El Guincho - Bombay from CANADA on Vimeo.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Saveur//Spritz Cocktail
Found all over Italy, the spritz is a classically Venetian cocktail that pairs well with all sorts of cicheti.
INGREDIENTS
3 oz. prosecco
1½ oz. bitter aperitif liqueur, such as Aperol or Campari
1½ oz. soda water
Orange slice, to garnish
INSTRUCTIONS
Combine prosecco, liqueur and soda water in a tall glass filled with ice; garnish with orange slice.
makes one drink
more cocktails, here
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Etsy Find//oh, albatross
i'm regina from oh, albatross
i hunt & gather great vintage,searching for beautiful old things whispering histories.
wear patterns, patina, and imperfections give each piece a story worth telling.
in the hours between, i'm tucked away in my studio,
creating little creatures with their own personalities.
it's a slow form of people watching, every stitch creates a whole new expression.
it's a small, barefoot life
and i wouldn't have it any other way.
peruse more, here
Thylacine//Tasmanian Tiger//1933
not a tiger, but an extinct, carnivorous marsupial once native to Australia
Monday, July 23, 2012
Amy King//Starry Night
I fell asleep and asleep again.
I was asleep in sleep, the empty bladder
of sleep swaying
a hammock of truth, which was not the truth.
My body burned a landing strip,
a field of moths gathered
as pigskin kites with low wing wisps,
the littered light of communion.
The body of Christ fell upon me in pieces,
sails of Icarus scallops
with air like lungs below the crucifix
bleating starry night.
I fought that kiss,
a torture that raises epidermal hairs,
antennae turning dream’s
correspondence into the same
human-shaped faces
that look back into us.
The iris, the lips.
We barter with shadows an inner abyss,
our deep-nosed roses diving
to cradle the taste of fire,
the falling into an empty bladder of sleep.
I am jealous of life.
I am life’s custodial emission.
If you listen,
an avocado tastes like time
has survived the telegram and corresponds
with sands that build
technical vertebrae between us;
we’re shaped the same as spinal grenades.
The material sign of safety pins
fastens survival as an open mouth gash,
a tiny blood seed of beneficial
numbness unto all that exists.
Awake, the artist blooms at the Hotel du Day:
we rose and moved around
a room painted midnight
with food from our resting hymns.
Every body rends his own
fairytale in fault lines.
We sketch such horizons, bodies with moths
mossing life on heated surfaces,
lips that line space where our inner eyes
green and hollow the skies
for the bruise of purple destruction.
Pull the cord now, re-live atomic bomb hues
as photograph, not landscape,
the world exclaims. And so we exist next –
I could touch the entire blue earth
with my mind’s swinging wings,
if by fragility our suspended sky
blew into the bulb of the surviving universe.
I was asleep in sleep, the empty bladder
of sleep swaying
a hammock of truth, which was not the truth.
My body burned a landing strip,
a field of moths gathered
as pigskin kites with low wing wisps,
the littered light of communion.
The body of Christ fell upon me in pieces,
sails of Icarus scallops
with air like lungs below the crucifix
bleating starry night.
I fought that kiss,
a torture that raises epidermal hairs,
antennae turning dream’s
correspondence into the same
human-shaped faces
that look back into us.
The iris, the lips.
We barter with shadows an inner abyss,
our deep-nosed roses diving
to cradle the taste of fire,
the falling into an empty bladder of sleep.
I am jealous of life.
I am life’s custodial emission.
If you listen,
an avocado tastes like time
has survived the telegram and corresponds
with sands that build
technical vertebrae between us;
we’re shaped the same as spinal grenades.
The material sign of safety pins
fastens survival as an open mouth gash,
a tiny blood seed of beneficial
numbness unto all that exists.
Awake, the artist blooms at the Hotel du Day:
we rose and moved around
a room painted midnight
with food from our resting hymns.
Every body rends his own
fairytale in fault lines.
We sketch such horizons, bodies with moths
mossing life on heated surfaces,
lips that line space where our inner eyes
green and hollow the skies
for the bruise of purple destruction.
Pull the cord now, re-live atomic bomb hues
as photograph, not landscape,
the world exclaims. And so we exist next –
I could touch the entire blue earth
with my mind’s swinging wings,
if by fragility our suspended sky
blew into the bulb of the surviving universe.
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