love your city

the b-word
February 12, 2012, 15:28
Filed under: trill

he came from a woman, got his name from a woman and his game from a woman.


les petits plaisirs du dimanche soir
January 23, 2012, 03:52
Filed under: trill

you are now watching a master at work
November 15, 2011, 17:36
Filed under: trill

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my dear friend and longtime co-conspirator, dave pires, has just published his first book, you are unlimited. it is a beautiful documentation of his journeys through time and space, captured entirely on film. he has braved earthquakes & endlessness, hurricanes & heartache, tsunamis & triumph and this is the stunning result. he is one of the absolutely most talented writers and photographers that i know and this book is but a glimpse into that genius.  the book is available for purchase here. get yours while you can – they are only available in a limited, hand-numbered edition of 250. one day when this man is accepting his nobel, you’ll be happy you were one of the first to know.

76 pages – full color
perfect bound
23.8cm x 18.4cm (9.375” x 7.25”)


hero status
October 31, 2011, 03:13
Filed under: floetry, trill

this is yiorgos. he lives in skafi, crete.
well, he has some animals.
he goes about his daily activities in complete solitude, save for the few people who roll through in the summertime. obviously intensely compelled to go and see him and learn everything. unbelievably beautiful photos of him

if you do not first lighten yourself and your soul of the weight of your burdens, moving about will only increase their pressure on you, as a ship’s cargo is less troublesome when lashed in place. you do more harm than good to a patient by moving him about: you shake his illness down into the sack, just as you drive stakes in by pulling and waggling them about. that is why it is not enough to withdraw from the mob, not enough to go to another place: we have to withdraw from such attributes of the mob as are within us. it is our own self we have to isolate and take back into possession.

we must unknot these bonds and, from this day forth, love this or that but marry nothing but ourselves. that is to say, let the rest be ours, but not so glued and joined to us that it cannot be pulled off without tearing away a piece of ourselves, skin and all. the greatest thing in the world is to know how to live to yourself.
michel de montaigne, on solitude   

the hopeless stay hopeful
October 30, 2011, 02:33
Filed under: trill


3000 people at the science museum in london were polled on what they couldn’t live without.  it would be fascinating to repeat this experiment all over the world…

1. Sunshine
2. Internet connection
3. Clean drinking water
4. Fridge
5. Facebook
6. NHS
7. Cooker
8. Email
9. Flushing toilet
10. Mobile phone / smartphone
11. Tea and Coffee
12. Washing machine
13. Shower
14. Central heating
15. Painkillers
16. Fresh vegetables
17. Vacuum Cleaner
18. Kettle
19. Sofa
20. Shoes
21. Fresh fruit
22. Google
23. Car
24. Hair straighteners
25. Public transport
26. Laptop
27. Chocolate
28. DVD Player
29. Wristwatch
30. Make-up
31. Flat screen TV
32. Wedding ring
33. Tumble dryer
34. Bottled water
35. Ebay
36. Bicycle
37. Ipod
38. Air conditioning
39. Disposable nappies
40. Light bulbs
41. Spell-check
42. Sat Nav
43. Push-up bra
44. Nintendo Wii
45. iPad
46. Gym Membership
47. Season Ticket to your football club
48. Freezer
49. Xbox
50. Twitter

when you really are a gem
September 7, 2011, 22:35
Filed under: trill

starting at the centre, then top right:


this is an antique victorian ring that would be give one’s dearest, with the message beautifully encoded in the color wheel. reaching infinite dimensions of romance.

may is a pious fraud
May 1, 2011, 10:04
Filed under: trill

may is a pious fraud of the almanac.
a ghastly parody of real spring
shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern wind;
or if, o’er-confident, she trust the date
and, with her handful of anemones,
herself as shivery, steal into the sun,
the season need but turn his hour-glass round,
and winter suddenly, like crazy lear,
reels back, and brings the dead may in his arms,
her budding breasts and wan dislustred front
with frosty streaks and drifts of his white beard
all overblown. then, warmly walled with books,
while my wood-fire supplies the sun’s defect,
whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams,
i take my may down from the happy shelf
where perch the world’s rare song-birds in a row,
waiting my choice to upen with full breast,
and beg an alms of springtime, ne’er denied
indoors by vernal chaucer, whose fresh woods
throb thick with merle and mavis all the years.

– j.r. lowell