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Bugs

I'm sick of people talking about how much they love fall. Shut up, it's awful.

Bliss—a-second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive, conscious—lies on the other side of crushing, crushing boredom. Pay close attention to the most tedious thing you can find (Tax Returns, Televised Golf) and, in waves, a boredom like you’ve never known will wash over you and just about kill you. Ride these out, and it’s like stepping from black and white into color. Like water after days in the desert. Instant bliss in every atom.

—David Foster Wallace, The Pale King (via booksalon)

He’s right he’s always so right, miss you.

(via literaryartifacts)

austinkleon:

Paul McCartney and John Lennon writing “I Saw Her Standing There,” 1962

I looked this photo up after reading about it in Joshua Shenk’s Powers of Two: Finding the Essence of Innovation in Creative Pairs:


  One late November afternoon in 1962, John Lennon and Paul McCartney got together to write at Paul’s house at 20 Forthlin Road in Liverpool. Their ritual was to come around in the afternoon, just the two of them, when Paul’s dad was at work. They would go to the small front room overlooking Jim McCartney’s patch of garden and sit opposite each other. “Like mirrors,” Paul said.
  
  John sat on a chair pulled in from the dining room. He had his Jumbo Gibson acoustic-electric with a sunburst finish. Paul sat on a little table in front of the telly with his foot on the hearth of the coal fireplace. He played a Spanish-style guitar with nylon strings, strung in reverse for a lefty. In a photography shot by Paul’s brother, Michael, they’re both looking down at a notebook on the floor, filled with lyrics…
  
  …Years later, Paul told his brother that he loved his photo of the “I Saw Her Standing There” writing session because it captured how it really was—”the Rodgers and Hammerstein of pop at work.” Writing “eyeball to eyeball,” as John said, they weren’t just frontmen for a rock group; they were composers working in concert.


There’s a Lennon/McCartney excerpt of the book over at the Atlantic.

Photo credit: Mike McCartney, image via britishbeatlemania

Filed under: The Beatles

austinkleon:

Paul McCartney and John Lennon writing “I Saw Her Standing There,” 1962

I looked this photo up after reading about it in Joshua Shenk’s Powers of Two: Finding the Essence of Innovation in Creative Pairs:

One late November afternoon in 1962, John Lennon and Paul McCartney got together to write at Paul’s house at 20 Forthlin Road in Liverpool. Their ritual was to come around in the afternoon, just the two of them, when Paul’s dad was at work. They would go to the small front room overlooking Jim McCartney’s patch of garden and sit opposite each other. “Like mirrors,” Paul said.

John sat on a chair pulled in from the dining room. He had his Jumbo Gibson acoustic-electric with a sunburst finish. Paul sat on a little table in front of the telly with his foot on the hearth of the coal fireplace. He played a Spanish-style guitar with nylon strings, strung in reverse for a lefty. In a photography shot by Paul’s brother, Michael, they’re both looking down at a notebook on the floor, filled with lyrics…

…Years later, Paul told his brother that he loved his photo of the “I Saw Her Standing There” writing session because it captured how it really was—”the Rodgers and Hammerstein of pop at work.” Writing “eyeball to eyeball,” as John said, they weren’t just frontmen for a rock group; they were composers working in concert.

There’s a Lennon/McCartney excerpt of the book over at the Atlantic.

Photo credit: Mike McCartney, image via britishbeatlemania

Filed under: The Beatles

We all have our little solipsistic delusions, ghastly intuitions of utter singularity: that we are the only one in the house who ever fills the ice-cube tray, who unloads the clean dishwasher, who occasionally pees in the shower, whose eyelid twitches on first dates; that only we take casualness terribly seriously; that only we fashion supplication into courtesy; that only we hear the whiny pathos in a dog’s yawn, the timeless sigh in the opening of the hermetically-sealed jar, the splattered laugh in the frying egg, the minor-D lament in the vacuum’s scream; that only we feel the panic at sunset the rookie kindergartner feels at his mother’s retreat. That only we love the only-we. That only we need the only-we. Solipsism binds us together, J.D. knows. That we feel lonely in a crowd; stop not to dwell on what’s brought the crowd into being. That we are, always, faces in a crowd.

David Foster Wallace, Girl with Curious Hair (via whyallcaps)

(via lifeinpoetry)

I close myself over, deaf as an eye,
deaf as a wound, which listens

to nothing but its own pain:
Get out of here.
Get out of here.

Margaret Atwood, from Circe/Mud Poems (via lifeinpoetry)


"Golden Tears" by Gustave Klimt

"Golden Tears" by Gustave Klimt

(via mrsrichardharrow)

cameronchristopher:

This tiger said “I’m going to the beach” when we got on the bus, and our driver took us there straightaway, like magic. Routes? Never heard of them.

cameronchristopher:

This tiger said “I’m going to the beach” when we got on the bus, and our driver took us there straightaway, like magic. Routes? Never heard of them.

commandmodulepilot:

45 years ago, three astronauts blasted off on a mission to put man on the moon.

(via homelessbutclassy)

humansofnewyork:

"You can make about 75% more money with a cat on your head than you can with a cat on your shoulder."

humansofnewyork:

"You can make about 75% more money with a cat on your head than you can with a cat on your shoulder."

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