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#david kirby
guiltywisdom · 7 months
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David Kirby (1957-1990)
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He looks like Christ, I see Christ in him.
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David Kirby on his deathbed, a victim of AIDS. Also pictured, David's caregiver and friend Peta, David's father Bill Kirby and David's sister Susan. Photographed by Therese Frare in Ohio (1990). David's father Bill has made it clear, David wanted everyone to see his picture.
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the80s · 3 months
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A photo said to have changed the face of the AIDS: David Kirby, on his deathbed dying from AIDS in Ohio, is comforted by his father (1989).
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7r0773r · 11 months
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The Ha-Ha by David Kirby
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Someone Naked and Adorable
When I see the sign that says "Nude Beach,"                    I scuttle right over, though when I get there, all I see is three guys who look like me,                    two in baggy Kmart-type bathing suits and one in a "banana hammock" of the type favored                   by speed racers and the lesser European nobility,
and as they wait for the naked people to appear,                   all three scowl at the sand, the water, the very heavens themselves, the clouds                   as raw as the marble from which Bernini carved the Apollo and Daphne whose bodies rang like bells                   when the restorers touched them,
like the bells of Santa Croce that summer                   that woke me and Barbara every morning in Florence, which we called, not "Florence,"                   but "Guangdong Province," because Hong Kong was in the news a lot in those days,                   and Hong Kong is near Guangdong Province,
and the bells would go guang! dong! as though                   a drunken priest were swinging from the bellrope. Now surely that is "the music of the spheres"                   (Sir Thomas Browne) as opposed to "the still, sad music of humanity" (Wordsworth),                   which is just some guy playing a violin in the corner.
Or four guys: a string quartet, and not a good one, either,                   one that meant well but hadn't practiced very much, or maybe one that hadn't even                   meant well, that just wanted to get paid, maybe meet a scullery maid or two,                   perhaps a nymphomaniacal marchioness . . .
What the hell do people want, anyway?                   Why does Barbara adore the cameo I gave her that depicts Leda and the swan, an episode                   in interspecies relationships that just gives me the creeps? There must be something there                   about being, not dominated, but overcome—
about allowing oneself to be mastered                   by a force greater than oneself or just another person who has taken on                   temporary godlike powers, for life has a sting in its tail, like a chimera,                   and you can no more draw that sting yourself
than you can tickle yourself,                   whereas another person can do both. Why, in the "cabinet of secrets"                   of the Archeological Museum in Naples, I saw a bell in the shape of a gladiator at war                   not with another warrior but with his own Schwanz!
It had rolled up on its back,                   if a penis can be said to have a back, and was clawing and snapping at its master                   with the nails and teeth of a lion! And in turn he, the gladiator, was slashing back                   with a broadsword in one hand and some kind
of lion-slapper or Schwanz-slapper in the other!                   Slap, slap, slice, slap! That would sting, wouldn't it? And it's a bell, remember,                   so the whole was meant to be struck and struck hard, be it by angry bachelor                   or vengeful wife! Dong! And given the choice
of which part of the bell to strike,                   who wouldn't strike the pecker-penis, the ravening lion of unrequited desire?                   As if to say, you're the one who's causing all the problems, you're the one body part                   who's making trouble for all the others!
No, no, we want something else altogether,                   for, as wise old Mr. Emerson says in A Room with a View, Love is not the body                   but is of the body, the one we are waiting for there on the beach, rooted in the sand like shore birds,                   our every atom tingling with desire.
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Lame as a Robin
The cumulative ticket is nominative and it can be used within three days. On the ticket is showed an entrance time table: this time table is indicative.             -on the back of a ticket to the Uffizi
                   Halfway across the piazza, I turn to wave at Barbara,           and she says, "Don't forget to buy some Tenderly!"                     because in Italy we have the habit of calling products by their brand names, not only to create a third language          in addition to our native tongue and that of the locals                    but also to avoid such vulgar public reminders as "Don't forget to buy some toilet paper!"          so that milk is Mukki, facial tissue becomes Tempo,                    laundry detergent is now Cocolino, and so on,
                   and as I stand waving the way a beauty queen          taught me once, my hand not flopping up and down                    like a catfish out of water but swinging back and forth the way you'd do if you were trying to unscrew the lid          of a family-size jar of mayonnaise, I can't help thinking,                    first, of the little neighborhood boy who thought that the Broadway musical was called Lame as a Robin,          its connotation of injured innocence at least as expressive as,                    if not more so than, Monsieur Hugo's original title,
                   and then, in quick succession, of that guy Ragnor asking me          Do you say, "I hate French" or "I hate the French?"                    and me saying, "The French!" and him asking, Is it, "You are sweetheart" or "You are the sweetheart?"          and me saying, It's either "You're a sweetheart"                    or "You're my sweetheart," and him saying, What is difference? and then asking, Is it "I study maths" or "I study the maths?"          and me saying, "I study maths," though we don't say "maths"                    in this country! and him saying, Why not?
                   and me saying, Because we're not English!          and him saying, This what we speak is not the English?                    Then how do you call what is it what we speak? and me saying, It's English, it just isn't English English,          and him saying, Okay, we forget about this one,                    let me ask you instead if we say "I eat beans" or "I eat the beans?" and me saying, It's "I eat beans"          if that's all there is but "I eat the beans" if you eat the beans                    instead of the peas and him saying, I don't see difference, 
                   and it occurs to me that if the world depended          on our precise description of it for its existence,                    it would be a spotty patch, indeed, consisting of little more than childhood memories, a clutch          of keen resentments, and a vague sense of our last few meals.                    On the one hand, we do not wish to find ourselves in the position of the bewildered older female relative who looked          at the menu in the trendy restaurant and said, How do you know                    what to order when you don't know what anything is,
                   just as we don't want to become such misguided champions          of clarity that we find ourselves in the position                    of the commentators on Homer and Aristotle in Gulliver's Travels who are forced to keep their distance          in the underworld "through a consciousness of Shame                    and Guilt, because they had so horribly represented the Meaning of those Authors to Posterity,"          remembering that if the great tragedy of science                    is that a beautiful hypothesis can be slain by an ugly fact,
                   as Thomas Huxley said, so is it equally certain          that a beautiful reality can be reduced to a pile of rubbish                    by the application of some slipshod language, like a coat of naval-issue battleship-gray paint on a fine old Tuscan table.          Meanwhile, no one in the piazza is giving any indication                    that they are in the least bit aware of what we say or do, lost as they are in their own search for personal-care products,          their brains humming with code, the specks and flashes                    that make a phrase, a memory, the face of someone they love.
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France / Francine’s Begonias (excerpt)
. . . . Alors, there has to be more to life than life.
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dyscomancer · 8 months
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i have zero faith in dragon age 4 being worth a shit now. how do you let such phenomenal talent go to waste like this? what the fuck is happening behind closed doors at bioware?
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myrcella-lannister · 5 months
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VANESSA KIRBY AS JOSÉPHINE DE BEAUHARNAIS Costume designers: Janty Yates and David Crossman NAPOLEON (2023)
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the-lost-glove · 2 years
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Poetry is my religion—well, I wouldn’t die for it. I’d live for it, though.
— David Kirby, from “Get Up, Please” (via a-pair-of-ragged-claws)
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geekynerfherder · 2 years
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'The Sandman: Kirby Howell-Baptiste as Death of The Endless' by David Mack
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writing-for-life · 3 months
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Death—David Mack
“You get what everybody gets—you get a lifetime.” Neil Gaiman
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karenxmenfan · 10 months
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X-Factor, Eternals (drawn 2021, colors 2023)
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brokehorrorfan · 8 months
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The Sandman: Season 1 will be released on 4K Ultra HD, Blu-ray, and DVD on November 28 via Warner Bros. The Netflix dark fantasy series is based on the DC comic series by Neil Gaiman.
Gaiman developed the show with David S. Goyer (Blade) and Allan Heinberg (Wonder Woman). Tom Sturridge, Boyd Holbrook, Vivienne Acheampong, Patton Oswalt, David Thewlis, Jenna Coleman, Gwendoline Christie, and Kirby Howell-Baptiste star.
The Sandman is presented in 4K with HDR and Dolby Atmos Audio. Special features are listed below.
Special features:
The Sandman - Behind the Scenes
The World of the Endless
There is another world that waits for all of us when we close our eyes and sleep — a place called the Dreaming, where The Sandman, Master of Dreams (Tom Sturridge), gives shape to all of our deepest fears and fantasies. But when Dream is unexpectedly captured and held prisoner for a century, his absence sets off a series of events that will change both the dreaming and waking worlds forever.
The Sandman: The Complete First Season.
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jimothystu · 8 months
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Who’s the biggest joker in the Canadiens locker room?
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wwprice1 · 10 months
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Today marks 60 years of X-Men!
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horrorcrypt12 · 6 months
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31 Day Horror Challenge:
Day 12: Movie-In-A-Movie
Now Watching: Scream 4 (2011)
"Ten years have passed, and Sidney Prescott, who has put herself back together thanks in part to her writing, is visited by the Ghostface Killer"
Happy Halloween!
@nightmareonfilmstreet
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st-louis · 10 months
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kirby's favorite player.
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aspic31 · 1 year
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I’ve had pumpkin cowboy by bdg stuck in my head all day so have this little lad
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ronnola · 5 months
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