Vintage Shower Curtain Black And White

The balls in the bag

These are beads that have lived.
These are beads that have seen it all, the playground and asphalt, the corners of the earth in the forest next door. They remember the texture, softness and warmth of the hands of children who were held in the hollow of their palms. They remember the violence of the shock, and pleasure, hidden in the iris of the little guy, the girl, who had proudly earned.
The beads have a story. They are the victories, they are failures. They liked the victory, a little less these failures. These failures are synonymous farewell. Since their creation, they know it is their lot, to pass from hand to hand. They find new homes that are welcoming. Most often, these houses are pockets, pockets velvet pockets with holes, pockets full of crumbs, because they are filled the last cookie that did not feel like eating. The beads
tell their stories to those who know the look. The beads know the difference between seeing and looking. The beads are learning that shade to those who observe them.
It was courageous. A full afternoon sun, when the children had their eyes blinded with light, she was violently thrown against a stone. She lost a bit, a tiny bit, but the ball knows it has crippled the value for the little girl who won it, because this little girl has always loved the cracks, even if she does not know yet exactly what it is. This one is sublime, because by looking good, it filters all the rays of the sun and becomes kaleidoscope. It must be up, up into the sky. Right: it is blue! A Left: it is green!
Once launched, nothing stopped them. They whirl and twirl. They fly and fall to earth. They rush and strike. Joy to type on it, another joy of this aim. The hand is the instrument, not the ball. You will be mine. It's a cruel game: one player will learn the meaning of renunciation. We think, a little, just because there are few children to cry for a few lost balls. Some, however, have cried a lot when he had to give to another, the victor, horrible hated conqueror. We retain his tears in front of him, especially not tremble, and gesture is noble when to give. But under the pillow, the tears flow.
All this is injustice, and sacrifice has been enormous.
Balls are magical. Very few know. Their name is a call to travel. The fight was tough, so we need to rest, lying down on the ground, one arm folded behind his head and one arm resting on the ground, his hand on the grass, where the ants are busy, and think of Cat's Eye, Porcelain, Tornado and Calot, that we'll soon shake in his hands until the pain.
Cat's Eye is the one that sparkles. Porcelain is more discreet. Cap is the strongest of all. They are made of glass or earthenware, and are round like the iris.
It touches the ball in the pocket. The roll under your fingers, feel the gentle one, the roughness of the other, to gently collide to stream their own music. Looking at them, touch them, again and again. The
hide, well sheltered, when you have more time to play. Because we have more time to play. But the hide, because we know their value, and regardless of the passage of time. They will be there. In the shelter. I hide from you because I love you. I will go before you, from time to time, and the memories come back. And sometimes, as the hours, days and nights, it is possible that this is painful, but never mind!
A crossing time. The hours passed so quickly ...
One day a cat paw clumsily brought down the potty. No reaction. While the body is frozen, his mouth opened with a silent scream. This is a crime of lese-majeste. We can not stop the fall of the jar. We see it hit the ground, breaking into a thousand pieces, you see the ball rolling. And they resume, as before, their wild ride. We laugh, because it is impossible not to laugh. The heart is racing and the hand remembers perfectly, gesturing to have. Pick them up, hold them gently in the hollow of the palm. The balls have not forgotten. No one has forgotten. The memories are there, because they always been there.
It's time for recess.
And then, kneeling on the floor of a small chamber ill row, I start a game of marbles with wonderful cats.

How To Anker Railroad Ties

Generation X

Germany, 1992. I listen to this song almost
loop. I do not really know who this group, which sings, but I tell myself that if I sang, is a voice like that I'd like. A voice to Tom Waits, a hoarse voice and beat-to have yelled too, smoked too much. I try to understand what the gentleman said to me crying on the air. I think he told us entertain . Sitting on the table, legs dangling, Humbertus Punk to me. It speaks to me. I came back to me and I wonder what it takes to be a little fun in this country. Whatever. The grass is not greener here than elsewhere. I never knew what qu'Humbertus told me.
Germany, 1992.
I walk the streets, not knowing what to do. Hands in his pockets. The walls are brick red. Germany is depressing. My friend Audrey is traumatized. She thinks she lives with the Communists. Communists, do you realize? Dirt communists who give me the sausage for breakfast! She asks me what I eat when she gave de charcuterie. I'm tired. I told him that I never eat in the morning. It give me hell. She told me to eat, otherwise I'll be hungry to 10 hours. You would not pass out at 10 am, eh? I say yes-yes. Do not worry. I would eat. The equation is simple: yes, yes is a no. Never believe the people you repeat twice the same. Say yes-or-yeah yeah, and nobody to bother you.
Germany, 1992.
was in March. Unless this is April. I think about the song, the hoarse voice that spits his discomfort, and I will visit Hanover. There is a park. Humbertus said one member of the Scorpions has lived in the corner. You know Scorpions ? he asks. I'm still loving you , he murmurs in rejecting the smoke of his cigarette. A brunette girl comes to me and said how much she misses. She told me she likes me because I never speak much. I smile, I put the headphones from my Walkman on my ears and it does the same. She leafs through a magazine. Young German read the same crap that young French and French visitors to Germany the German leafing. How to wear makeup to please her lover, how to attract his attention, and how to prepare to lose her virginity, and be pretty, suits up, fantasizes about the two bullets that singers do not know of any how to sing. They can not write either. My hair is almost fat, think if I wash them courage, and my jeans had a hole in the knee. I watch the sun set over the aisle. The advertising poster shows me fireworks. I guess and I see a woman in long dress, wearing a powdered wig running in the aisles, she raises her dress to facilitate the race. The tops of trees brush the sky. This is perhaps the most beautiful place in Germany.
Germany, 1992.
The song says that we must turn off the lights. It's less dangerous, the lights dimmed. I never much liked the sun, anyway, except in gardens, to make soap bubbles. Humbertus the guy told me that the song was inspired riff Godzilla by Blue Oyster Cult. Owl. A good reference. Someone with a book on her lap wonder if I know what Generation X. No, I do not know. What is it? He asked the year of my birth. He smiled. A little more and you were not in the list. A little more and you were a part of Generation Y. Generation Y does not exist in 1992. He says it is the next generation, and he does not know what name she has. By calling Y, it is an inexorable logic. You know, I say, I think that all this is bullshit. And I hate the idea of community. I hate the idea of being one more name on a list. It is ridiculous when one is proud. It almost
suspicious, saying that nobody chooses to be part of Generation X. You're born into it, my dear. Me too. There is nothing we can do against it.
It had to do some research on this generation. It's always bullshit. It's marketing and surveys, as the baby boom, Nesters and Super-Breeders. Generation buffer said David Coupland. The illiterate sign his papers to the letter X. X is nil, X means that you are nothing. You have no name you have no identity, you are the anonymous crowd.
In Germany, in 1992, the kids were hiding under long shapeless sweaters. It would put a mask that would not have been better hidden. I loved mine, sweater, with his sleeves that fell to his knees. A rag. I will continue to wear it. Generation X will be remembered for being the lost generation. Something like that. Just a Statistic. Then they satirize and make fun. The lucky ones are told, grew up, have a job and a family. They scrutinize something invisible on the floor of the station platform, subway. They will soon return home. Eminem says he hates
the world and he would burst out all those around him.
The guy from the song says he hates himself and he'd like to die.
One type of Metallica told the guy from the song: you're talented, small . Continue like that. This music will make sparks. She will be successful. The guy had probably raised an eyebrow when the little guy, laconic, replied that he hoped not.
was in France, 1994.
And even alone in the room to smoke a cigarette lying on the bed, could not help thinking that it sounded like the end of an era ... if times are available. In the afternoon, the kids are talking. The kids are watching. You know what I heard this morning? He's dead, he killed himself ... kids who made fun of each other have suddenly found common ground. The hole dug by Death makes them all cry over this cavity, and all their differences fade in the sun of their sentence. They had to love it. They had lost the Idol.
Some wondered what could happen in the head of this little guy for having the sudden urge to kill. They become incoherent. He had everything! cry a little blonde. He had everything, a woman, child, youth, music, fame ... Why?
Kurt died, "said the little blonde. She hugs him. You know why you?
And she said something like: do you understand that? Say it because I, I can not.
I could answer. I let my wet t-shirt with her tears. I close my eyes and say nothing while the kids of Generation X are crying.
Germany, 1992.
Sitting on the edge of the fountain, people living around and cry and laugh. I can not help but smile. I think the name of the city where I live temporarily. This name, which, once delivered to the French, is said sentence.