! Repost from @slow_death__ via @igrepost_app, Fun walk in! Thanks a ton mike! Heck…. #igerscolumbus #ohio #columbusohio #columbustattoos #asseenincolumbus #asseenincolumbus #614

Hey this is me! Thanks Brandon!! Repost from @slow_death__ via @igrepost_app, Fun walk in! Thanks a ton mike! Heck…. #igerscolumbus #ohio #columbusohio #columbustattoos #asseenincolumbus #asseenincolumbus #614

I feel like a fucking soldier at war and I’m just here writing letters to a woman I care deeply for and just like praying I can get back to her and maybe she’s got a shoe box of letters under the bed with one on the pillow and I’m making promises to come back home safe and to never leave and counting days like you’d count stars: there are so many, and where do you start?

rottinghaus:

takehova:

FUCK YEAH!

If I were teaching a class in directing or editing, I would spend a nice chunk of my class showing the following:  this video, the Letterman performance of the same song and then Muddy Waters performance of “Mannish Boy” from THE LAST WALTZ.  Why?  Because the above is disastrous filmmaking.

We can suppose that Future Islands was booked at Primavera based on the Letterman performance (watch it again).  Watched back to back it’s ostensibly the same performance (which is fine; this song clearly means something to Sam Herring, Future Islands’ lead singer).  What’s not fine is how much time the director and editor decide to focus on everything besides the only interesting part, which is Sam Herring.

This isn’t avant garde filmmaking and you aren’t a French New Wave director trying to break all written filmmaking rules.  You have an utterly fascinating performer giving a fascinating performance and you show him only occasionally from the back and the side (sometimes cutting between these angles because… people are getting bored?  Your digital camera ran out of memory space?  Noooope.)  It’s kind of like the opening of The Godfather if you chose to cut away from Bonasera’s monologue to a close-up of Tom Hagen or a shot of Don Corleone’s cat.

Watch the Letterman performance.  Do you know how many shots in the nearly four minute performance don’t feature Sam Herring?  One.  One shot.  And I would honestly guess it’s because he stepped out of it as they were cutting to it.  The Letterman director knows what the fuck he has here:  an interesting subject.  That’s the story, that’s the performance.  Focus on it.

I bring up the Waters segment of LAST WALTZ because it’s legendary.  Yes, all the cameramen were either taking a break or reloading their cameras during this performance (I’ve heard both stories) and only one camera happened to be rolling, so in this case the choice to never cut away from the slowly zooming shot on Waters can be seen as providential.  (There is one cut early on that I didn’t remember, but considering it’s a shot from the same angle it doesn’t seem to discount the legend).  However, if the sequence had been terrible then Scorsese didn’t have to use it.  But the performance is great.  And he only has the one angle for most of the song.  But he knows the following:  Muddy Waters performance of this in one take is a million times more interesting than seeing any other member of The Band.  This is evident 3:30 into the video when he finally does cut… to a CU of Waters from a different angle.

I bring all of this up mostly because filmmaking done passably isn’t that hard, and the above video is not passable.  It’s terrible and worse: frustrating.  I just want to see the guy fucking dance and tell me a story with his goddamn performance.  I don’t want to see how fucking bored the drummer and keyboard player are.  I don’t want to see any of the audience.  Who gives a shit?  Sam Herring is the story here, so let him be the story.  Directors and Editors:  we all know you can do a million things now with a million different tools.  But everyone always seems to forget, even though it is a lesson taught since time immemorial:  just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

CHURCH

Maybe you’ve already seen this documentary called “Muscle Shoals” about the sleepy town in northern Alabama where so many great r&b, blues, and southern rock albums were made. Stuff ftom the Stones, to Lynyrd Skynyrd to Paul Simon. Anyway, if you haven’t seen it then I highly recommend it on Netflix.
Muscle Shoals

Maybe you’ve already seen this documentary called “Muscle Shoals” about the sleepy town in northern Alabama where so many great r&b, blues, and southern rock albums were made. Stuff ftom the Stones, to Lynyrd Skynyrd to Paul Simon. Anyway, if you haven’t seen it then I highly recommend it on Netflix.

Muscle Shoals

2,728 plays

Jessica Lea MayfieldThe One That I Love Best

distorte:

I have just finished two novels on the Kindle in quick succession. The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P by Adelle Waldman and Friendship by Emily Gould. Some thoughts follow, roughly separated in two:
I
The device’s motivations are mysterious. In a number of ways it seems to go out of its way to distance you from the material you are reading. A newly purchased ebook opens on the first page of text; not the cover, not the chapter listing. A contextless page of text.
I don’t understand why the reader’s screensaver is not the cover of the book currently being read. Instead we get a selection of bland stock imagery in an era when bland stock imagery is almost mainstream in its unpopularity. And the device, whenever it is sitting on your coffee table or drawn from your bag, is displaying these meaningless, artless images. They are not incidental or occasional, but the primary visual identity of the object at rest. A real book is a visual placeholder in your life as you read it, a cover and content that become entwined as you go. For all its unread hours of the day it announces itself from your bedside table, from your couch. Its presence is a mental bookmark, its individuality a mental trigger. The Kindle is a ten minute coding job away from replicating this relationship, but it simply doesn’t want to. I’m not sure why. Are we meant to love the device, rather than the books it contains? Is that too obvious a suspicion?
II
The reading experience is not unpleasant. Within fifty pages I had mostly gotten used to the jarring flicker of the page turn. It’s most practical benefit (besides letting me buy English books in a non-English speaking city), is that I can read it completely silently in a dark room without disturbing Helene.
But it still feels, having consumed two novels, that I am reading a facsimile of the true book. In some way a connection to the material is missing. The content feels temporary and light, like a blog article. It’s difficult write about this without straying into the cliché of a vinyl enthusiast. I’m fairly confident this feeling would fade in time, or alter the reading experience to the point that it doesn’t feel like it matters. 
About mid-way through the novel I began to encounter highlighted passages like the one pictured. At first I thought I was accidentally doing something—the screen’s lag often produced confusing results when I touched the screen in the wrong place—but eventually it became obvious that these were passages that other readers had highlighted. Anonymous strangers. It seemed so antithetical to the novel reading experience that it was a while before I conceded that it was really happening. Like a parody of what a tin-eared technology company might do to reading. 
The popular passages tended toward the most trite sentimentalities or gender observations, as though the novel could be gutted and boned and served up as a series of Tumblr-ready quotes. As though anything that this character thought or said was not filtered through layers of irony, self-delusion, proto-development, authorial mockery. But reading on, repeatedly having these particular types of sentences highlighted, began to affect my perception of the novel. Maybe I got it wrong? Maybe this novel really was about dating, and how to do it, and how to generalise differences between the desires of men and women? 
The feature (turnable offable) was a jarring reminder of the file as a social, shared, rented document rather than a book that I owned. Like above, the Kindle seems almost to go out of its way to make you feel like it is not yours, that the things it contains are not yours. In a sense this is true; the novel is an open expression, something that can be shared and dissected and discussed in public forums. No one can make any absolute claim of ownership, not even the author. That said, the experience of reading is an intensely personal one. The book in your hand is a room in which you lock yourself. That intimate exchange between the novel and the reader now feels mediated, metricised, oddly public. 


So if you’ve ever read “If On A WInter’s Night A Traveler” that book is exactly how I I feel reading a Kindle. Like you’re never sure if you’re missing pages or what if you hit a wrong button or if the screen flashes oddly. Most of my Kindleing is done on my iphone through the app which has its own set of problems, mainly distractions, but I find it a little better than a Kindle proper and it’s basically how I read all my books, for better or for worse. 

distorte:

I have just finished two novels on the Kindle in quick succession. The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P by Adelle Waldman and Friendship by Emily Gould. Some thoughts follow, roughly separated in two:

I

The device’s motivations are mysterious. In a number of ways it seems to go out of its way to distance you from the material you are reading. A newly purchased ebook opens on the first page of text; not the cover, not the chapter listing. A contextless page of text.

I don’t understand why the reader’s screensaver is not the cover of the book currently being read. Instead we get a selection of bland stock imagery in an era when bland stock imagery is almost mainstream in its unpopularity. And the device, whenever it is sitting on your coffee table or drawn from your bag, is displaying these meaningless, artless images. They are not incidental or occasional, but the primary visual identity of the object at rest. A real book is a visual placeholder in your life as you read it, a cover and content that become entwined as you go. For all its unread hours of the day it announces itself from your bedside table, from your couch. Its presence is a mental bookmark, its individuality a mental trigger. The Kindle is a ten minute coding job away from replicating this relationship, but it simply doesn’t want to. I’m not sure why. Are we meant to love the device, rather than the books it contains? Is that too obvious a suspicion?

II

The reading experience is not unpleasant. Within fifty pages I had mostly gotten used to the jarring flicker of the page turn. It’s most practical benefit (besides letting me buy English books in a non-English speaking city), is that I can read it completely silently in a dark room without disturbing Helene.

But it still feels, having consumed two novels, that I am reading a facsimile of the true book. In some way a connection to the material is missing. The content feels temporary and light, like a blog article. It’s difficult write about this without straying into the cliché of a vinyl enthusiast. I’m fairly confident this feeling would fade in time, or alter the reading experience to the point that it doesn’t feel like it matters. 

About mid-way through the novel I began to encounter highlighted passages like the one pictured. At first I thought I was accidentally doing something—the screen’s lag often produced confusing results when I touched the screen in the wrong place—but eventually it became obvious that these were passages that other readers had highlighted. Anonymous strangers. It seemed so antithetical to the novel reading experience that it was a while before I conceded that it was really happening. Like a parody of what a tin-eared technology company might do to reading. 

The popular passages tended toward the most trite sentimentalities or gender observations, as though the novel could be gutted and boned and served up as a series of Tumblr-ready quotes. As though anything that this character thought or said was not filtered through layers of irony, self-delusion, proto-development, authorial mockery. But reading on, repeatedly having these particular types of sentences highlighted, began to affect my perception of the novel. Maybe I got it wrong? Maybe this novel really was about dating, and how to do it, and how to generalise differences between the desires of men and women? 

The feature (turnable offable) was a jarring reminder of the file as a social, shared, rented document rather than a book that I owned. Like above, the Kindle seems almost to go out of its way to make you feel like it is not yours, that the things it contains are not yours. In a sense this is true; the novel is an open expression, something that can be shared and dissected and discussed in public forums. No one can make any absolute claim of ownership, not even the author. That said, the experience of reading is an intensely personal one. The book in your hand is a room in which you lock yourself. That intimate exchange between the novel and the reader now feels mediated, metricised, oddly public. 

So if you’ve ever read “If On A WInter’s Night A Traveler” that book is exactly how I I feel reading a Kindle. Like you’re never sure if you’re missing pages or what if you hit a wrong button or if the screen flashes oddly. Most of my Kindleing is done on my iphone through the app which has its own set of problems, mainly distractions, but I find it a little better than a Kindle proper and it’s basically how I read all my books, for better or for worse. 

matthallock:

La Lune in Flatiron.

matthallock:

La Lune in Flatiron.