August 26, 2014

arabellesicardi:

Here is a side by side comparison of how The New York Times has profiled Michael Brown — an 18 year old black boy gunned down by police — and how they profiled Ted Bundy, one of the most prolific serial killers of all time. 

Source for Brown, Source for Bundy.

(via jaimelannistars)

August 26, 2014

(Source: constella, via ianbrownslovechild)

August 25, 2014
INNER SELFIE

INNER SELFIE

(Source: smithscelluloidhistory)

August 25, 2014

(Source: jitterbuglove, via thepsychobomb)

August 25, 2014

(Source: unacclimated, via p-sycho-killer)

August 25, 2014

(Source: w-i-t-c-h-e-r-y, via catholic-boys)

August 25, 2014

80slove:

80’s Bedrooms

August 24, 2014
rebel6:

by Marcos Cabrera

rebel6:

by Marcos Cabrera

(via junglerot)

August 24, 2014
phantasmagoria-in-me:

David Bowie as Alex from A Clockwork Orange, 1976.

phantasmagoria-in-me:

David Bowie as Alex from A Clockwork Orange, 1976.

(via bigmouthstruckagain)

August 24, 2014
Her name was Stevie Smith. Poem from 1957, drawing by the poet herself.

Her name was Stevie Smith. Poem from 1957, drawing by the poet herself.

August 23, 2014

(Source: vk.com, via candyysays)

August 23, 2014

(Source: thefamelyjewels, via sosad-today)

August 22, 2014

August 22, 2014

HORCRUX NO. 2: Judy Collins ‘Both Sides Now.’ A couple weeks back I wrote about how the process of listening to (and writing) certain songs can be a mystical one, akin to the Harry Potter mythology of the horcrux. A ritual where you have to leave a bit of yourself within the thing to fully take it in, and that only when you hear it/perform it again are you completely restored. In the meantime though, a fragment of you is immortal, untouchable, forever young. it’s a kind of Faustian deal, but every artist is in her own way a fallen angel. When I was 10 or 11, encased in the melancholy pleather of my parents Oldsmobile, it was Judy Collins’ ‘Both Sides Now,’ which would occasionally rouse me enough to at least look out the window at the city blurring by. The jangling harpsichord was like church bells, and all the talk of love and illusion provoked me. All I knew of my life in the suburbs was that there was a scarcity of the first and an abundance of the latter. Much like The Byrds ‘Mr Tambourine Man,’ Collin’s steady pop take on Joni Mitchell’s sullen masterpiece comes alive in the context of the hit parade, rising out of car speakers above it’s fallow brethren. I had barely thought of the song for 30 years until it was used in the closing scene of the 6th season of Mad Men. But when I saw the scene, heard the song again, I realized just how much of myself I had left in it by mouthing the words sullenly as we crawled across Myrtle Avenue. There I was in the scene, now a similar age as Don, staring back at the neglected mansions of youth. My destitute inner child staring back, borrowing a popsicle from the kid on the ‘Light That Never Goes Out’ t-shirt. I thought i had left both the song, and that half-broken version of myself behind, but now it was all back swirling about like a fog of crystal dust, as the teeth of time layed into it. How many other land mines lay dormant on Lite-FM? What other haunted houses have I condemned but failed to raze? -MGJR

August 22, 2014
Saint Mark.

Saint Mark.

(Source: amallaug, via fleshh)

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