How about it, huh? Some hip hop, metal, rock, to get you going on your run. Enjoy!
Got really late at the office today. Spent most of my day dealing with belated tax issues that will enable me to collect back payments, from my freelance copyediting gigs. Noticed that my left front tire is dangerously thin, and deformed. Wonder how many days should I continue driving the car like this…
The loan money is almost gone. However, it made a lot of things possible while it lasted. I’m re-reading, for the second time, Haruki Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Stopped and thought about page 47:
At any rate, that’s how I started running. Thirthy-three — that’s how old I was then. Still young enough, though no longer a young man. The age that Jesus Christ died. The age that Scott Fitzgerald started to go downhill. That age ma be a kind of crossroads in life. That was the age when I began my life as a runner, and it was my belated, but real, starting point as a novelist.
“Memories of the flesh are indeed powerful, both to the messenger *and* the viewer”.
Originally posted on RiotGrrlGeek:
The answers to that simple question warrant several blog posts, so I’ll keep it short. Some people just love the look and feel of body modifications. They appreciate the skill that goes into making a piece of art on flesh. They love the feel of metal against skin. Or maybe they love the outlaw symbolism that goes hand in hand with body art. Usually, they have a lifetime love affair (or at least, a reoccurring fascination) with the art that is tattoo design. I should know: I’m one of these people. My love affair started at the age of three, when I first noticed an anchor on my great-uncle’s forearm. He also had a battleship on his chest. I remember crawling in his lap and begging him to roll up his sleeve. Uncle Sam didn’t like showing off his tattoos when he got older, or…
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An example of street art by Swoon.
A heartbreaking scene, all things considered, from Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead.
Andrew ‘Andy’ Hanson: The thing about real estate accounting is that you can, you can, add down the page or across the page and everything works out. Everyday, everything adds up. The, the total is always the sum of its parts. It’s, uh, clean. It’s clear. Neat, absolute. But my life, it, uh, it doesn’t add up. It, uh… Nothing connects to anything else. It’s, uh… I’m not, I’m not the sum of my parts. All my parts don’t add up to one… to one me, I guess.
Justin: Get a shrink or a wife.
Andrew ‘Andy’ Hanson: Uh, I got a wife.
Justin: Get a shrink.