Contemplating. You drive, push forward, see the trees, blink with the stars, and think about your children. You walk along barbed wire fences with old boots rubbing against age old bone spurs and dust covering your face thinking of the last time you faced a child’s laughter. You hold a fishing pole at the pond with family members at your side waiting for the pull, the jolt of the submerged live wire to wake you from your happiness. You watch the moon as she grows, listening in the distance to utter coyotes calling to each other, maybe planning an ambush, and you smell blood in your memories, an old dog who didn’t make it. And remember when that churning tornado that held a potpourri of essential inspirations lifted everything inside you and with the imagination’s fingers sculpted it into something awed, something wild? We were children before the brow broke and thinking became our God. I’m going back now, crawling through the fields, yelling when I feel like it, upwardly. #repost @piyush_pal13
I don’t understand why if my little one gets to ride in the stroller all the time, her Dad, especially at a museum, can’t relax a little and get pushed around by his future brother in law making noises like she does. If you listen closely you can hear the primal communication going on between us. Everyone should be pushed in a stroller through a really quiet museum bopping at least once in their lives. #getty @kathrynbrolin @heighlen boyd #jacksonrowden
There’s always been something about you, the way you look through a window nobody else can see, as if you are in a church, a small one, resting in the Greek countryside, even watching yourself there, a life that’s tickling you as you create it in the caldron of your imagination. I’ve watched you look through it for years now and I can’t always help but take the time, a moment, to watch you settling into it: your buzzing green eyes, the slight smile of mischief. I can’t help but wonder, and want. #jbkbstucktogether
“I’ll tell her myself then.” #nocountryforoldmen
Today, I’m okay with just quoting this fucker, because this fucker, as much of a fucker as he was, touched the golden. # # # #repost @__nitch ・・・ Charles Bukowski // "If it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. If you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. If you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. If you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. If you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. If it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. If you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. If it never does roar out of you, do something else. If you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. Don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love. The libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. Don't add to that. Don't do it. Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. When it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. There is no other way. And there never was."
It wouldn’t ever matter what you did, as long as you’d stay and concoct your little dishes of glee in me, for I catch you not just once every now and then but so often always is a direct sight of your beauty and that Bausch movement you have churned me in. I rue the day heaven comes because it has so come for me. This roiling wave that pulls with more force ever deeper finds me in your heart and within it all the oxygen I may need to live out this life. You are the van, the wheels, the motion with which we travel. We are made here in Venice no matter where we are. So, to our spray painted garden, our drum circle Sunday’s, and to our fierce little one with lemon faces and Dennis Hooper cackles raining onto us her topography of joy.
I’ll drink wine out of a glass from now on. I’ll get the glass from a flea market, one that’s rough to the touch and pink or blue like old cheap church windows. I’ll hold it at its base and snap my fingernail against its rim listening for its value, but there will be no value to hang in the air, and I’ll smile. It will be a glass like the ones on the dish rack at old man Wiebe’s house, next to the peeling Formica table, just above the faded sallow linoleum floor. It will have been touched by those people who work for a living, sweat through each day and by those waiting for husbands to come home. It will have been used by those having just finished the dishes seeing suddenly their rotund men across the room, in lazy chairs, looking back over their shoulders with eyes of sex and ghost sounds of four posted pine beds creaking wildly. It will be a glass muddy with a man’s hand just come off the tractor after plowing hundreds of acres of oat, lungs swirling with dust. This glass will be valuable only in that it is thoroughly American: accessible, tasteless. I will sip from this glass, grocery store wine, enduring headaches long before I close my eyes to sleep. I’ll fill my glass then raise it to those who have touched it before, those rough hands of gentle people who blossom and wilt like wild flowers. Photo: @kathrynbrolin
Watch this, write a comment, then read your comment. Then you’ll know. #whereareourhearts
Now she died. And my mother too. And my other mother a day passed (who I’ll write about later ), the one who raised me and taught me that there is a dangerous simpleton and an easy feral artist jester that lives in here and here too. They taught me that it’s not too manly to represent an idea when that idea isn’t hurting so many, killed, dead, bleeding. They taught me how animals will hurt you back only when they are scared or feel trapped, unless they are insane. She taught me. She didn’t eat her own, she nourished instead the masses even when the masses told her to “SHUT UP! You’re not worth listening to.” We are all acting. Some imagine Clint Eastwood from the spaghetti westerns or John Wayne from “True Grit”, but once in a while, secretly, I see the grace, ma’am. Sometimes, Ma, just like you, I’ll stand for more than just being a leash of the ages on a front yard of tract housing on a street of blanched stupidity that kills its own. She’s the poet who reminded that the seeing see might even being be hoping hope reminding me. #riptinimorrison
@lucyhurtado_ drew this. She is my friend. Friends support friends. Kevin Fiege is my friend too, as well as @therussobrothers They made two movies based on this @lucyhurtado_ drawing. It’s out on digital today. Go watch it in the middle of the night when everyone else is sleeping. I’m serious. 😈✊️ @nikkohurtado @marvelstudios
Soar. Don’t take the dream and obliterate it with sense. Life can be short or a long stretch but without color, without a little jalapeño, life will make you pay in an atrophy of spirit for your don’ts. Your yeses and your why nots might just put a smile on your old face as you think back at the choices you had and, in spite of the fear that rumbles inside you like a tee kettle ready to burst, you took that wave, took that trip, asked that guy or girl, danced that dance, jumped from that cliff’s edge, signed up for that class, wrote that book, or had that child that you never thought you had it in you to take care of. Sensibility has its place but nothing can replace the deep color of your heart’s contentment. #repost @niccolo_porcella
If there was a piece of art I ever aspired to, it was this: scuffed up, read and the razor’s edge of my imagination always on full power. I never had much interest in relying on reality so much. ✊️🎪 @rbemuseum
Leadership. #repost @__nitch ・・・ John F. Kennedy // "We meet in an hour of change and challenge, in a decade of hope and fear, in an age of both knowledge and ignorance. The greater our knowledge increases, the greater our ignorance unfolds... No man can fully grasp how far and how fast we have come, but condense, if you will, the 50,000 years of man's recorded history in a time span of but a half-century. Stated in these terms, we know very little about the first 40 years, except at the end of them advanced man had learned to use the skins of animals to cover them. Then about 10 years ago, under this standard, man emerged from his caves to construct other kinds of shelter. Only five years ago man learned to write and use a cart with wheels. Christianity began less than two years ago. The printing press came this year, and then less than two months ago, during this whole 50-year span of human history, the steam engine provided a new source of power. Newton explored the meaning of gravity. Last month electric lights and telephones and automobiles and airplanes became available. Only last week did we develop penicillin and television and nuclear power... This is a breathtaking pace, and such a pace cannot help but create new ills as it dispels old... So it is not surprising that some would have us stay where we are a little longer to rest, to wait... If this capsule history of our progress teaches us anything, it is that man, in his quest for knowledge and progress, is determined and cannot be deterred... But why, some say, the moon? Why choose this as our goal? And they may well ask why climb the highest mountain? Why, 35 years ago, fly the Atlantic? ... We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone... And, therefore, as we set sail we ask God's blessing on the most hazardous and dangerous and greatest adventure on which man has ever embarked." —
For Chris Cornell on his birthday, this photo, I’m not sure why, a home slightly blurred, older, thrown back onto a time we preferred, and the rain drops of your children, your wife, maybe tears, landed on this vision of you, this memory, mine, of simpler times, the old barn wood floors of our conversations, and the churning clouds of passing time, crying also, maybe, but expressing on this little village that are those that remember you, drenched in what was you, in memory, and what’s left, still crystalline, beautiful, but gone, and what is only in a whisper of a slight smile, remains. Miss you buddy. ✊️❤️❤️ JB
Cut to 2043: living on the ranch, still a full bottle of vodka in the freezer for when neighbors come over, Preparation H wrappers in the trash, and someone telling me that I should’ve used a higher SPF when I was younger. My wife is beautiful but gags on certain foods now; it makes me look away and into the fireplace even though there’s no fire going. Coffee every morning is like syrup and I spend most of my time writing and fishing for large mouth bass. A call comes in about doing a parody of Thanos for whoever took over for Jimmy Fallon. I put the phone down without saying anything and turn up Waylon Jennings, who never seems to get old. Westlyn visits with her boyfriend and he refuses to do the dishes. We have a talk and he ends up doing the dishes. The horses get fed at sunset and the ground squirrels are still driving me crazy. The denim business thrived and Kathryn still designs with colored pencils in the little office that is lined with my mother’s cookbooks from 40 years ago. I look like somewhere between Tommy Lee Jones, W, and my own father. She looks like she’s wary of anyone outside the family. #ranchlife #northcountry
There it was again, that silence. He’d walked all day with his pockets full of syllables and letter shavings that he had gathered over the past couple of days. He’s been thinking a lot and the thoughts were loud. He’d whittled away fragments that never found cohesion, put them in his pockets to figure out later when the machine wasn’t running so hot. And now, that silence became him as he stopped at the cliff side, took all the jagged would be sentences out with his hands, and scattered them on the dusty ground where he crouched. It was early in the morning against a background of sea and sky and he could feel the panting of the seagulls flying overhead to the north but he didn’t strain to listen. To the West the onshore breeze was blowing hard enough to whip the rabbit ears of his inside out pockets but he didn’t feel it yet. Looking down at all those fragmented thoughts, he stopped himself from piecing together a coherent sentence, from structuring what the architecture of that breeze started to. No, he stood there with his head down focused on the potpourri of what might have before been an understanding. He watched it as if he was standing bedside at his grandfather’s hospice knowing that soon there wouldn’t be another word uttered from his pruned mouth. Silence but for these absurd brushstroke moments standing tall. He reached down, picked up a grunt or a moan, or it might have been ka or a tion. He felt the cool wind. He remembered the smoke of his mother’s Kool Kings being sucked out of the driver’s side window. He thought of his grandfather’s letter to him 6 days after he had died quietly beside him, opening it. Then he sat down on the dirt and kept shuffling the sounds until: “The child’s laughter shook in me so violently that I couldn’t help but laugh back. I put her on my shoulders, her holding intertwined hands across my forehead, and we walked to the ice cream store for some soft serve, half chocolate, half vanilla. Her mouth gnawed at my short hair from above as we walked... “ was as far as he got when he looked up, saw a seagull pass, heard a wave break below, felt it all, then went right back into it, word by infant word.
Aretha Franklin, baby. Can’t stop movin’. Can’t stop as the music tears through me with a direct, lightening rod connect to God. Those angels, as they flutter through the church, bouncing off the exuberant baptist green walls in glee and gymnastics, mix in with words, with lyrics that soar like a weighted wind from deep in her faith onto us, even years later, as witness, saturated, baby, to the core. Saturated, I’m telling you. And outside, we can hear the knocking of those little devils, scratching at the wood with their jagged nails, uttering some swollen-tongued language of deceit, in a frenzy over the glory that lacerates their very being. Aretha, forever connected, reminding us that connection is everything, and community to congregate with, in celebration of this short time, life abundant, is essential, is life sustaining. Glory, and her voice mixing with flashes of cherubim. We are, and forever will be, bobbing and weaving with the tune of our right to life. Can’t stop movin’, nor do I ever want to for it is in the traffic of the devil does the smog of satan reign. No, here I fly in heaven’s air, and the feathers of God become me. Here I sit with my people, unique, but in unison, an army of goodness. Here I sing along without even knowing the words, contented, as usual. Here, baby. Right here. @amazinggracemovie #arethafranklin @40acresandamule
It usually starts by being away. The job comes and you’re saturated by the mystery of it. Then you get there and it’s pretty much the same: actors curious where they stand in the status of things, comparisons, lots of diversion humor, and a few witticisms during moments of discomfort. Then you start thinking about home after a couple of months: your block, the people who feed you with their sandpaper character and their jet black histories, and the culture that owns its misfits and rejoices its monuments of unadulterated personality. Venice Beach. The guy who used to juggle the tennis ball, the bowling ball and the chainsaw as I walked as an adolescent near the sidewalk cafe looking for a coffee handout, when some pervert who maybe wanted to take me home I’d hit on the cheekbone and ride my skateboard down toward the bike path jazzed up just enough to get me through the day. And the winter brings on the strangest light as you peer out toward the ocean as that grey-black wall invariably begins to consume you, everybody; it always feels like it just happens and everything is about to change. Everyone who lives here knows that ominous Bermuda cloud. Fucking Venice. We are the Lower East Side of what used to be New York and the worst of what Florida was. I will never leave here. Somewhere deep in the sewer that will always have original stamped on its back alley asshole, there’ll be for a buck an oily slice of pepperoni pizza and a medium coke, and then as you eat it some dude will ask you if you have some bud or a can of spray paint because he just got an idea. Then I know I’ll be home. That all of the other shit is just some Nobu fantasyland smut with a thin slice of jalapeño on its sushi and a roofie waiting patiently in some yuppy’s non-alcoholic beer.
Our little girl got to ride a cheetah yesterday! So fun!!! She’s growing up so fast. Africa has been amazing as we are getting to experience the natural habitats of so many of God’s great creatures. Shout out to @therideofyourfuckinglifetours for setting up this incredible experience for our little angel. ❤️✊️ #holdonbaby ! Thanks @justindlovato
Ode: This is me, never cool but always in the room watching others as their interests flutter toward what might benefit in a snappy flasher digi or a paragrapher’s poopy allotment. This is them begging the muse but for a briar of black-smithed images to write out what might bring the praises that were but pointed fingers of ridicule just years before. This is you, the subject of my churning viscera as I look for my voice in your beauty, each thought hanging from your mysterious mouth in wait, stained with ruby and slightly shrunken with distain. And these are words that run in circles like Greek Olympians on ancient pottery splashed on in naked silhouettes searching for sex or competition. This is art, that pants like a raging female in labor and contracts with the man that whimpers to her paralyzed colors of support. This is today.
On sale soon: Jason Mamoa’s underwear line starting with the ‘Legend’ series. Have you ever wanted a little intimacy from Josh Brolin? Well, now you can have it! Get a pack of three for $20 or a pack of twenty for way more! Wear a new pair everyday as you read a newly posted post of his while he rests against your.... Anyway. Josh Brolin ‘Legend’ series this month by Aquaman himself: Jason Mamoa. John Stamos in stores next month. @prideofgypsies #Brolinsdickwear #womenssizestoo
To all the dads out there. There isn’t anything as good as being a parent. Nothing. There are no awards or accolades, no rewards to match, no joy or pain greater than that feeling of caring for your children, wanting the best for them that life has to offer and the hope that whatever baggage you bring to your parenting doesn’t detour the best of their natural trajectories but might help guide to move them forward through organic moments of inevitable doubt. Our children are symbolic mirrors and the betterment of who we aspire to be. Trevor, Eden & Westlyn: you are what makes a Daddy like me as glowingly proud as any parent could be. I love you equally, thoroughly, and completely. Thank you for choosing me. I am the better man for it. #fathersdayisagift 📷- @michaelmuller7
Me on the left, and you almost the same age on the right. Wow, we really are father and son! Happy Father’s Day, Pop. Thanks for setting the best example and visiting me on the set of Batman, when I wasn’t sure if I’d made the right decision. Even doing “Empire of the Sun” so young was a big question mark, but now, looking back, to work with Steven was the best education I could have gotten, so thanks for that. But most of all, I’m just grateful we look so much alike. I could’ve ended up looking like Mom’s side of the family. ❤️✊️ #waitwrongson
Walk With Us Film Premier @awalkonwater ~~~~ We’re excited to announce the completion of our first film documenting the AWOW Family experience entitled “Walk With Us”, which we will premiere at our Waves of Love fundraiser on Saturday, June 22. ~~~~ Join us for an intimate glimpse into the lives of our families and their children with unique needs. Learn firsthand what a day of AWOW Surf Therapy is like for Milo, Lexi, and Jeremiah. From the moment we wake up, until we walk off the beach, come "Walk With Us" for a day. ~~~~ http://bit.ly/WavesofLove2019tickets Vision: @ryanrbrowne ~~~~ Where: Jonathan Beach Club @jonathanclub When: Saturday, June 22nd Time: VIP 6-7pm, Main Event 7-10pm Vision: @rachaelettermedia Art: @thiago_bianchini ~~~~ Presenting Partner: John Paul Mitchell Systems @paulmitchell Production: Media Arts Lab @tbwachiatla We Are Surf Therapy