Greg Laswell - Comes and Goes (Deep Hollow Edit)
Bouwer Bosch - God
Sometimes other people find the words you cannot to say the things your heart screams.
This song includes much honesty and much truth.
Bouwer Bosch remains one of my favourite South African artists.
Growing up is quite fabulous, really. You start to become okay with just listing broad (boring) interests when filling out profiles - no one needs to know about your love for tree-climbing, or painting yourself with watercolours until they’re close enough to experience it & love you for it. You grow content with, and even enjoy, the fact that there is much more to the “galaxy” within you than you thought, or than you have to show at one time. It’s quite a relief that you no longer have to try so hard, you just accept that your “Pluto” is not really a planet, and that people accept it and appreciate it anyway. Some of your stars grow dimmer, and some spark. Some constellations change, some stay the same. Whatever it is, you’re still figuring it out, and that’s okay. You can bury moons & asteroids in the far corners and smile at the fact that no one might ever find them. Your planets learn their orbit which all forms around what you place in the center - what is your sun? You get to watch things transpire & grow and know that you take responsibility for this magnificent thing given unto you, called life. Also, you learn that you learn as you go, no matter what you’ve gone through in preparation. It’s the most marvelous adventure upon which you will ever embark.
My family has always been private about our time spent together. It was our way of keeping one thing that was ours, with a man we shared with an entire world. But now that’s gone, and I feel stripped bare. My last day with him was his birthday, and I will be forever grateful that my brothers and I got to spend that time alone with him, sharing gifts and laughter. He was always warm, even in his darkest moments. While I’ll never, ever understand how he could be loved so deeply and not find it in his heart to stay, there’s minor comfort in knowing our grief and loss, in some small way, is shared with millions. It doesn’t help the pain, but at least it’s a burden countless others now know we carry, and so many have offered to help lighten the load. Thank you for that.
To those he touched who are sending kind words, know that one of his favorite things in the world was to make you all laugh. As for those who are sending negativity, know that some small, giggling part of him is sending a flock of pigeons to your house to poop on your car. Right after you’ve had it washed. After all, he loved to laugh too…
Dad was, is and always will be one of the kindest, most generous, gentlest souls I’ve ever known, and while there are few things I know for certain right now, one of them is that not just my world, but the entire world is forever a little darker, less colorful and less full of laughter in his absence. We’ll just have to work twice as hard to fill it back up again.
My only statement. My brothers’ are also online. Thank you for all your kindness, and goodbye for awhile guys. xo (via zeldawilliams)
- a touching statement from Robin Williams’ daughter, Zelda.
Zachary Norman - The Ballad of Tom Dooley (2009-11)
“The Ballad of Tom Dooley, popularized by The Kingston Trio’s 1958 recording, is a ballad that describes the 1866 murder of Laura Foster by Tom Dula (Dooley).
Tom Dula was tried and hanged for the murder but it is widely believed, especially by residents of the area where the murder occurred, that Tom was innocent and that his lover, Anne Melton, was responsible for Laura’s death.
These photographs represent an attempt to understand the roots of this ballad and the effect it has had on nearby communities in Western North Carolina, namely Wilkesboro and North Wilkesboro, NC.
My intent when beginning this project was to document artifacts and locations significant to the story behind the song; to give dimension and depth to an otherwise casually understood artifact of American culture.
The scope of the project gradually expanded to include my growing interest in the way and for what reasons a community claims its connection to a history as significant and popular as the one I was attempting to record. The photographs, in addition to providing depth to a well known folksong, represent an attempt to determine the role photography plays in the creation of history.”
1. Cot in Tom Dula’s Jail Cell
2. Anne Melton’s Jail Cell
3. Dramatic Reinterpretation of the Ballad of Tom Dooley
4. Path Along the Yadkin River that Laura Foster Walked on the Morning of Her Murder
5. Near Where Tom Dooley Was Hanged for the Murder of Laura Foster
6. Imogene’s Basement
8. Girls Sitting on the Back of a Car
9. Bridge Spanning a Tributary of the New River
10. Seven Shot Rimfire Deemore .32 Caliber Revolver Used by Col. Grayson to Arrest Tom Dula
My list of things that cause me, as this cat, to breathe heavily:
- Pretty Fonts
- Good Lists & Well Written Plans
- Pretty Instruments
- Antique Books
- Art Pieces I’ve seen & admired in books/internet
- James McGregor endeavours (I like his acting)
- Finding my favourite poems in old books at stores
- Overly Stimulating Excursions (artistic/outdoorsy/beautiful/historic/well-known places)
- Really good food/coffee/tea etc… sometimes I cry when it’s too good
The broken bottle pieces from the night before of a yesteryear still lie ingrown within my ever-expanding heart.
It is the stained glass cathedral in which you may pay tribute & adore the figures of stone along the walls.
The organ is out of tune, but still plays long into the night hours with an old man hunched over the rotting keys and weathered windpipes.
The pews are scuffed around the edges, for we have dragged them to the corners of this hall that we could dance upon our marble flaws.
The old bell is cracked and its sound is lacking in timbre, yet it is clean enough to see our reflections.
Its desperate chimes are barely able to reach into the airs, across seas of blood, and find your longing heart.
A bitter cold emanates from the carved pillars around me, for your warmth has left with sound of your voice.
Here I am in the void of your drifting remembrance, anxiously trying to remember how we moved.
Your eyes were the only sun this part of me could ever know, for you poured yourself into my arms.
You were freedom, but so dead inside - though you embraced me and held your own.
You were always exactly what I didn’t need, but wanted to deeply - the wooden doors in my steel frame.
I am left exposed to the cold with you not here, and I stumble in darkness without the light of your eyes gazing into my soul.
And perhaps in some distant time to come, my eyes might drift across the room, only to catch your reverberant ambience and start us once again.