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[SOON , A TITLE HERE ] - Page 9

post #121 of 1310
Two creeptastic scenes from Lynch

EDIT: ARGGHH...just realized the first one wasn't the full clip. Stupid YouTube. The only full version I could find can't be embedded and has Portuguese subtitles. But it's worth watching. I promise.
Edited by pickpackpockpuck - 12/19/11 at 9:30am
post #122 of 1310
^ that second one reminded me of From Hell for some reason...

moved, actually.
post #123 of 1310
Thread Starter 
God, is Bill Pullman creepy or what ?

Originally Posted by Ivwri View Post

Originally Posted by sipang View Post

Céline Fall 2011
Do you respect wood ? Warning: Spoiler! (Click to show)

Sipang, who would you say is the current menswear equivalent of Phoebe Philo? I really love what I have seen of her stuff.

I'm not sure there's one, Balenciaga , Jil and Marni come to mind but that's a bit of a stretch, idk...
post #124 of 1310
Originally Posted by sipang View Post

God, is Bill Pullman creepy or what ?

post #125 of 1310

“The first of the herd began to swing past them in a pall of yellow dust, rangy, slatribbed cattle with horns that grew agoggle and no two alike and small thin mules coal black that shouldered one another and reared their malletshaped heads above the backs of the others and then more cattle and finally the first of the herders riding up the outer side and keeping the stock between themselves and the company. Behind them came a heard of several hundred ponies.The sergeant looked for Candelario. He kept backing along the ranks but he could not find him. He nudged his horse through the column and moved up the far side. The lattermost of the drovers were now coming through the dust and the captain was gesturing and shouting. The ponies had begun to veer of from the heard and the drovers were beating their way toward this armed company met with on the plain. Already you could see through the dust on the ponies’ hides the painted chevrons and the hands and rising suns and birds and fish of every device like the shade of old work through sizing on a canvas and now too you could hear above the pounding of the unshod hooves the piping of the quena, flutes made from human bones, and some among the company had begun to saw back on their mounts and some to mill in confusion when up from the offside of these ponies there rose a fabled horde of mounted lancers and archers bearing shields bedight with bits of broken mirrorglass that cast a thousand unpieced suns against the eyes of their enemies. A legion of horrible, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of the prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained weddingveil and some in headgear of cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armour of a spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses’ ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horses’ whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemens’ faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eyes wanders and the lip jerks and drools."

post #126 of 1310
Cormac McCarthy can certainly write. I still have mixed feelings about him though. There's so much good and so much bad in him. I still think this James Wood piece is the best assessment of his work I've found:
post #127 of 1310
James Wood is kind of a wrongheaded dick, but you gotta respect his honesty in an era where most criticism is either popcorn lite or meaningless theory...

But what I meant say was:

The crickets and the rust-beetles scuttled among the nettles of the sage thicket. "Vámonos, amigos," he whispered, and threw the busted leather flintcraw over the loose weave of the saddlecock. And they rode on in the friscalating dusklight.

post #128 of 1310

He can be a dick, but the rest of what you said about him is why I like him. I don't always agree with him either. I think his praise for V.S. Naipaul can go too far, for instance. But I think he was really spot on about Cormac McCarthy.
post #129 of 1310
Seems like it was written in a kind of obsolete vernacular. Rarrr!
post #130 of 1310

"The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them as silently as eyes."


This is 'The Lightning Field.'  There are 400 of these poles, in a grid one mile by one kilometer.




And this is a beautiful byproduct of French colonialism:

majorelle-jardin.jpg?__SQUARESPACE_CACHEVERSION=1318369688021     majorelle-garden-001.jpg

post #131 of 1310

Empowerhouse by Parsons New School for Design

Im fascinated by smaller houses (under 1000 square feet.)

Watershed by the UMD team for the solar decathalon


And a view of the inside

post #132 of 1310
Last Known Surroundings by Explosions in the Sky
post #133 of 1310
Originally Posted by AJPA View Post

Watershed by the UMD team for the solar decathalon

Thanks for posting this, I'm glad I get to walk by this every day. Very happy that it won the solar decathalon.
post #134 of 1310
Originally Posted by snake View Post

Last Known Surroundings by Explosions in the Sky

post #135 of 1310
From "Tithonus" by Tennyson

A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From any pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd.
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
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