Famous Guests Were Reportedly Warned Not to Go to Fyre Festival in Advance - The Fyre Festival – a “luxury” musical festival organized by Ja Rule and Billy McFarland, an entrepreneur born in 1991 – was supposed to take place on the...
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Have a wonderful week everyone!
Flutter from Cinimod Studio
"‘Flutter’ is a new interactive artwork by Dominic Harris of Cinimod Studio that explores the viewer’s encounter with a rabble of virtual butterflies. Set within a striking architectural framework and making use of cutting edge technologies, the artwork is a product of an on-going fascination with the motion of a butterfly’s flight and the iridescent reflections and scattering of light by the scales on a butterfly’s wing."
"Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor: its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it."
Speed of light may have been broken
Okay guys, this one is hot off the press. I’ve only found two sources for this (here and here) that have been posted in the last hour. I have to say that I immediately doubt the validity of this, but I feel I should bring it to your attention anyway.
Reports from our good friends at CERN say that they’ve observed particles traveling at faster than light speeds. For those of you who know a bit about relativity, this ain’t all that cool. The speed of light is basically meant to be the fastest speed there is, and if this wasn’t the case then we may have a major breakdown of Einstein’s theory of relativity.
The scientists at CERN have concluded this based off results in which a beam of neutrinos fired from a particle accelerator in Geneva traveled 434 miles 60 nanoseconds faster than it should have. This may not sound like much, but the error was calculated at 10 nanoseconds and the scientists themselves seem fairly adamant in their results.
So... today was a big day for my alter-ego "marysoul" :) Don't worry, I'm not crazy*... well... not any more than you already know! You see, I have another blog on tumblr, one that is all about art, illustration, photography, design and architecture. No personal musings, no blah blah blah... 99.9% of artsy pics and ideas. Not mine, mind you, just a "convoluted bunch" of artsy images from artists and creators from all around the world. It is quite an interesting hobby. Since twitter was too intense b/c of the posting schedule responsibilities (love you still guys!), this other system, tumblr, it is easier to manage and has become a great source of artistic knowledge to me.
Well, the thing is today I was featured by the main site, the home to all blogs tumblr and I gained 1500 new followers in less than 6 hours! So now I have over 3000 followers (and counting) and that, my friends, is very nice.
Of course I had a whole bunch of followers on twitter as well, at the time. But this is a completely different scenario. I'm followed on the Yerbabuena's blog b/c of my views on arts, my choices picking one creation over another and that is absolutely, completely fantastic! And because of it I'm able to talk with artists, designers and architects from all around the world, learning from their professional and personal experiences. Resuming, It is kinda of cathartic since I never got to finish an art-related career. It may as well be as they say, those can't do, teach... in this case, those can't create, critique :)
So yeah, this was absolutely self indulging but.. I just had to say it!
(Thank you to the people at tumblr whom featured me on the Tumblr Radar and to Andrew Banneckere, whose work - unbeknownst to him - got me featured in the first place)
* "my mother had me tested" :)
|John Karavas photographs the water in New York City, New York, Sunday, August 28, 2011 after Hurricane Irene swept through the area. Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times (Read more)|
First of all, thank god the storm wasn't quite as colossal as everybody feared it to be and that my people are all safe and sound.
Now to why this pic spoke to me. You see, often I think about this, whenever I have a camera in hand... sometimes the compulsion to take just one more photo or "the photo" for that matter is so strong, we (or I) forget where we are and suddenly everything is less important than that "perfect shot".
In my case, I often think if a should be appreciating more the moment than the process of taking a photo... sometimes I even have to make myself stop taking them and just enjoy the moment.
In the case of the guy in this photo, I'm thinking : Shouldn't you be somewhere else? The water level seems to be rising around your feet...
The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account,
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.
The expression of the face balks account,
But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him,
The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.
The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,
The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,
The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle,
Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,
The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,
The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard,
The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd,
The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work,
The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,
The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting;
Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child,
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.
I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons,
And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons.
This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person,
The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners,
These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also,
He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome,
They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him,
They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love,
He drank water only, the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face,
He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail’d his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him,
When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang,
You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.
I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,
To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then?
I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.
There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well,
All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.
This is the female form,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed,
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused,
Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice,
Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.
This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,
This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again.
Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.
The female contains all qualities and tempers them,
She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,
She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active,
She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.
As I see my soul reflected in Nature,
As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty,
See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.
The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place,
He too is all qualities, he is action and power,
The flush of the known universe is in him,
Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well,
The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him,
The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul,
Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing to the test of himself,
Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes soundings at last only here,
(Where else does he strike soundings except here?)
The man’s body is sacred and the woman’s body is sacred,
No matter who it is, it is sacred—is it the meanest one in the laborers’ gang?
Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf?
Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you,
Each has his or her place in the procession.
(All is a procession,
The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.)
Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant?
Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight?
Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts,
For you only, and not for him and her?
"I celebrate myself, and what I assume, you shall assume, for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you"