Russia Sees New Realm of Concern: Black Sea

Russian commanders said they were growing alarmed at the number of NATO warships sailing into the Black Sea.

there's something frightfully magical about that NY Times blurb. makes me want to write a dark sci-fi fairy tale with political tinges.

she's cute

i'm inspired to get my bangs trimmed and summon up my most wistful expression immediately.

she's in stockholm, and from the background i can tell it's the old-world downtown area. LOVED it there.

Protest Against the Rising Tide of Conformity

too awesome. my friend micha posted this pic on her blog and i had to steal it.

because.... i have this exact poster (smaller version but authentic) on the wall in my house! my sister abigail found it for me at a thrift store. such a better present than the bright red too-small wife-beater T with the words 'mrs. johnny depp' in gothic font across the chest she gave me for my bday. huh?! ;)

anyway, here are dylan and joan baez in all their high-falutin, bohemian glory.

bluegrass, steinbeck and the dust bowl

don't those three words do something to you? that harder, rougher, wholly human time, and where are we today? softer, tamer, connected but not to the earth, not to each other. a species that held survival in their dirty hands instead of in overfull heads.

***
I'm blowin' down this old dusty road,I'm a-blowin' down this old dusty road,I'm a-blowin' down this old dusty road, Lord, Lord,An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this a-way.

I'm a-goin' where the water taste like wine,I'm a-goin' where the water taste like wine,I'm a-goin' where the water taste like wine, Lord,An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way.

I'm a-goin' where the dust storms never blow,I'm a-goin' where them dust storms never blow,I'm a-goin' where them dust storms never blow, blow, blow,An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way.
***

coulda shoulda woulda

Sweet, juicy, overripe and moldy, a peach left too long. You try to salvage it, preserve it – jam, tempenade, chutney? - but it falls apart in your hands, running down your forearms, onto the floor. Nothing but sliding drips, the core no longer securing the meat.
And all that’s left is that core. Still hard and strong, with no remaining use. Bore a hole through it, a necklace memento? Paint it put it on a windowsill? Child’s play. Nothing for it but the trash.