Favorites » Her Blog
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Trendstop - The essential fashion trend decoder for fashion industry
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May 7, 2:48pm
3 reviews
fashion
•http://www.trendstop.com/
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Fuck you and your fucking thread count.
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YouTube - Land of Silence and Darkness, clip 2
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May 7, 2:56am
2 reviews
movies, video, werner-herzog
•http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZiJVzH...
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Having watched Herzog's Land of Silence and Darkness recently (just a couple of months ago), I guess I could describe what I like about Herzog's technique and stuff, but what I'm really obsessed with is the feeling of being able to read his thoughts when I watch his films, or the feeling that I am inhabiting his mind, looking through his odd monocular vision.
Land of Silence and Darkness is a documentary about people who are blind and deaf, and it describes a kind of spectrum based on the characters' amount of contact with the world.
Fini Straubinger, for instance, clasps people to her, laughs heartily, and animatedly signs onto people's palms.
When she meets another blind-deaf woman, she writes "I am your sister in darkness" onto her hand.
She hosts a party that culminates in her friends tentatively feeling their way through a cactus garden.
On the other hand, this clip from the film shows a man who's been neglected his whole life and is living in a kind of feral, inchoate isolation. When someone gives him a radio for the first time, his face acquires a kind of focus. In the scene where he clasps the radio to his heart, I felt my own chest vibrating, too. It's so powerful, this scene.
He's an eerie film subject to watch, since he has no idea that he's participating in a film.
You know, speech is fine. I have a love-hate relationship with speech, the spoken word.
But I've often wondered why all of us don't use hand signs and sign language on a regular basis, too.
It seems like it would be so lovely to trace alphabets onto another person's palm.
Or tell a story on someone's thigh. Or write a sonnet on the sole of someone's foot.
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Charles Baudelaires Fleurs du Mal
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May 7, 2:52am
21 reviews
poetry, baudelaire
•http://www.fleursdumal.org/
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Des Esseintes had a specially bound volume of Baudelaire's poetry made for his own private use.
What book of poetry would you want to have made for your very own?
Would it be bound in flesh, inscribed with blood? Or drawn on your tongue in Chartreuse?
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May 7, 2:50am
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Learn it, love it, live it.
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YouTube - The Libertine w/Johnny Depp
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May 7, 2:30am
3 reviews
acting, video, wow
•http://youtube.com/watch?v=AMCYrqtmFpM
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"Allow me to be frank at the commencement. You will not like me.
The gentlemen will be envious and the ladies will be repelled. You will not like me now, and you will like me a good deal less as we go on.
Ladies, an announcement: I am up for it. All the time.
That is not a boast or an opinion. It is bone hard medical fact. I put it round, you know. And you will watch me putting it round and sigh for it. Don't. It is a deal of trouble for you, and you are better off watching and drawing your conclusions from a distance than you would be if I got my tarse up your petticoats.
Gentlemen. Do not despair, I am up for that as well. And the same warning applies. Still your cheesy erections till I have had my say. But later when you shag -- and later you will shag, I shall expect it of you, and I will know if you have let me down -- I wish you to shag with my homuncular image rattling in your gonads.
Feel how it was for me, how it is for me, and ponder: 'Was that shudder the same shudder he sensed? Did he know something more profound? Or is there some wall of wretchedness that we all batter with our heads at that shining, livelong moment?' That is it.
That is my prologue, nothing in rhyme, no protestations of modesty, you were not expecting that I hope.
I am John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester, and I do not want you to like me."
This is kind of the best.
The Libertine is an odd hymen-popping irreality.
Come at your own risk, and
Come naked.
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Im a huge fan of breasts. Always have been | Art & architecture | Guardian Unlim…
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May 6, 9:53pm
2 reviews
thumbd-for-lulz
•http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/art/2008/...
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Oh Miss Greer, your lulz never fail me.
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Figural Possibilities: Marlon Brando and the Exploration of Intimate Space | Fil…
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May 6, 9:00pm
1 review
acting, marlon-brando
•http://www.filmint.nu/?q=node/89
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First, the actor must convince the body.
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Tims weblog: Sinful or just sick?
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May 6, 4:42pm
2 reviews
•http://timothydeanmills.blogspot.com/...
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"The following quote is from Hobart Mowrer, "Sin, the Lesser of Two Evils," American Psychologist, 15 (1960): 301-304. Hobart Maurer committed suicide in 1982 at the age of 75. He was a professor at Yale, Harvard, and president of the American Psychological Association."
Now, stumblers all, read this very carefully, please:
"For several decades, we psychologists have looked upon the whole matter of sin and moral accountability as a great incubus, and acclaimed our liberation from it as epic-making.
But at length we have discovered that to be free, in this sense to have the excuse to
being sick rather than being sinful, is to court the danger of also becoming lost.
This danger, I believe, is betokened by the widespread interest in existentialism which we are presently witnessing. In becoming a-moral, ethically neutral, and free we have cut the very roots of our being, lost our deepest sense of selfhood, and identity. And with neurotics themselves, we find ourselves asking, who am I, what is my deepest destiny, and what does living really mean?"
DISCUSS.
This blogger failed to note the one interesting thing about the person who claimed these words though: that Mowrer was an atheist thinker, who with this declaration, said much more than I think he ever planned on saying on this subject. Whoops.
(Also, is it Mauer or Mowrer? Psych students, clarify this, please, lulz.)
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Francis Thompson - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
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May 6, 3:51pm
1 review
drugs, saint-hysteria, francis-thompson
•http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_...
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It is said that a vision of the poet Chatterton appeared to Francis Thompson late in his life, and kept him from suicide.
In the long hours of fear, rejection and longing, one must recall one's saints:
"He saved up his farthings till he could buy a dose of laudanum, and went one night to his old bed in the rubbish heap in Covent Garden Market -- the night that was to be his last on earth. He had already begun to drink the poison, when he felt the touch of a hand, and looking up he saw a vision of Poet Chatterton, who commanded him to drink no more. Then, remembering that another day of patience would have brought relief to Chatterton he determined to fight against the dim powers."
Let me tell you about the fascinating life of this man. Francis Thompson.
Francis Thompson was a drug addict. He was an opium addict. Tried to get into Oxford University, I think, seven or eight times, and they turned him down. They turned him down, not because he didn't have the mind, but because he was so hooked in his addiction.
Thompson used to wear a dirty raincoat and pick up newspapers from the dust bins of London.
And he would walk through the area of the losers and the lost which was Charing Cross.
He would pick up newspapers and write letters to editors, and the editors would say: "A genius greater than Milton is among us, but we do not have a return address for him."
It was Thompson of course who wrote all this. He wrote the most brilliant editorials, the most brilliant poetry, but the editors could not get back to him.
In the daytime, he would find a way to sate his drug addiction; at night time, he would sleep by the River Thames. At night, he would go and lie by the River Thames with all of those who were also going through the agony of substance abuse, trying to cover himself from the cold, with a raincoat amongst the homeless as it were.
Once he picked up the Judeo-Christian bible and read the story of Jacob, a conman who screwed with his brother Esau, of whom he was envious of. The Judeo-Christian bible described Jacob as a man who had, "a taste for game." And he cheated his own brother out of his birthright. He spent the rest of his life running away from his God, the God of the Jews. And finally, in a dream, he wrestled with this God. And in the end, there, he found redemption from this God in the bible of the Jews and the Christians.
So Francis Thompson was reading this, the story of Jacob. (Can you picture him, stumblers, lying by the bridge surrounded by the murky river under a dark desolate sky, shivering in the cold?)
After which, then he wrote a brilliant masterpiece of a poem:
O WORLD invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!
Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air--
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumor of thee there?
Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!--
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.
The angels keep their ancient places--
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendored thing.
But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry--and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.
Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry--clinging to Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!
Also, he wrote of love for the Poppy, which he dedicated to a certain Monica --
Love, love! your flower of withered dream
In leavèd rhyme lies safe, I deem,
Sheltered and shut in a nook of rhyme,
From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.
Love! I fall into the claws of Time:
But lasts within a leavèd rhyme
All that the world of me esteems --
My withered dreams, my withered dreams.
I have no more words for this man, other than to think him beautiful.
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The Complete Sayings of Jesus Index
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May 6, 3:05pm
1 review
christianity, erotic-literature, sacred-texts
•http://www.sacred-texts.com/bib/csj/i...
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I may not be Christian (I'd like to think my faith is open source. I take some, I leave some. It's really difficult, my personal coalescence lies in the light and the dark within me, each of them struggling for mastery) -- but I think Jesus Christ was quite a man who made such an impact in history, carrying with him a "coalescence of contrarieties" that made him a delicious mystery. He is quite dreamy, yes.
"When I think of Jesus, I think of the mystery of divine personality; the startling coalescence of contrarieties that I see in him.
He was the meekest and lowliest of all the sons of men. Yet he spoke of coming on the clouds of heaven with the glory of God.
He was so austere that evil spirits and demons cried out in terror at his coming, yet he was so genial and winsome and approachable, that the children loved to play with him and the little ones nestled in his arms.
His presence at the innocent gaiety of a village wedding, was like the presence of sunshine.
No one was half so kind or compassionate to sinners, yet no one ever spoke such red-hot scorching words about sin.
A bruised reed he would not break. His whole life was love.
Yet on one occasion he demanded of the Pharisees, how they were expected to escape the damnation of hell.
He was a dreamer of dreams and a seer of visions, yet for sheer stark realism, he has all of us self-styled realists soundly beaten.
He was the servant of all, washing the disciples' feet, yet masterfully he strode into the temple, and the hucksters and moneychangers fell over one another to get away in their mad rush from the fire they saw blazing in his eyes.
He saved others, yet at the last, he himself did not save.
There is nothing in history like the union of contrasts which confronts us in the gospels; the mystery of Jesus is the mystery of divine personality."
These are theologian James Stewart's words, and they explain why.
He's a union of contrasts and contradictions.
Plus, he didn't believe in shoes. Walked around in sandals or barefoot, and all the prostitutes fell at his feet in ecstasy.
Even his own virgin mother had a very powerful moment of ecstasy as she watched her son get whipped.
And the words he spoke! He spoke of love and salvation and peace and sin and damnation. And he was a man who loved to share stories, and he didn't give a fuck if he sounded like a complete lunatic, calling himself the Son of the Jews' God. His words are mad, but they are pure poetry.
Eat your heart out, Jim Morrison.
Most importantly, he fought for a cause he believed in his heart and soul to be true, and he died for it. He died a martyr. He died believing it was for the good of all the people who followed him, and he died thinking it was also for the people who shunned him and hated him. He died madly in love with the very people who rejected him and hated him.
Personally, Jesus Christ was the sexiest man in all of history.
I'm tagging this as erotic-literature.
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