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 pealing 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 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.
“Boo!” “Stop it.” “Seriously, BOO!” “It’s not funny. You’re not funny.” “Boo!” “Stop it.” “BOO!” “I’m leaving.” “...boo..”
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
Every weekend, when you were kids, we’d crawl outta bed with a great anticipation. It didn’t matter if it was already a melting 100 degree summer day or a dog bowl freezing uneven 25, your spring chicken spark as you rolled out from under the blankets was always apparent on those days. Saturday was our Hoover’s Beef Palace day and we’d throw our boots on, our carhartts, eyes still swollen with sleep, maybe toss a Bass Pro Shop hat on, hop in the truck, and watch the ground squirrels scurry frenetically as we rolled down the driveway never sure whether the direction chosen would be their last. About halfway there we’d start salivating at the thought of Mark’s buttered up french toast next to the two fried eggs, next to the dollop of extra butter we didn’t need, next to the rye toast and well done hash browns. We’d sit at the counter while those thick-armed country women would carry 10 pound plates of Paso gold from the kitchen to the tables strewn with kids you just saw at school yesterday, grandparents who all had dirty bandaids wrapped around at least two of their calloused fingers, while we lapped up every last morsel of our order. Cowboy hats at Hoover’s were customary and worn without a thought. After breakfast we’d walk out the back door and across the dirt parking to the auction house to sit in those wood splintered fold down seats and watch two and three weight livestock be ushered in while the man at the microphone would rattle off sale words at mach speeds. One cowboy would barely raise his hand, then another would, then another until: “Sold!”. The woman next to him would write something down in her booklet and a whole new cluster of cows would emerge. We’d just sit there and watch. You’d always have a slight look of anxiety on your faces because you thought if you raised your hands, even in a thoughtless moment of scratching your nose, or maybe stretching the rest of the sleep outta your arms, we’d be driving back home with a bunch of little cows in our truck. At least that’s what you thought. And I wasn’t about to tell you any different. #templetonlife
She walks with a slow waddle, wears slightly red rimmed glasses, and her light reddish hairline is more like George Carlin’s was than Omar Sharif’s. She’s excited because they are getting her a piece of cake and an espresso with a water chaser. She’ll carry it to her seat with a small shuffling, while a young woman, maybe still in University, copious tattoos covering her baby white skin, orders pistachio ice cream for take away behind her. At her seat I can hear the tink of each bite she takes, and I imagine how it must feel in her mouth; how it might shock her taste buds, this gift to herself; And later, as she’s walking away, how she’ll wish she had bought two pieces instead of just one. But, for now, there’s still half a piece to go and she still has more money in her purse just in case. I take a photo of myself with her in the background. She looks right into the camera, then when I put it down she starts cackling. She knows what I did, or what I tried to do, and she finds my dilettante moves cute. You sometimes imagine what you would be if you were born in a different era, another country, to different parents, like a game you play with your friends or by yourself as you walk down a Hungarian Street on your day off without much to do. Today, I’m sure of it now, no matter how much I dreamt of it before, I’ll never be a spy. I can watch, but they’ll always know I’m there.
I’m only going to leave this up for 24hrs because I don’t want to exploit my kid, but Westlyn learned how to ride a bike today. We are so proud. She’s the one with the purple helmet. #❤️ #Brolinlearningcurve #redbullinthebottle #gohoney!
Happy Birthday to anyone who is having a birthday sometime this year. #gobig #fuckit #❤️💪 #mommyanddaddybefreakin @kathrynbrolin
I want everyone to be aware that all the proceeds from what I bring in from the last of the @JBKBactivewear #cableswole shirts sold and whatever they pay for me to show my face and snap my fingers or sign a few things or shake a few fans hands in gratitide for y’all caring so much about these films at Ace Comic Con Seattle on JUNE 28-30 will go to @ebmrf and @uvsc_org in honor of @trucker_boy_dukes and the recently passed warrior @tavintuff for the research and fight against cancer (with an emphasis on leukemia ) and Epidermolysis Bullosa (EB — a rare, and very painful skin disorder ). And in honor of your Mama @elijah_a b. SO PLEASE COME! You will be doing a GREAT SERVICE to those less fortunate than us but who, like those superheroes we love, fought (and fight ) with super human might. Thank you very very much. Link in Bio. #chrisevans @zoesaldana @renner4real @doncheadle @taron egerton @leeepfrog @itsmebayley @charlottewwe @liliangarcia #snapagainstcancer #snapagainsteb
My prayers and condolences to Tavin’s Mama and Papa and Ohana in general. ❤️❤️❤️🙏🙏🙏 #repost @trucker_boy_dukes ・・・ Please pray for the Davin and Tami as they go through this time😔 WE LOVE YOU TAVIN!!! It is with heavy hearts that we lost a great warrior!!! But heaven gained the strongest person I know. We lost Tavin last night around 11pm after a 2 year flight with leukemia. He fought hard for over 2 years and did it with a smile everytime. We are so proud of him and blessed that we had 10 wonderful years with him. We wish that he was still here, but we know that he's with the Lord and completely healed with no pain or cancer. We will miss him every single day. We are so proud to call him our son. We would like to thank everyone for their prayers. We felt all your prayers from all over the world. We like to thank the Dr's, nurses and staff at Kapiolani Medical Center for always taking good care of Tavin. Also Maui Memorial Medical Center for taking good care of Tavin during his short stay and also Hospice Maui for taking care of Tavin and our family during his last night. Thank you to all the family and friends who came to visit Tavin while he was in the hospital and Hospice. We love you Tavin and it's not a goodbye, but see you later! Mommy and Daddy loves you so much. #tavintuff
Is there a version of you I don’t like? We joke. We poke at each other. We remember Costa Rican dirt roads, bandanas over our mouths, lungs fighting the heavy dust, and back in the windowless house, geckos clicking while we made love in the open kitchen. We remember younger more debaucherous times when we knew we wouldn’t make it, knew we were too far along our own roads of wildness, our self-serving jungle, egos flailing, but we were in love, in lust, and we all know that never works, at least that’s what the experts say. We were in Greece, in Mexico, on FaceTime and on TV. We’ve been dark and yet fighting to see each other once more, just before sleep, because the scent of you reminded me of the south of France and the first hint of sun. We’ve been in awe and we’ve been hurt. We’ve felt alone even while we looked at each other and we‘ve also felt that nobody else in the world existed or was more beautiful than the sunrise of your face close to mine. We’ve drunkenly yelled toward the moon and soberly listened at the womb that held our child, waiting expectantly: the unveiling of a revelation, the showtime of a never grander entrance. And that laughter she imparts has never found love more exciting. You and me, Lady. I thank my luckiest star. That one that landed in me like the faint whisper of a child’s first breath. The one that someone threw at me that I never saw coming. @kathrynbrolin #jbkbstucktogether #beanintheoven 🍀Photo by @jenniferstenglein
It‘s on a wall somewhere; someone probably bought it years ago at a flea market. You took that photo of me from a car with your friend, another monsoon of a woman, then gave it to me as a gift and I let it go in a rage; I threw it in the garbage bin out back. The next day it was gone. A shaman mural. A symbol of unadulterated sensuality. What made me think of it though — back then, when we ended up in that dilapidated motel room dead in the fire of day, all turquoise green and hot headed orange, when I leaned back, naked, in that yellowed plastic bath tub against a left over razor, slid down, and it took a doublemint-thick slice off my right shoulder. I didn’t feel the sting right away, but I saw in the water the swirl of a cloudy red, a blood dance. I had a horrible album of ee cummings reading “i six non-lectures” playing that kept conjuring a vision of Richard Attenborough reading to a blow up doll about animals, knowing, no matter how hard he tried, that she would never really hear him. It just sounded too formal and lonely. And you sat next to me in that tub, on the toilet, with your brow furrowed, looking down toward my feet. That was the staple look back then of an artist in the making, that era when the desert wind was a perpetual furnace that heated our over active literalness and ignorance. And as tortured as we were, later is always a sadder story. We lived, for sure, but there was no way of knowing I would outlast you. There was no way of knowing. That look you gave me from the toilet was a mourning; it was thinking you knew I would live a short life, a tragic life, when it turned out that it was you who would. We had our time though, you and me, in wayward motel rooms and on long Harley Davidson pulls melting in that age old desert heat, avoiding anxious coyotes along the road, and passing red tailed hawks on fence posts at 90 miles per hour in the sexy blur of a brushstroke.
Vienna train station. Bored. Marbles rolling everywhere. #wannatakeapicturewithme?No?Whynot?
My heart and condolences to those South Korean and Hungarian families affected by the boat disaster in Budapest, Hungary. 🙏