I'm-not-sure-about

humansofnewyork:

A one hundred year old woman reflects on her deceased husband.

Schönheit findet sich, verstreust und verschenkst du Liebe.

newyorkersunposed:

by Alberto Reyes

Orienterungslos in Manhattan.

newyorkersunposed:

by Alberto Reyes

Orienterungslos in Manhattan.

humansofnewyork:

"I didn’t get married until I was 50. I think it finally happened because I stopped thinking it was possible.""How do you mean?""Before I gave up, I was putting so much pressure on myself that I’d immediately be considering and measuring every man I’d meet. It’s not natural to begin a relationship with such a long term view. When I met my husband, I wasn’t looking past that afternoon."

Wie macht der das bloß?! Kriegt von jedem immer gleich eine perfekte Geschichte heraus. “How do you mean?” … (Und ich sehe hier so sehr die ältere Schwester meiner Mutter, vemutlich wegen Hut, hochgezogene Augenbrauen, diese glatten Wagen und die Brille. Und ein bisschen etepetete …)

humansofnewyork:

"I didn’t get married until I was 50. I think it finally happened because I stopped thinking it was possible."
"How do you mean?"
"Before I gave up, I was putting so much pressure on myself that I’d immediately be considering and measuring every man I’d meet. It’s not natural to begin a relationship with such a long term view. When I met my husband, I wasn’t looking past that afternoon."

Wie macht der das bloß?! Kriegt von jedem immer gleich eine perfekte Geschichte heraus. “How do you mean?” … (Und ich sehe hier so sehr die ältere Schwester meiner Mutter, vemutlich wegen Hut, hochgezogene Augenbrauen, diese glatten Wagen und die Brille. Und ein bisschen etepetete …)

thephotographerssociety:

thinkabout6:

©Frank Herfort

I like the surrealism of this image. The old lady with the sunglasses sleeping in the chair, and the elephant at the background in a colorful house. Brilliant.

thephotographerssociety:

thinkabout6:

©Frank Herfort

I like the surrealism of this image. The old lady with the sunglasses sleeping in the chair, and the elephant at the background in a colorful house. Brilliant.

(Source: fotoblogia.pl)


Henk Visch:
“The man who saved his own life, looking up”H 50 cm, 2004
humansofnewyork:

"I’ve had a couple loves. One of them died. And the other left me for another man.""Which hurt more?""If I was being absolutely honest, the second one."

What a novel in three lines …

humansofnewyork:

"I’ve had a couple loves. One of them died. And the other left me for another man."
"Which hurt more?"
"If I was being absolutely honest, the second one."

What a novel in three lines …

Joan Didion (incredible shrinking only because of the background …)
"Short stories demand a certain awareness of one’s own intentions, a certain narrowing of the focus. Let me give you an example. One morning in 1975 I found myself aboard the 8:45 a.m. Pan American from Los Angeles to Honolulu. There were, before take-off from Los Angeles, “mechanical difficulties,” and a half-hour delay. During this delay the stewardess served coffee and orange juice and two children played tag in the aisles and, somewhere behind me, a man began screaming at a woman who seemed to be his wife. I say that the woman seemed to be his wife only because the tone of his invective sounded practiced, although the only words I heard clearly were these: “You are driving me to murder.” After a moment I was aware of the door to the plane being opened a few rows behind me, and of the man rushing off. There were many Pan American employees rushing on and off then, and considerable confusion. I do not know whether the man reboarded the plane before take-off or whether the woman went on to Honolulu alone, but I thought about it all the way across the Pacific. I thought about it while I was drinking a sherry-on-the-rocks and I thought about it during lunch and I was still thinking about it when the first of the Hawaiian Islands appeared off the left wing tip. It was not until we had passed Diamond Head and were coming in low over the reef for landing at Honolulu, however, that I realized what I most disliked about the incident: I disliked it because it had the aspect of a short story, one of those “little epiphany” or “window to the world” stories, one of those stories in which the main character glimpses a crisis in a stranger’s life — a woman weeping in a tea room, quite often, or an accident seen from the window of a train, “tea rooms” and “trains” still being fixtures of short stories although not of real life — and is moved to see his or her own life in a new light. Again, my dislike was a case of needing room in which to play with what I did not understand. I was not going to Honolulu because I wanted to see life reduced to a short story. I was going to Honolulu because I wanted to see life expanded to a novel, and I still do. I wanted not a window on the world but the world itself. I wanted everything in the picture. I wanted room for flowers, and reef fish, and people who might or might not have been driving one another to murder but in any case were not impelled, by the demands of narrative convention, to say so out loud on the 8:45 a.m. Pan American from Los Angeles to Honolulu."
Gestohlen und gezogen hier, wo noch mehr zu lesen und zu sehen ist: http://bit.ly/1jHo8jw …

Joan Didion (incredible shrinking only because of the background …)

"Short stories demand a certain awareness of one’s own intentions, a certain narrowing of the focus. Let me give you an example. One morning in 1975 I found myself aboard the 8:45 a.m. Pan American from Los Angeles to Honolulu. There were, before take-off from Los Angeles, “mechanical difficulties,” and a half-hour delay. During this delay the stewardess served coffee and orange juice and two children played tag in the aisles and, somewhere behind me, a man began screaming at a woman who seemed to be his wife. I say that the woman seemed to be his wife only because the tone of his invective sounded practiced, although the only words I heard clearly were these: “You are driving me to murder.” After a moment I was aware of the door to the plane being opened a few rows behind me, and of the man rushing off. There were many Pan American employees rushing on and off then, and considerable confusion. I do not know whether the man reboarded the plane before take-off or whether the woman went on to Honolulu alone, but I thought about it all the way across the Pacific. I thought about it while I was drinking a sherry-on-the-rocks and I thought about it during lunch and I was still thinking about it when the first of the Hawaiian Islands appeared off the left wing tip. It was not until we had passed Diamond Head and were coming in low over the reef for landing at Honolulu, however, that I realized what I most disliked about the incident: I disliked it because it had the aspect of a short story, one of those “little epiphany” or “window to the world” stories, one of those stories in which the main character glimpses a crisis in a stranger’s life — a woman weeping in a tea room, quite often, or an accident seen from the window of a train, “tea rooms” and “trains” still being fixtures of short stories although not of real life — and is moved to see his or her own life in a new light. Again, my dislike was a case of needing room in which to play with what I did not understand. I was not going to Honolulu because I wanted to see life reduced to a short story. I was going to Honolulu because I wanted to see life expanded to a novel, and I still do. I wanted not a window on the world but the world itself. I wanted everything in the picture. I wanted room for flowers, and reef fish, and people who might or might not have been driving one another to murder but in any case were not impelled, by the demands of narrative convention, to say so out loud on the 8:45 a.m. Pan American from Los Angeles to Honolulu."

Gestohlen und gezogen hier, wo noch mehr zu lesen und zu sehen ist: http://bit.ly/1jHo8jw

likeafieldmouse:

Robert Schumann

Kinderszenen (Scenes from Childhood)

Träumerei (Daydream)

Vladimir Horowitz, in his last & legendary performance in Moscow

Wie sanft. Und wie das Sanfte einen entführt in einen traurigen Sturm der Gefühle. Wie das Klavier etwas erzählt, wie eine Kinderbuchgeschichte, so einfach, aber dann passiert etwas Schlimmes und am Ende der tiefe Seufzer, die stille Erschütterung über die Endlichkeit des Glücks, die Endlichkeit der Leichtigkeit und das Gewicht auf dem Herzen, dem keiner entgeht, wie kann man nur so wunderbar Klavier spielen, dass nicht jeder Ton sitzt, sondern schwebt und das Ganze klingt, als würde es direkt aus dem Innern des Klavierspielers nach außen singen?

(Zum Vergleich mal Lang Lang hören http://bit.ly/1aXITYm , dann weiß man wie genial Horowitz war.)

The Academy of Ancient Music. Christopher Hogwood.

antoniopolophotography:

Alessandro Marcello: Oboe Concerto, 2.- Adagio. Clare Shanks, oboe (Fehr, after Schlegel, circa 1713). The Academy of Ancient Music. Christopher Hogwood. 

Dedicated to the near marriage of a good friend. Wishing them the most beautiful happiness.

(via yama-bato)

south-england:

House on the edge »» Thomas Hanks

So wie man manchmal in Nachdenken verfällt, so verfällt der Himmel manchmal in ein feuchtes, weiches, nachdenkliches Grau. Hier kommt das Salzige in der Luft dazu, der ständige Wind, das Rauschen, die weiten Wasser bis zum Horizont, wo, wenn man vom Haus aufs Meer hinausblickt, das Grau vollständig zusammenfließt, ohne irgendeine Linie zwischen Himmel und Ozean. Und im Kamin lodern kleine Feuer. “That’s it”, dachte er, “that’s it.”

south-england:

House on the edge »» Thomas Hanks

So wie man manchmal in Nachdenken verfällt, so verfällt der Himmel manchmal in ein feuchtes, weiches, nachdenkliches Grau. Hier kommt das Salzige in der Luft dazu, der ständige Wind, das Rauschen, die weiten Wasser bis zum Horizont, wo, wenn man vom Haus aufs Meer hinausblickt, das Grau vollständig zusammenfließt, ohne irgendeine Linie zwischen Himmel und Ozean. Und im Kamin lodern kleine Feuer. “That’s it”, dachte er, “that’s it.”

(via tiredteaspoons)