There’s so much to see
In each new place I visit.
It’s overwhelming.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Showing posts with label new. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new. Show all posts
17 July 2017
31 July 2013
learnings from naked
This author yesterday went with his Finnish sauna buddies to Gunnison beach in Sandy Hook, New Jersey. While there, he saw many interesting sights and a few beautiful women. One of them, a buxom brunette who spent most of the day sunning herself a few spots down from their vintage tent, had a majestic bust, a thigh-gap, and a fully shaved, delicately-formed whispering eye; she once smiled at whorphan as they had passed each other at the gate, and made eye contact with him again upon his return from visiting the restrooms, but he never approached her, for reasons unknown. Another young lady, this one at the beach with her boyfriend, was a most attractively skinny lady whose perfectly-shaped breasts were at least size DD. Dark of hair, wide of mouth, and sparkling of eye, this skinny maiden at first went swimming with her privates covered but then came back with her crotch revealed, widely set hips showcasing a seductive gap into which one could easily slide an 2-inch-wide, hardback book.
Among the more interesting sights were the various types of penises, some adorned with rings and bands and holders and piercings, others so small and shrunken into the pelvic floor as to resemble little more than nubby, pink traffic cones. In evidence on both sexes present were all types of landscaping, from cleanly shorn to full 80's bush, from landing-strip to pubic tuft, from month-old patch of natty pubes to the broad expanse of waxed and shiny dick-skin. The single men were wont to parade from one end of the naked beach to the other, looking hungrily into the eyes of any other man who might glance their way, but for the most pat the homosexuals respected this author's sexual preference and left him in peace.
It has been too long since this author had swam naked. Oh, the speed and ease of it! Much speedier and much easier than trying to swim in a pair of baggy nylon trunks, he was able to shoot through the cooling Atlantic waters in the manner of a newborn seal pup, flashing about in the briny surf with a few strong pulls of his arms, moving a dozen feet or more with each foaming stroke. And then he was back up and out of Poseidon's grasp, a dozen sets of eyes tracking his every move back to the tent, lingering and watchful glances appraising and judging. Would he go back to this place? If given the opportunity to, yes, he would, but next time with a pair of sunglasses and enough courage to approach the wily dames.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
Among the more interesting sights were the various types of penises, some adorned with rings and bands and holders and piercings, others so small and shrunken into the pelvic floor as to resemble little more than nubby, pink traffic cones. In evidence on both sexes present were all types of landscaping, from cleanly shorn to full 80's bush, from landing-strip to pubic tuft, from month-old patch of natty pubes to the broad expanse of waxed and shiny dick-skin. The single men were wont to parade from one end of the naked beach to the other, looking hungrily into the eyes of any other man who might glance their way, but for the most pat the homosexuals respected this author's sexual preference and left him in peace.
It has been too long since this author had swam naked. Oh, the speed and ease of it! Much speedier and much easier than trying to swim in a pair of baggy nylon trunks, he was able to shoot through the cooling Atlantic waters in the manner of a newborn seal pup, flashing about in the briny surf with a few strong pulls of his arms, moving a dozen feet or more with each foaming stroke. And then he was back up and out of Poseidon's grasp, a dozen sets of eyes tracking his every move back to the tent, lingering and watchful glances appraising and judging. Would he go back to this place? If given the opportunity to, yes, he would, but next time with a pair of sunglasses and enough courage to approach the wily dames.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
29 May 2013
on new name
Two
days ago, this author sang his death song and perished during death
meditation. He died as would a hero going home, as Chief
Tecumseh likely urged those facing death to do. From Great
Spirit, this author received new name, which he guards closely and
cannot share with just any average bloke, so don't ask. Some things
he lost, others he gained, including a piece of soul lost during a
previous, unassisted and unguided Voyage Across the Terrible
Threshold, that place where this life stops and the next begins. The
old life is now behind him, and the first steps on his new journey
are begun. Huzzah, mahalo, and aho.
mentiri
factorem fecit – 場黑麥
27 March 2013
on abandoning cars
Another Bucephalus has fallen victim to neglect, spendthrift, and procrastination. The car, a red Subaru Forester, the author's stout and loyal steed for the past 4 years, died in northern New Jersey on Saturday evening, something within it giving way with a sickening series of uncharacteristic crunching and groaning, screeching and banging. “At least $800 to repair what we think is wrong with it,” the woman at the repair shop told him once the mechanics had had a look at it on Monday morning. “But it could also be the water pump, or something else – we won't really know the total cost until we open it up and take a look inside.”
And so he consigned to the junk heap his faithful Sleipnir of night and fog, brave mount of a dark and fallen prince, choosing to wash his hands of it rather than invest more than the roughly $7000 already in. Bought out of necessity and a luxurious bauble stuck in the otherwise coarse and simple cloak of his life, his old friend will soon be torn apart, raided for parts, chopped, shopped, or simply put outside and left to rot. If he'd have had an extra $2000 lying around he might have had the recent ruptures repaired and a new serpentine belt installed; sacrifices must be made and expectations must be altered to reflect new realities, however, and, so, he'd signed the back of the car's title and put it in with the rest of Tuesday's mail. Requiescat in pacem, dear friend – you shall be missed.
His new mount, a gray and blue landshark-style bicycle that had sat under the front porch for nearly a decade, is once again working well: he has been riding it regularly for the past year. With new tires and brake pads fore and aft, fresh shifter cables, and rear spokes properly tuned, the velocipede allows him to go everywhere he needs to go around town and haul everything he might need to haul silently and without producing more exhaust than his own breath, more waste than that already gurgling in his guts. If he had but sold the car before it exploded, he might have recouped some of its value, but at least no one was injured when the automobile system failed, and he now has one less albatross dangling from his neck. At the end of the day, none can know what the Universe intends, and, so, the author accepts his new reality with a silent word of thanks to the shifting winds of Fortune for forcing him to make a difficult decision.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
And so he consigned to the junk heap his faithful Sleipnir of night and fog, brave mount of a dark and fallen prince, choosing to wash his hands of it rather than invest more than the roughly $7000 already in. Bought out of necessity and a luxurious bauble stuck in the otherwise coarse and simple cloak of his life, his old friend will soon be torn apart, raided for parts, chopped, shopped, or simply put outside and left to rot. If he'd have had an extra $2000 lying around he might have had the recent ruptures repaired and a new serpentine belt installed; sacrifices must be made and expectations must be altered to reflect new realities, however, and, so, he'd signed the back of the car's title and put it in with the rest of Tuesday's mail. Requiescat in pacem, dear friend – you shall be missed.
His new mount, a gray and blue landshark-style bicycle that had sat under the front porch for nearly a decade, is once again working well: he has been riding it regularly for the past year. With new tires and brake pads fore and aft, fresh shifter cables, and rear spokes properly tuned, the velocipede allows him to go everywhere he needs to go around town and haul everything he might need to haul silently and without producing more exhaust than his own breath, more waste than that already gurgling in his guts. If he had but sold the car before it exploded, he might have recouped some of its value, but at least no one was injured when the automobile system failed, and he now has one less albatross dangling from his neck. At the end of the day, none can know what the Universe intends, and, so, the author accepts his new reality with a silent word of thanks to the shifting winds of Fortune for forcing him to make a difficult decision.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
02 January 2013
to Benedict XVI
Dear Mr. Pope Benedict #16:
You read a speech on the first day of this new year of 2013 in which you condemned modern capitalism and the injustices it perpetuates. While giving this speech, you were likely wearing a silken robe and fancy hat, the price of which could have fed a thousand starving children for a month. While listening to your speech, the army of soft-skinned and corpulent men who serve as your bishops and cardinals were likely patting themselves on the backs for deciding to join one of the greediest and least-transparent organizations ever established; as they listened to you lament the death of kindness and generosity, these minions were likely having the lint brushed from their tailored suits and getting second helpings of rich and hearty meals while just outside their doorsteps children scraped and begged and died of curable diseases.
Instead of showing the world what it means to sacrifice by selling the tons of gold you and your henchmen continue to horde within your churches' gilded walls and using the proceeds thereof to fight poverty and gender inequality in all corners of the globe, you deny women the right to join the clergy and spend time writing books about how many donkeys might have witnessed the birth of a dark-skinned, wiry-haired manchild. If you were truly a man of god, you would not bellyache about the greed of others while your Catholic church sits on hundreds of billions of dollars worth of real estate and innumerable works of priceless art – you and yours would be out in the streets with dirt under your fingernails working tirelessly day and night to realize Jesus' lessons of frugality, love, and self-sacrifice.
I, too, am guilty of not doing enough to help my fellow man. However, I do not command the attention of a billion devoted believers across the globe, adherents who do just enough to satisfy their consciouses without truly impacting their finances, followers who blindly heap praises upon you, their debauchee-in-chief, a pontiff who dresses in golden threads and perambulates on luxurious carpets in earthy palaces that are filled with the opulent evidence of a millennium of self-aggrandizement. In my early teens, I met your predecessor, the Polish fellow named John Paul II. At one point, he wiped his thumb across my forehead; at the time, I thought it swell to have been blessed by a pope; now, however, I realize just how little his gesture meant, just how hollow his and your words are, and just how much you, Herr Ratzinger, are to blame for the sadness and privation we experience today. Shame on you, for your hypocrisy, and for having the power to do much but insisting on doing little.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
You read a speech on the first day of this new year of 2013 in which you condemned modern capitalism and the injustices it perpetuates. While giving this speech, you were likely wearing a silken robe and fancy hat, the price of which could have fed a thousand starving children for a month. While listening to your speech, the army of soft-skinned and corpulent men who serve as your bishops and cardinals were likely patting themselves on the backs for deciding to join one of the greediest and least-transparent organizations ever established; as they listened to you lament the death of kindness and generosity, these minions were likely having the lint brushed from their tailored suits and getting second helpings of rich and hearty meals while just outside their doorsteps children scraped and begged and died of curable diseases.
Instead of showing the world what it means to sacrifice by selling the tons of gold you and your henchmen continue to horde within your churches' gilded walls and using the proceeds thereof to fight poverty and gender inequality in all corners of the globe, you deny women the right to join the clergy and spend time writing books about how many donkeys might have witnessed the birth of a dark-skinned, wiry-haired manchild. If you were truly a man of god, you would not bellyache about the greed of others while your Catholic church sits on hundreds of billions of dollars worth of real estate and innumerable works of priceless art – you and yours would be out in the streets with dirt under your fingernails working tirelessly day and night to realize Jesus' lessons of frugality, love, and self-sacrifice.
I, too, am guilty of not doing enough to help my fellow man. However, I do not command the attention of a billion devoted believers across the globe, adherents who do just enough to satisfy their consciouses without truly impacting their finances, followers who blindly heap praises upon you, their debauchee-in-chief, a pontiff who dresses in golden threads and perambulates on luxurious carpets in earthy palaces that are filled with the opulent evidence of a millennium of self-aggrandizement. In my early teens, I met your predecessor, the Polish fellow named John Paul II. At one point, he wiped his thumb across my forehead; at the time, I thought it swell to have been blessed by a pope; now, however, I realize just how little his gesture meant, just how hollow his and your words are, and just how much you, Herr Ratzinger, are to blame for the sadness and privation we experience today. Shame on you, for your hypocrisy, and for having the power to do much but insisting on doing little.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
09 November 2012
on replacement parts
I've just replaced all 4 brake pads on my bicycle. Fortunately, my locally-owned neighborhood bicycle shop had parts that fit the outdated hardware on my nearly 2-decade-old velocipede, which was my father's until he'd gotten too old to ride it. With the pull of a cable and the twist of a wrench, the new pieces were in place, and now my whip no longer squeaks when it stops. This simple procedure came none too soon: upon closer inspection I discovered that the old pads had worn down to the metal in places, digging into the rims, reducing the power and speed of braking, and weakening the smog-sled's crucial elements.
Strangely enough, while I was deciding whether to pair up the 2 still-serviceable pads or just buy a new set, I came across a snippet of text – whether it was in a magazine or on one of the news website I read, I cannot remember – that reminded me of the body's own replacement schedule. The text said that the human body completely replaces the skin every 3 years, the liver every 5 (or vice-versa). Having studied biology extensively while preparing for the Abitur, I was able to picture my body slowly but continuously swapping out cell after cell, cluster after cluster, until these two important organs had been fully reformed. I find it fascinating that our bodies do this without outside input and using only the foodstuffs we shove into our gaping suck-holes; I am always amazed anew at just how good this meat-sack is at keeping me healthy and my systems up and running. While sitting here in the cold and writing this, I just remembered that the body replaces the entire skeleton roughly once every 30 years, which means that few if any of the cells that make up my current body are those with which I was born. How strange it is to think that I am an altogether different person than who I was during childhood – let alone at birth – and that these differences go beyond my train-wrecked emotional state or the cruelly-stunted development of my pitiable moral tableau; as a totally different person, I find that the neuroses and hangups that seem to so strongly define many important parts of my psyche continue to exist, regardless of the fact that most of me is new – probably because some part of me wants or needs them to exist in order for it to exist.
Compared to the body's automatic replacement process, the mind tends to remain subject to the destructive and short-sighted will of the ego far longer than is normally necessary, which compels us to defend our honor, to cling to material possessions, and to do most anything in our power to win arguments so that we can pat ourselves on the back and tell ourselves that we were Right All Along. How nice it would be if we could all learn to wrangle our egos and subject them to the will of nothingness, to the doctrine of non-existence (Wu), something that rarely happens in our modern capitalist society, an artificial construct that thrives only when our egos rule our every move, always tipping the scales in their favor, forever keeping us in self-imposed slavery to petty external needs. The person seeking to shed the ego for something greater, for something worthwhile, might well find relief in the ancient books and teachings; that person is advised to steer clear of organized religion, however, which will prey ferociously upon his ego and try to kindle within his bosom the fires of fearful discontentment so as to bind him forever to the notion of Salvation From Without. As we have seen, however, and as science continues to show us, salvation from death and renewal to life begins and ends within us, and few external forces beyond a bit of food and drink can speed them up or slow them down. (Consuming drugs, including alcohol, by the way, and mistreating the body by smoking cigarettes and denying it exercise will dramatically infringe upon its ability to heal itself.) Be safe, be well, and mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
Strangely enough, while I was deciding whether to pair up the 2 still-serviceable pads or just buy a new set, I came across a snippet of text – whether it was in a magazine or on one of the news website I read, I cannot remember – that reminded me of the body's own replacement schedule. The text said that the human body completely replaces the skin every 3 years, the liver every 5 (or vice-versa). Having studied biology extensively while preparing for the Abitur, I was able to picture my body slowly but continuously swapping out cell after cell, cluster after cluster, until these two important organs had been fully reformed. I find it fascinating that our bodies do this without outside input and using only the foodstuffs we shove into our gaping suck-holes; I am always amazed anew at just how good this meat-sack is at keeping me healthy and my systems up and running. While sitting here in the cold and writing this, I just remembered that the body replaces the entire skeleton roughly once every 30 years, which means that few if any of the cells that make up my current body are those with which I was born. How strange it is to think that I am an altogether different person than who I was during childhood – let alone at birth – and that these differences go beyond my train-wrecked emotional state or the cruelly-stunted development of my pitiable moral tableau; as a totally different person, I find that the neuroses and hangups that seem to so strongly define many important parts of my psyche continue to exist, regardless of the fact that most of me is new – probably because some part of me wants or needs them to exist in order for it to exist.
Compared to the body's automatic replacement process, the mind tends to remain subject to the destructive and short-sighted will of the ego far longer than is normally necessary, which compels us to defend our honor, to cling to material possessions, and to do most anything in our power to win arguments so that we can pat ourselves on the back and tell ourselves that we were Right All Along. How nice it would be if we could all learn to wrangle our egos and subject them to the will of nothingness, to the doctrine of non-existence (Wu), something that rarely happens in our modern capitalist society, an artificial construct that thrives only when our egos rule our every move, always tipping the scales in their favor, forever keeping us in self-imposed slavery to petty external needs. The person seeking to shed the ego for something greater, for something worthwhile, might well find relief in the ancient books and teachings; that person is advised to steer clear of organized religion, however, which will prey ferociously upon his ego and try to kindle within his bosom the fires of fearful discontentment so as to bind him forever to the notion of Salvation From Without. As we have seen, however, and as science continues to show us, salvation from death and renewal to life begins and ends within us, and few external forces beyond a bit of food and drink can speed them up or slow them down. (Consuming drugs, including alcohol, by the way, and mistreating the body by smoking cigarettes and denying it exercise will dramatically infringe upon its ability to heal itself.) Be safe, be well, and mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
30 July 2012
on street art in NYC
I am yesterday come direct from New York City (NYC), that fair, Mid-Atlantic island-metropolis. Being a purveyor of street art, and a person who collects images of these most fleeting slivers of mankind's dazzlingly bountiful imagination, posting them occasionally at urbanartuploads.blogspot.com, it is my rote to explore a city's avoided and trash-strewn places, taking pictures of any graffiti I find living there. Having collected street art in Berlin, Los Angeles, Amsteram, Philadelphia, Long Beach, San Diego, Flagstaff, Albuquerque, Tampa, Boston, and, most recently, in New York, I have amassed an internal sense-knowledge-base of the many different and various trends, techniques, and habits that graffiti writers tend to exhibit; ergo, I believe I can gain a rapid understanding of a city's predominant trends-in-vandalism from seeing but a small portion of the overall milieu.
Perhaps I was in the wrong areas (Hunter's Point, Long Island City, and Manhattan), or perhaps I was on the wrong streets (primarily down Broadway from 42nd to Battery Park, and near the World Trade Center), but most images (except for those examples that will be uploaded to urbanartuploads.tumblr.com in about three months, due to backlog) that I managed to capture were obtained from only a handful of areas around town, including near Canal Street, on the Lower East Side, and in the East and West Villages; the rest of Manhattan was either swept clean of its no-charge-to-the-consumer open-air-art-galleries or the police forces of certain areas are so adept at patrolling and desecrating the works of art that street artists labor to apply there that these clever vandals know well enough to stay away.
Compared, moreover, to the cities mentioned above, Manhattan's street artists seem to prefer primarily self-adhesive name badges sold by one of the major office-supply chain stores, upon which they write – in nearly illegible, seemingly gang-or-crew-specific script – their own names, identifying numbers, or the name of the group or home area. (Such stickers were seen primarily in parts of NYC with little to no other graffiti, as opposed to graffiti-rich areas, which exhibited such profusion of street art that the aforementioned stickers became all but invisible against the colorful and riotous backdrop of other works). Whereas in, say, Los Angeles, one finds curious and strange examples of graffiti adorning otherwise-blank surfaces in nearly every part of the city, whether in the financial district, in the heart of Hollywood, or in the sleepier parts of Koreatown, graffiti in New York tends to be applied to almost any available surface – adorned or blank, private or public – that happens to be in arm's reach of the sidewalk. Whereas in most other cities graffiti-writers generally apply their works of art to the backs of street-signs, to public utility-boxes, or to hatches and those metal doors that cover access panels – mostly avoiding stuccoed or painted surfaces – in NYC, vandals appear to not give a fuck about what they spray over with their pressurized paints, which pisses off the city's property owners.
Persons looking for high-quality street art in New York City will do well to avoid the shiny and the well-swept areas, preferring rather the grimier and less-well-kept areas, which will exhibit such bountiful and beautiful examples of graffiti as one might expect from a world-class city such as the Big Apple. Just remember to stoop slow, to revel in the filth, and to keep your head on a swivel, because the NYPD is alert, and it is everywhere.
場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit
Perhaps I was in the wrong areas (Hunter's Point, Long Island City, and Manhattan), or perhaps I was on the wrong streets (primarily down Broadway from 42nd to Battery Park, and near the World Trade Center), but most images (except for those examples that will be uploaded to urbanartuploads.tumblr.com in about three months, due to backlog) that I managed to capture were obtained from only a handful of areas around town, including near Canal Street, on the Lower East Side, and in the East and West Villages; the rest of Manhattan was either swept clean of its no-charge-to-the-consumer open-air-art-galleries or the police forces of certain areas are so adept at patrolling and desecrating the works of art that street artists labor to apply there that these clever vandals know well enough to stay away.
Compared, moreover, to the cities mentioned above, Manhattan's street artists seem to prefer primarily self-adhesive name badges sold by one of the major office-supply chain stores, upon which they write – in nearly illegible, seemingly gang-or-crew-specific script – their own names, identifying numbers, or the name of the group or home area. (Such stickers were seen primarily in parts of NYC with little to no other graffiti, as opposed to graffiti-rich areas, which exhibited such profusion of street art that the aforementioned stickers became all but invisible against the colorful and riotous backdrop of other works). Whereas in, say, Los Angeles, one finds curious and strange examples of graffiti adorning otherwise-blank surfaces in nearly every part of the city, whether in the financial district, in the heart of Hollywood, or in the sleepier parts of Koreatown, graffiti in New York tends to be applied to almost any available surface – adorned or blank, private or public – that happens to be in arm's reach of the sidewalk. Whereas in most other cities graffiti-writers generally apply their works of art to the backs of street-signs, to public utility-boxes, or to hatches and those metal doors that cover access panels – mostly avoiding stuccoed or painted surfaces – in NYC, vandals appear to not give a fuck about what they spray over with their pressurized paints, which pisses off the city's property owners.
Persons looking for high-quality street art in New York City will do well to avoid the shiny and the well-swept areas, preferring rather the grimier and less-well-kept areas, which will exhibit such bountiful and beautiful examples of graffiti as one might expect from a world-class city such as the Big Apple. Just remember to stoop slow, to revel in the filth, and to keep your head on a swivel, because the NYPD is alert, and it is everywhere.
場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit
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