Jackson 5 - ABC
at upton
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
Along with various permutations of the mesmerizing badgers, this video was a staple of my hs senior year. I’d be sitting on my best friends’ dorm room floor at 2 a.m. clawing through piles of physics homeworks, and Kathleen would abruptly drop her books and play it again. It is glorious because it is completely void of artistic or intellectual merit. The only value it had then, or has now, is that of context. I hear it in Kathleen’s voice and it makes me smile.
via: titanics
Sexual abuse and silence in Amish communities.
“Her friend had vanished in agony, but not, she believed, in degradation. Her withdrawal had hinted at other things besides disease and pain. Some leave our life with tears, others with an insane frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox had taken the middle course, which only rarer natures can pursue. She had kept proportion. She had told a little of her grim secret to her friends, but not too much; she had shut up her heart— almost, but not entirely. It is thus, if there is any rule, that we ought to die— neither as victim nor as fanatic, but as the seafarer who can greet with an equal eye the deep that he is entering, and the shore that he must leave.”
- E.M. Forster, Howard’s End
The passenger lists of Victorian luxury ocean liners were chronicled in gossip columns and scoured by young girls searching for eligible bachelors.
My running route takes me past this edge of the Upper West Side, and the first time I passed it was in the sunset gloaming. It’s apparently a recognized landmark of some sort (there’s a small sign), but all I saw was a twisted piece of city sinking into the sea.
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above
Those I fight I do not hate
Those I guard I do not love
My country is Kiltartan’s Cross
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before
No law, nor duty bade me fight
No public man, nor cheering crowds
A lonely impulse of delight
Led to this tumult in the clouds
I balanced all, borught all to mind
The years to come seemed waste of breath
A waste of breath, the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
- William Butler Yeats


