#The Names

[rosesandalfazemas]

THE BRIT GANGSTERS

The LORD (England) The HIGH KING (N. Ireland) The SORCERER (Wales) The CHIEF OF THE CLAN (Scotland)

Source

[seizethegay420]

WHAT IS THIS

[circleofshit]

[maras-virtual-lens]

BOOM

I'm a Melinite fangirl

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Remembering 9/11: Honoring the Victims (by Robert Mooney)

* * * *

Billy Collins Here is that poem, written by Billy Collins for a special joint session of Congress in New York commemorating the first anniversary of 9-11.

THE NAMES by Billy Collins

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night. A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze, And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows, I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened, Then Baxter and Calabro, Davis and Eberling, names falling into place As droplets fell through the dark. Names printed on the ceiling of the night. Names slipping around a watery bend. Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream. In the morning, I walked out barefoot Among thousands of flowers Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears, And each had a name – Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins. Names written in the air And stitched into the cloth of the day. A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox. Monogram on a torn shirt, I see you spelled out on storefront windows And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city. I say the syllables as I turn a corner – Kelly and Lee, Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor. When I peer into the woods, I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden As in a puzzle concocted for children. Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash, Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton, Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple. Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea. In the evening – weakening light, the last swallows. A boy on a lake lifts his oars. A woman by a window puts a match to a candle, And the names are outlined on the rose clouds – Vanacore and Wallace, (let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound) Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z. Names etched on the head of a pin. One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel. A blue name needled into the skin. Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers, The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son. Alphabet of names in a green field. Names in the small tracks of birds. Names lifted from a hat Or balanced on the tip of the tongue. Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory. So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

from AIMLESS LOVE, Random House, 2013

[1977-1981-the-era-of-music]

Now Playing...

Artist: The Names

Title: Why Can't It Be?

Album: Why Can't It Be? Single

Played on: Mon Oct 07 2024 12:21:45 GMT-0500 (Central Daylight Time)

#The Names #1977 to 1981 ERA OF MUSIC

[mellotronmkll]

They're so fucking funny

[tilde44]

I think it's only in a crisis that Americans see other people. It has to be an American crisis, of course. If two countries fight that do not supply the Americans with some precious commodity, then the education of the public does not take place. But when the dictator falls, when the oil is threatened, then you turn on the television and they tell you where the country is, what the language is, how to pronounce the names of the leaders, what the religion is all about, and maybe you can cut out recipes in the newspaper of Persian dishes. I will tell you. The whole world takes an interest in this curious way Americans educate themselves. TV. Look, this is Iran, this is Iraq. Let us pronounce the world correctly. E-ron. E-ronians. This is a Sunni, this is a Shi'ite. Very good. Next year we do the Philippine Islands, okay?

-- Don Delillo, The Names (1982)

[the-helper-house]

uh

you're in a house? i think

also hi narry, hi cam and knock-off 👋

[I am aware of that, I don’t— who is yelling? Can you get them to shut up? . You wave hello]

[/Hellooo :) 👋\]

[balu8]

The Names #3

by Peter Milligan and Leandro Fernandez

DC/Vertigo

[doingpushupsindrag]

does anyone else think graffiti is so UGH

every single piece of graffiti (of course excluding the mean stuff) is one big, (or little) “i was here”.

every human who drew a slap sticker, made a design, sprayed a tag existed. i mean it goes back to the beginning of human life- it isn’t some “young people these days” type thing- cave drawings and spray paint are exactly the same and i find it so beautiful.

that-it’s inherent, in human nature to remind people in years to come that “i was here”, however they can.

[inhumanetrash]

Arrrgrtggghhhh

Hear me out

Tfp avatar au

Where bots are the humans who invade Pandora (cons are the army and bots the researchers) and humans are the na’vi

[theblackestofsuns]

The Names (1982)

Don DeLillo

Alfred A. Knopf

[iwatcheditbegin]

Na I forgot how funny we were in the calcium hydroxide era

[hallohartje]

The Names

Now it's time for the lilac, blazon of spring, the prince of plants, whose name I know only when it blooms.

The blooms called forth by a bare measure of warmth, days that are more chill than warm, though the roots must

know, and the leaves, and the spindly trunks ganged up by the trash bins behind our houses. The blue pointillism

in morning fog. The blue that is lavender. The blue that is people. The smell that is the air's sugar, the sweet

weight when you put your face near, the way you would put it near the side of someone's head. Here the ear.

Here the nape. Here the part of flesh that has no name at all, the part that is shining because it has slipped naming.

In the crumbling photo album, the dead toddler on a bier, dead for decades, whose name I now carry. On another

page, the old man, also decades gone, whose same name I now carry. The name a fossil, the calcium radiance

that I bear and will eventually give up. Again it's time for the lilacs. The quiet beautiful things at the sides of the

rec center parking lot. The purple surge by the freeway. The sprigs I cut from the shrub leaning towards me

from the neighbor's yard, taking them at night because I shouldn't be taking them. The blooms that are a genius

on the kitchen table, awful because I want to eat them with my terrible eyes, with my terrible hands. The awful

lilacs, the brief lilacs, the sweet. Here is the recklessness I have wanted. Here is the composure I have earned.

--

Rick Barot, from The Galleons