“Is that the devil in your sky?” she asks. “Is that what’s glowing in your eyes?”

If I don’t say the thought right, I might destroy it.

Here's another take on Shaw McBride, a guy who wants to give away his $159 Million Dollar Lottery Winnings... there's a strangeness about him, like he's talking love but saying something else, if you look on his Facebook page. But who knows, maybe he's inspired?

Drifter GIVING AWAY 100 million lottery prize -- ANY TAKERS?

Have you seen this news clip somebody posted on YouTube? This guy Shaw McBride wins over $150 million in the Georgia Lottery and he's giving it away!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbpmeaeVTrI

I'd like to shoot something one day in the spirit of this, all in one shot. It reminds me of the dance scene from Bande à part/Band of Outsiders in a way, in its pure expression of dance and movement.

Soaring visions and haunted deeps, strange and ancient mysticisms, daemons invisible and inscrutable, hermetic secrets, alchemical transformations, incomprehensible beings who navigate the waves of ether between the stars, ghost ships and wandering Jews, tales of gothic horror and folk stories of "wise men" who know what charms will undo a malicious enchantment, an odd series of strange dreams and reveries that echo each other mysteriously across five centuries, travelers in peril from enticing voices and unearthly music at the edge of trackless deserts or from mysterious hypnotic lights in the dark (the original Jack o Lanterns), underground rivers and hidden seas, exotic kingdoms at the sources of the Nile or in the inaccessible heart of Asia, trackless jungles flowering with wild and dangerous profusion, the colors - intense or subtle - of icy northern seas, and Henry Hudson's crew describing in sober and convincing detail the beauty of a mermaid sighting.

We have not passed that subtle line between childhood and adulthood until we move from the passive voice to the active voice - that is, until we have stopped saying 'It got lost,' and say, 'I lost it.'

- Sydney J. Harris, journalist (1917-1986)

Is this a good thing?

I discovered today one of the better photos taken during Transformus 2008 that show the Bamboozler effigy and the YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL letters behind this dancing man. Thank you, Zee Gizmo, for catching this glimpse in your camera.

"Life isn't about finding yourself; it's about creating yourself."

She turns her head and all I am left with is the glimpse of her eyes. Somehow they are still there, the last thing I see.

I inhaled life! I flirted with the quick heartbeat of death. I danced.

Every stone is light, slowed down, tied in a knot, and light is every stone's dream.

"There's no such thing as a war on terrorism. It's idiotic. These are slogans. It's advertising, which is the only art form we've invented and developed. It's lies."

-- Essayist Gore Vidal

Beauty: she is the mother of all Gods
She has no face

Embarassment

That afternoon, while my parents and hers
were inside using the Super Bowl
as an excuse to get drunk in the middle of the day,
I locked my best friend and myself inside
the trunk of a car for reasons I can't remember
now. I believe I was trying to prove a point.
When we realized there was no way out, the air
got hot and personal. Our lives thrashed in us
like rodents. Yet, what I remember most
about that time was the great, dawning sense
of just how ridiculous the situation would seem
to other people if we died, how in a handful of hours
we could be a story on the El Paso news,
our parents getting sober on TV, our bodies laid
on steel beds at the morgue, naked, imperfect,
irrevocable. How, in the beginning, we laughed
until we thought we'd die laughing, and then
laughed because we thought we'd die, and then
just lay there, crumpled into each other like folding chairs
and wept. It was humiliating. And hours later,
when the trunk wheezed open and my father
was standing there, my mother behind him, her coat
folded over her arm, it was still humiliating.
The two of them didn't seem surprised
to find us there, turning blue, or particularly
angry, though they were clearly concerned. My god,
they were like a pile of bones to be acknowledged.
I wanted to explain. I wanted to start from the beginning
and account for each moment.
But I could do nothing but breathe. My lungs
took all they could. My brain ripped open.
My life was a bird on a branch. There it was. I saw it
looking down at me with its glassy, unfocused eye
from just above my mother's head. Oh no, it wasn't
beautiful. But I knew better than to hate it.

— Carrie Fountain

Is the madness over?

"I thought I had no choice, and then I kissed her."

-- The Jesus & Mary Chain

After Mr Bouncy Bunnykins finished reading the children The Ugly Duckling, he asked them what the moral of the story was.
"Being pretty is more important than anything!" said Frank.
"Ducks are crap but swans rule!" said Jemima.
"Peer pressure and mob mentality are dangerous weapons!" said Marky.
"Oh children," said Mr Bouncy Bunnykins, "they're all good answers, but the moral of the story is: It's what's inside that counts."
The children looked confused.
"I'll show you."
And with that, Mr Bouncy Bunnykins took off his mask, pulled out a knife and gutted the lot of them. "Get it, dumb-dumbs?" he asked.

— from lifelounge