#ferling study

[dissociative-disaster]

I like the specificity of exam questions.

they could've just said 'scooter' and with the picture everyone would've gotten the meaning, but they went for

'new push scooter that folds'

and somehow that's really endearing!

#exams #wjec #welsh #not me studying at quarter-to-one for some fucking reason. #the exam's not soon or anything and i'm not behind. #i just live in a perpetual state of anxiety over school work #wherein i ferl like i'm behind on something even when i'm ahead of schedule.

[spaghettiddy]

I could stare at your back all day

♡ Eddie munson x fem!reader ♡

Summary: Eddie’s trying to smoke the last cigarette but you’re ferling very clingy and don’t want to take your hands off him, in any sense.

Contents/warnings (18+ MINORS DNI!!): smut, handjob, (quite a lot of) spit as lube, switch!Eddie (sub! leaning), mention of oral (m recieving), cigarette smoking, a foot appears but not in a fetish way, fluff, lots of hugging, aftercare [1.8k words]

A/N: sorry for the misleading Mitski lyric beacuse this is quite filthy. English isn’t my first language so, please be kind and any kind of feedback is greatly appreciated :)

“Please Eddie, stay a bit more. Here? With me?” you ask him with your face buried in his curls, between his shoulder blades.

 Hes's leaning on the windowsill to smoke outside your window and you’re holding him from behind. Even if you can't see his face from there and his hair tickles, you don’t want to let go of him. You don’t want him to leave, leave alone in your room. Not this evening.  

He could stay there, halfway outside your window, all day. Blowing little clouds of smoke, waving shamelessly at clueless passerby and neighbors.

An everlasting last cigarette. 

You could stare at his back all day if it meant that your brain could slow down just a little bit and that your to-do lists seemed a bit less overwhelming, just because of his presence.  Having him around helps, being in an energy bubble different from yours. You like when he gestures for you to lift the book you’re reading so he can lay in your lap with his.  

You like observing him pace around your room, humming a song and fiddling with one of your knick-knacks. You like seeing him kick off his shoes right at the doorstep, like a kid ready for a playdate.

Eddie’s ribcage expands for a huff, pressing against your cheek “Last cigarette and then I have to go sweetheart, I told you”.  Now you’re the one huffing when you throw yourself back on the bed.

“Eddie come on,” you say with your sweetest voice, “you’ve been working away in that garage all summer. I feel like a barely saw you. Stay a little longer.” He turns his hesd just enough to look at you: pouting lips and exaggerated pleading expression, with a leg stretched out towards him.

He turns back to take another drag. He's shaking his head, but the burning edge of the cigarette faintly illuminates a smile.

You take a good look at his back profile. Shoulders wide enough to fill nicely the double layered metal attire, a slim bit solid waist. Black tight jeans hugging his lean legs and butt, black bandana hanging from the back pocket.  

However, your eyes are fixed on the slice of exposed skin between the hem of the shirt and the elastic of the blue checkered boxers.

The white eyes of the creature printed on his back patch seem to judge you for what you’re about to do. You know he’s thinking about staying he just need a little push in the right place. So you scoot forward on your elbows, until your foot makes contact with his inner thigh.

“Hey. Watcha doing back there?” he asks, amused curiosity in his voice.

You rub your sock clad foot up and down his leg an come to a halt right at his crotch. 

“Nothing.” The sweetness in your voice replaced with malice.

Finally, he turns around. “Nothing” he repeats, cigarette still in one hand while the other comes down to your ankle, to stop your movements and pull you towards him.

His warm fingers squeezing your leg having the same effect on you, as the foot pressing on his zipper is having on him.  

“You won’t even let me finish this huh?” The feeling of his hand on your leg shooting straight the apex of your thighs as you watch him let the half cigarette hang from his lips to grab your calf with the other hand. Before he can drag you off the bed, you free yourself from his grip to get up and take the two steps separating you.  

He flicks away the ash without even looking, studying your face with an amused half smile, waiting for your next bold move.  

Instead, you star showering him with feather light kisses, all over his mouth, jaw and neck. Body pressed against his, you feel his cock stir to life to your apparently innocent touches.

Growing impatient Eddie tucks his shirt under his chin to unbuckle his jeans, giving you full access to run your hands over his lean torso. Your fingers wander lower, lightly tracing his happy trail up and down, up and down until you're palming him through his underwear, accomplice of the heat pooling low in your belly.

“No no, wait,” he says, tone almost shy. You would worry something is wrong if it isn’t for the way he’s grinning “Can you do the thing with your hand? Like last time?”  

“Oh. So yo’re the one making requests now.” You know exactly what he means, still remembering how pent up your new little way of teasing got him.

“Come on. You’re the one eho threw yourself at me, baby.” You’re quite literally holding him by the balls and he’s still making snarky comments. He’s lucky you want this as much as he does, if not more.

You bring your right hand up to your lips and lick a long, slow stripe from the base of your palm up to the middle finger, flicking your tongue on the fingertip.

“Fuck.” he exhales, blowing smoke out of the nostrils. Hypnotized.

Without breaking eye contact you repeat the movements for the index finger then you move to the skin connecting the palm and the thumb.

His eyes follow your hand as you slowly move it where he wants it most. He gasps even before you touch him, stopping millimeters away from his shaft. He looks at you almost with worry, almost losing the focus that stops him from moving his hips forward and meet your touch.

“If you want this so bad, the least you can do is cooperate.” The palm shiny with your spit is placed in front of his face, his heavy breathing fanning over it.

“With pleasure.” His soft muscle drags along your palm and fingers. Goosebumps erupt on the skin of the same arm when the tip of his tongue slips between your fingers.

When he’s finished, he takes the last drag of his cigarette and waits for you to touch him, blowing the smoke from the side of his mouth. There’s no way he doesn’t do it on purpose. He's aware of the effect he has on you.  

In a moment you take him in your hand slicking up his length with your combined spit and he almost chokes on the last part of that provocative exhale.

“Shit. Your hands are –ah- always so soft.”  

You start jerking him with one hand while the other comes down to caress his balls. Not one inch of him left untouched.

You push yourself against him, leaving enough space for your hands to move. His hands are immediately all over you, pawing at your chest and your hips thorough your light cotton shorts. He squeezes your ass so hard, you have to lean forward not to lose balance and he catches your lips in a sloppy kiss. When he squeezes again you feel your pussy lips spreading a little and you swear you can almost hear it with how wet you are getting.

Now he’s gripping the back of your neck, still sloppily kissing you and moaning in your mouth. “Always making me feel so good,” he whispers against your lips, voice low and husky “so eager too”.

You regain control. Shutting him up with another kiss and tightening the grip around his length. Your heavy breaths and the obscene noise of your combined spit mixing with the little drops of precum leaking from his slit, the only sounds filling the air of the small bedroom. All dangerously close to the open window.

Without free hands to move it, you dip your nose in his hair, to get as close as possible to his ear. “Do you know how pretty you are like this?” you ask lowly against the reddened shell of his hear, “with these pink lips. They match the tip of your cock, y’know that?”

“Oh fuck”, is the only thing he manages to get out.

“Which one should I kiss?”  

He whimpers, too far gone for a verbal response.

You turn your head downwards, resting your forehead on his shoulder, to watch as his abdomen contracts each time your fingers slide to gently cup his tip.

You feel him twitch in anticipation as you lean back down. But as soon you’re close enough for him to feel your hot breath, you get back up. You plant two tender kisses on the corner of his mouth, open in stupor and pleasure.  

“Maybe next time, pretty boy”

His eyes are flicking back and forth from where you’re working him with your hand to your satisfied face. Almost to make sure that it’s you. You’re the same person teasing him and the same person making him feel this fucking good, with those damn soft hands.  

Your pick up your speed, keeping your thumb upright so it catches on his slit with every stroke. You watch him unravel in your hands, wheezing between moans. Losing his grip on the windowsill and on your neck.  

His eyes screw shut and his head is tossed back, almost hanging outside the window. “Shit, shit, shit.” he pants “I'm gonna-”

He comes with choked groan. His spent leaking all over your fingers and landing on his pants, your shirt, his stomach.  

He slumps back forward, forehead on yours, coming down from the high.  

You step away to fetch something to clean yourself with, as he tucks himself back in his pants, not bothering with the handcuffs shaped belt buckle.

You start wiping your shirt and his pants, both ruined. You see his hand move to cup your cheek. “You know I would've stayed anyway, right?” he finally speaks, almost whispers.

You nod, freeing your hands to hug him. Your throw your hands around his neck, with a bit too much force, because Eddie has to catch you with a little humpf, before hugging you back, tight.

From this position you can watch the sky darken with Eddie’s slowing heartbeat as a background. “I meant what I said”, you mumble against his shoulder.

“About what? Next time?” he chuckles, shaking you slightly.

“Don’t ruin the moment.” Swatting him doesn’t work with your hands clasped behind his head “You are pretty. Handsome if you prefer.”

“i like pretty”, you hear him directly with one hear and feel his voice rumble through his chest where the other ear is pressed “But you’re making me blush, sweetheart.”

You move just enough to face him, faces so close your eyes almost cross. “This makes you blush and not what we just did? Just take the compliment”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” he says with the shyest smile you've ever seen on him. 

You step back and walk towards your wardrobe. “I’m giving you something comfortable and clean to wear. You’re not getting under the comforter like that”

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x you #stranger things fic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #stranger things #sub!eddie munson #switch!eddie munson

[theeurasianpost]

For the First Time Ever, Scientists Grow Plants in Lunar Soil

For the First Time Ever, Scientists Grow Plants in Lunar Soil

Rob Ferl, left, and Anna-Lisa Paul looking at the plates filled part with lunar soil and part with control soils, now under LED growing lights. At the time, the scientists did not know if the seeds would even germinate in lunar soil. Credit: UF/IFAS photo by Tyler Jones NASA-funded study breaks new ground in plant research. In the early days of the space age, the Apollo astronauts took part in a…

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#Featured #Featured2 #WorldFeatured

[saraiying]

NASA scientists grow plants in Apollo lunar soil for the first time: 'Everything sprouted!'

For the first time, scientists have successfully grown plants in lunar soil brought back to Earth by NASA's Apollo astronauts.

Researchers had no idea if anything would sprout in the harsh moon dirt and wanted to see if it could be used to grow food by the next generation of lunar explorers.

"After two days, they started to sprout!" said Anna-Lisa Paul, a professor in Horticultural Sciences at the University of Florida, who took part in the experiment. "Everything sprouted. I can’t tell you how astonished we were! Every plant – whether in a lunar sample or in a control – looked the same up until about day six."

Robert Ferl of the University of Florida's Institute of Food and Agricultural Sciences and his colleagues planted thale cress in moon soil returned by Apollo 11's Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, and other moonwalkers.

All of the seeds sprouted. But within a week, the coarseness and other properties of the lunar soil stressed the small, flowering weeds so much that they grew more slowly than seedlings planted in fake moon dirt from Earth. Most of the moon plants ended up stunted.

NASA said the timing for such an experiment was finally right, with the space agency looking to put astronauts back on the moon in a few years.

The ideal situation would be for future astronauts to tap into the endless supply of available local dirt for indoor planting versus setting up a hydroponic, or all-water, system, scientists said.

"The fact that anything grew means that we have a really good starting point, and now the question is how do we optimize and improve," said Sharmila Bhattacharya, NASA's program scientist for space biology.

The Florida scientists hope to recycle their lunar soil later this year, planting more thale cress before possibly moving on to other vegetation.

Results of the landmark study were published Thursday in Communications Biology.The longer the soil was exposed to punishing cosmic radiation and solar wind on the moon, the worse the plants seemed to do. The Apollo 11 samples — exposed a couple of billion years longer to the elements — were the least conducive for growth, scientists said.

Visit paper bag homepage for more details.

Moon dirt is full of tiny, glass fragments from micrometeorite impacts that got everywhere in the Apollo lunar landers and wore down the moonwalkers' spacesuits.

One solution might be to use younger geologic spots on the moon, like lava flows, for digging up planting soil. The environment also could be tweaked, altering the nutrient mixture or adjusting the artificial lighting,

More than 800 lbs. of moon rocks and soil were brought back by six Apollo crews. Most of the lunar stash remained locked away, forcing researchers to experiment with simulated soil made of volcanic ash on Earth. NASA finally doled out 12 grams to the University of Florida researchers early last year, and the long-awaited planting took place last May in a lab.

[saxlockian]

https://youtu.be/TrzLjhQSl9w

🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷🎷

#Youtube #classical saxophone #saxophonist #classical saxophonist #alto sax #alto saxophone #ferling #ferling etude #etude #study #youtuber #music #musician

[emiefaunwrites]

Ishileon! So leon goes to Mondo and asks him to be his wingman. Obviously Mondo knows Taka the best. But Mondo,,,he isn't going to make it easy on leon. Most of Mondo's advice is sound,,,if it were anyone but Taka. So a few weeks go by, Leon is still at square one, Mondo is secretly laughing his ass off. But then Taka comes to Mondo and confesses that he thinks he may love Leon? And taka has never been in love but loving Leon seems right. Now Mondo is like 'oh shit' and steps it up as a wingman.

Hey anon!

So I've kiiiiinda done variants of this before (Realising their Feelings and Impress the Boy in my Master List). But I'm happy to expand to accomodate this!

Because yes - Leon would ask Mondo to be his wingman. And before Mondo realises Taka is crushin' on Leon too, he would make Leon suffer and laugh about it.

(I've changed love to crushin' on him if thats okay? I have a plan for realising they're in love and also when they say it is all...)

So (with a few tweaks to fit what I've already written), here we go with wingman Mondo! Hope this is what you're after and thank you for the ask!!

**********************

• Mondo is a good friend.

• He is the BEST friend, in fact - always making sure that Taka is properly respecting and treated right by the other classmates and doing everything to help him relax and have fun whilst supporting his future goals.

• So when Leon comes over sheepishly, asking for advice on how to impress Taka, Mondo does not take it seriously.

• Leon's a self-proclaimed ladies man - a notorious flirt who goes through relationships in the blink of an eye.

• Mondo will NOT let Taka be his next conquest.

• But that isn't to say he won't 'help' his friend.

• Leon has confessed that his flirting method didn't work, so he's stumped on what to do now.

• So Mondo gives him some ideas on what to do to impress the object of his 'affection'.

• Now don't get me wrong - it's decent advice. He's not going to deliberately throw him stupid ideas after all.

• But...the ideas aren't suited for impressing a guy like Taka.

• For example, Mondo's first idea is to offer to carry Taka's bag and stuff. 'Coz people LOVE to know yer thinkin' of them like that.'

• Taka doesn't like people holding his stuff and so refuses every time.

• Next up, Mondo suggests that Leon compliment his outfit. 'Cuz people LOVE knowin' yer payin' attention to them like that.'

• Taka wears the same type of uniform every day and knows people think it's weird, so get really uncomfortable when it's brought up.

• Finally, Mondo suggests that Leon just get to know him. 'Cuz people LOVE to feel like others care, ya know?'

• Now that one SHOULD work...apart from the fact that Mondo suggests Leon try it during their study sessions, which Taka takes VERY seriously and gets frustrated when others don't ferl them same.

• Weeks pass, with more and more failed attempts, and Mondo is feeling really smug with himself.

• Leon is starting to lose hope, thinking it must just be that Taka doesn't reciprocate, and eventually stops asking for advice.

• But he hasn't started chasing anyone new...which is weird.

• And he's really bummed out. Again - weird.

• Then Mondo and Chi hear from Taka that he's got a crush on Leon.

• And everything starts falling to place in Mondo's head.

• He barrels into Leon's room, demanding to know if he was actually serious about liking Taka.

• To which the answer is of course a big yes - a look in his eye so very different to all the times he's 'liked' a girl.

• And now his giving up makes sense - Leon typically persues a girl until they give in. Not once has he given up, ESPECIALLY not whilst looking so glum about it.

• Ah shit - Mondo's been a BAD wingman.

• 'I have an idea...'

• 'There's no point. He doesn't feel the same. I don't want to bother him anymore...'

• 'Jus' one last thing. If this don' work, we'll give up. Yeah?'

• Leon reluctantly agrees, listening to what Mondo has to say.

• And of course, Mondo FINALLY gives proper advice that's come straight from Taka's mouth.

• Alongside the overheard conversation he heard between Chi and Taka, Leon's in Taka's room teaching him to play guitar.

• And he deploys the new tactic: directness.

• 'D'you...d'you want to go on a date with me?'

• Taka, who's concentrating hard on the strings of the guitar, jolts so much in surprise that he snaps a string.

• So now he's profusely apologising and blushing furiously, Leon chuckling and saying it's no big deal whilst changing the string...

• 'You really want to go on a date with me?'

• Leon looks up at Taka, who's looking really nervous but slightly hopeful.

• And he just looks so freaking cute so Leon can't help but smile as he nods.

• 'Yeah. I really do. But if you don't want to...'

• 'Yes!'

• Leon heart swells in his chest at how happy Taka looks, feeling his face flush with his own joy.

• And Mondo, who hears about it from a very happy Taka the next day, has already picked out an outfit to make Leon's jaw drop.

• Ya know, as a sort of apology.

#kiyotaka ishimaru #leon kuwata #mondo oowada #ishileon #ask request #anon ask

[justforbooks]

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet, artist, activist and founder of San Francisco’s famous City Lights Bookstore, who has died aged 101 of interstitial lung disease, was the least “beat” of the Beat Generation. In addition to a political commitment that blended anarchism and ecology – he loathed the motor car, calling it “the infernal combustion engine” – he had an instinctive business sense, founded on the philosophy of small is beautiful. City Lights, which he started in partnership with the magazine editor Peter Martin in the early 1950s, is still among the most welcoming of shops, with its tables and chairs, sheaves of magazines, and signs saying: “Pick a book, sit down, and read.”

Ferlinghetti discouraged interviewers and seekers of personal information. “If I had some biographical questionnaire to answer, I would always make something up,” he once said. Different reference books give different dates of birth, and one published story had it that he wrote his doctoral dissertation on the place of the pissoir in French literature. For many years, he listed his dog, Homer, as City Lights’ publicity and public relations officer. The poet recalled that Homer Ferlinghetti received regular mail, but that his public relations career stalled when he peed against a policeman’s leg. For this act of citizenship, he was immortalised by his master in the poem Dog.

Perhaps the facts made Ferlinghetti uncomfortable. He was born Lawrence Monsanto Ferling in Yonkers, New York, to a French mother, Albertine Mendes-Monsanto, and an Italian father, Carlo Ferlinghetti, an auctioneer, who had shortened the family name to Ferling. His parents were unable to care for him, however (sometimes Ferlinghetti said his father had died before his birth, sometimes after), and he was rescued by an aunt, Emily Monsanto. She took him to France, where they lived for his first six years. Returning to the US, Emily was employed as a governess by a family called Lawrence, a branch of the one that founded Sarah Lawrence College. “Then she left me there,” Ferlinghetti told an interviewer in 1978. “She just disappeared one day, and that family brought me up.”

His education was extensive. In the early 1940s, he attended the University of North Carolina, where a professor introduced him to the vernacular voice in poetry. This was a revelation: you didn’t have to sound like TS Eliot to write a poem. After wartime naval service had taken him back to Europe, Ferlinghetti enrolled at the Sorbonne, studying French literature while translating poets and novelists in his spare time. One day in a restaurant, he noticed that the paper tablecloth had a poem written on it, and that it was signed “Jacques Prévert”. He took the tablecloth with him as he left the restaurant, and some years later translated the poems in Prévert’s Paroles, eventually published, under the original title, by his own City Lights Books.

Back in New York again in 1946, Ferlinghetti went to Columbia University, preparing a thesis on Ruskin and Turner. He just missed meeting Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, who by then had either been banned from (Ginsberg) or had dropped out of (Kerouac) the university. Ferlinghetti did not team up with the Beats until eight years later, in San Francisco.

Drawn to Paris once more at the end of the 1940s, he met George Whitman, proprietor of the English-language bookshop opposite Notre Dame, which was first known as Le Mistral and is now Shakespeare and Company. Ferlinghetti looked to Whitman as an example when he opened City Lights Bookstore in 1953. It was the first all-paperback bookshop in the US, and, as Ferlinghetti said, “Once we opened, we just couldn’t get the doors closed.” He ran the place more in the spirit of public service than for profit, and by the 70s was content to live on his book royalties and plough the takings at the counter back into the shop.

Two years after starting City Lights, Ferlinghetti published his own collection of poems, Pictures of the Gone World, as No 1 in the Pocket Poets series, little four by five-inch, black-and-white paperbacks, which continue to appear today – one of the most popular literary lists of modern times. It was at this stage that he reverted to the original family name, Ferlinghetti. The next two Pocket Poets after Ferlinghetti were Kenneth Rexroth and Kenneth Patchen – as a result, both were drafted as “fathers of the Beat Generation”, somewhat to their displeasure – but it was the fourth in the series that ensured the list’s success. And for that, as Ferlinghetti was quick to point out, they had to thank the San Francisco police department.

The book was Howl and Other Poems, by Allen Ginsberg. Ferlinghetti had heard Ginsberg read the title poem at an event at the Six Gallery, San Francisco, in October 1955. On returning home, he sent the poet a message that consciously echoed the famous letter from Ralph Waldo Emerson to Walt Whitman after Emerson had read Whitman’s Leaves of Grass: “I greet you at the beginning of a great career.” The proprietor of City Lights added: “When do I get the manuscript?”

The book was published the following year, in an edition of 1,000 copies. However, after a failed attempt by the police to prosecute the bookseller for peddling obscene material, the reprints could not come fast enough. Ferlinghetti joked that the police “took over the advertising account and did a much better job”. Howl remains the bedrock of City Lights’ success as a publishing concern. It has now gone through well over 50 reprints, often more than one a year.

Ferlinghetti’s own poetry is irreverent, cajoling, casual and loose-limbed, sometimes excessively so. His models were Whitman and William Carlos Williams. In partnership with Rexroth, he took part in many poetry and jazz events on the West Coast, and the two made a record together. Ferlinghetti later became disillusioned with the poetry and jazz combination – “The poet ended up sounding like he was hawking fish from a street corner,” he said.

His verse on the page, though, suggests a spoken origin, as in his poem Underwear:

Underwear controls everything in the end Take foundation garments for instance They are really fascist forms of underground government ….

In addition to his many collections of verse, including A Coney Island of the Mind (1958), The Secret Meaning of Things (1969) and Endless Life (1981), Ferlinghetti wrote two novels: Love in the Days of Rage (1988), which is set during the student revolt of 1968 in Paris, and Her (1960), a more experimental work, a classic “poet’s novel”.

On one of his transatlantic voyages, Ferlinghetti met Selden Kirby-Smith (known as Kirby), whom he had had a passing acquaintance with at Columbia. They married in 1951 and had two children, Julie and Lorenzo, but were divorced in 1976.

In 1971, Nancy Peters, a former librarian at the Library of Congress, joined the company, and as time went on played a larger part in running the business, leaving Ferlinghetti to his creative work. She served as executive director from 1984 until 2007, and then continued to be involved as a co-owner of the business.

Ferlinghetti also had a serious interest in painting, and in 1990 the University of California mounted a retrospective. Many poems feature the names of painters, or employ a self-consciously “painterly” style, such as Short Story in a Painting of Gustav Klimt or Returning to Paris with Pissarro.

Ferlinghetti disliked being associated with the Beats, though he benefited from it, and, despite his love of Ginsberg, was apt to lament the commercialisation of the Beat Generation. Ginsberg, he said, “fabricated the whole thing out of his imagination”. But, happily contradicting himself, he could add, as late as 1996, “It’s still the only rebellion around.”

A collection of the correspondence between Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg was published in 2015, under the title I Greet You at the Beginning of a Great Career. At the same time, a selection of his travel journals appeared, Writing Across Landscapes.

Ferlinghetti expressed disappointment in other Beat writers for their unstructured approach to politics. He decided to travel to Cuba to see the Castro regime for himself and later wrote One Thousand Words for Fidel Castro, which ends, “Fidel … I give you my sprig of laurel.” Another political poem evoked a surrealistic scene by Goya, showing “freeways 50 lanes wide”, with “fewer tumbrils / but more maimed citizens / in painted cars”. In 2012 he declined to accept an award from the Hungarian Pen club, in protest at the policies of prime minister Viktor Orbán.

City Lights, open till midnight seven days a week, was Ferlinghetti’s way of infusing the spirit of resistance peacefully into the streets of San Francisco.

With Peters, he wrote a Literary Guide to San Francisco (1980), and in 1988 was responsible for the renaming of 10 streets after writers associated with the city, including Jack Kerouac Alley, partly composed of City Lights’ back wall. In 1994, he himself was similarly honoured by Via Ferlinghetti, the first time a street has been named after a living writer in the history of the city.

He is survived by his children and three grandchildren.

• Lawrence Monsanto Ferlinghetti, poet, artist and bookseller, born 24 March 1919; died 22 February 2021

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Lawrence Monsanto Ferlinghetti

[robert-de-niro-only-fans]

Sneaking Around with You

Frank Raftis x Reader

Short but cute,all fluff! Hope you enjoy. Requested by @robert-a-de-niro ❤️

TW: cheating, marriage

Word Count: 1k

Just as you set the last dish on the dining table, the doorbell rings. You rush over, stopping in the mirror for a moment to starighten your clothes and make sure your hair looks nice. After you decide you look nice enough, you open the door.

Upon seeing you, Frank just stops and stares for a moment. He looks nice. He has on a button up shirt with the too few buttons undone and a sports coat with nice slacks and leather shoes. He also has a small duffle bag hanging on his shoulder.

Your husband is out of town this weekend, and Frank told his wife he had to go out of town for work. But you both lied about what you would be doing that weekend so you could spend more time with each other.

You couldn't explain what it was about him; you just like Frank so much. You don't want to be cheating on your husband, and Frank didn't want to cheat on his wife, but you are just so attracted to each other. It felt like you couldn't help it.

So, you welcome Frank inside and he drops his overnight bag at the foot of the stairs.

"Hello. How are you this evening?" he asks, gently caressing your hair and waist.

"Oh, I'm good," you can't help but blush all the time around him, even if he just asks you how you are, "how are you?"

"Hungry," he states, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head a bit, "dinner smells amazing." He brings you in for a few soft, slow kisses. Afterwards, he pulls away and thanks you for cooking dinner.

Over dinner you talk like you always do. He listens intently as you tell him about what you've had going on, some of the troubles you've been having with your husband, your work. Frank takes particular interest in your work, especially since he's in your home and he knows you work at home. You told him weeks ago that you're a bit of an artist, designing logos and signs for restaurants and businesses.

After dinner, you give him a small tour of the downstairs of your home on the way to your office. Once there, you flick on the lights, and he walks around, observing all the things in your office: a book shelf full of art studies and design books, papers scattered across your desk in an organized but haphazard way, colored pencils, pans of watercolor paint on your drawing table, a cup of paint brushes.

He picks up a bigger piece that you had been working on, "Wow, you made this?"

You blush and nod your head at him.

He shuffles through a few pieces you had left scattered around, "these are incredible," there's a pause as he turns towards you and places his hands on your hips, "just like you." He smiles, looking over your pretty face.

As steps closer to you to place more kisses on you, your lips, your cheeks, your neck. Things quickly turn a bit more passionate. Your hands explore Frank's chest as you make out with him.

He leans into you and you step back until your back makes contact with the wall, and you bump into a picture frame hanging there. You both quickly check to make sure the picture won't fall, and then there's a pause of you both look at each other and chuckle a bit.

Frank kisses you softly a few more times before quietly asking, "Do you think we should take this little party upstairs?"

"Ummm... Yeah! I mean- I guess we should." He admired your little blush as you stumbled over your words. You take him by the hand and lead him upstairs. He grabs his duffle bag on the way up.

Upstairs in your bedroom, Frank takes a look around and takes a seat on the corner of your bed, "So, uh, this is where the magic happens then?" Corny as always.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," you respond taking a few steps towards him. He reaches out to you and leads you to stand right in front of him.

"Come here," he says, motioning with his finger. You lean in closer to him, and he starts kissing you again. This time with more tongue than usual. You sit on the bed straddling his lap, and he holds your body close to his. He pushes your sweater off of your shoulders and drops it to the floor before attacking your neck and chest with kisses.

It feels great, but you're completely frozen. This whole thing feels wrong, but he ferls so right.

"Frank," is the only word you can get out.

"Yes, honey? Is everything okay?" he asks upon seeing the unreadable look on your face.

"I don't know if I can do this," you whisper to him.

"Oh," he answers.

"It's just- my husband sleeps here. We're married, Frank."

"I know, I know, and you're right. I don't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable."

Sweet to the very end; he was always so considerate to you.

"Should I leave?" he asks after a short pause.

"Oh, uh, no. Don't leave; I just don't think we should do what we were about to do."

"Hmm, okay then. What should I do?" A smile spreads across his face, putting the whole thing behind him so that you don't feel awkward. He really is a gentleman.

"Um, maybe we should just put on our pajamas and watch a movie?"

"Sounds great, (Y/N)," he says, placing a hand on your cheek.

And that's exactly what you spend the rest of the night doing. You both change and Frank finds a movie on tv, a romance naturally, and you cuddle the rest of the night, falling asleep in Frank's warm arms.

[anarchywithadashofmonarchy]

Thomas Jefferson, was a bad person. 

Sure, he did some good things for the Colonies, but that's really all he did. He also raped his slave, Sally Hemings. A 14 year old child. Meaning that he impregnated her, leading her to give birth to his son. Although people often say there is no proof that he raped Sally, there is evidence of the crime. In 1784 to 1789, Jefferson lived in France as he was the US Envoy and Minister to France. Whilst moving there, he took a few of those he enslaved, including James Hemings.

Two years after moving to France, Jefferson had requested that his daughter Polly was sent there as well, so that meant Polly would bring her enslaved chamber-maid, 14 year-old Sarah “Sally” Hemings - James’ younger sister. The siblings were both off-spring of Jeffersons’ father-in-law, John Wayles. This means that the two Hemings were half-siblings to Jeffersons’ late wife Martha Wayles Skelton Jefferson. So Thomas, after raping Sally a multitude of times impregnated her in Paris. Her first child had died after her return to America.

She had six other children of Thomas’ in Monticello.

January of 2000, a report done by the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Foundations’ Research Team had managed to conclude that through DNA studies, both primary and secondary documents, as well as oral histories of Jefferson and Hemings descendants and nationally renowned scholars, that there is in fact, a “high probability that Thomas Jefferson fathered Eston Hemings and that he most likely was the father of all six of Sally Hemings’ children appearing in Jefferson’s records.”

As a result of Thomas’ perverted lust for a black child, many during the time period were confused on why he promoted the “Back to Africa” movement. Most who truly knew him as a person knew that he didn’t enjoy the idea of black people going back to their motherland, and gaining independence. The only reason he promoted it was to cover up Hemings’ children, who were, as he called them- his “Shadow family.”

Thomas’ criminal lust after a child of color doesn’t truly affect his character, as in 1776, the time period he wrote the Declaration of Independence, he held 175 black men, women, and children in his ‘custody.’ That number grew to 267 by 1822. Jefferson wasn’t just a slave-holder racist, he was also a legislative racist (legislative - having the power to make laws). As it was pointed out by Joyce Oldham Appleby, Professor Emerita of History at UCLA and former President of the Organization of American Historians and the American Historical Association, as well as Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr., former Professor of History at Harvard University and Professor Emeritus at CUNY Graduate Center. It is said that Jefferson had opposed the practice of slave-holders freeing their slaves as it would incite ‘rebellion.’ Though as pointed out by John E. Ferling, after Thomas had been elected to the Virginia House of Burgess in 1769, he had proposed a law to make it so free people of color were banned from entering and exiting the state, and banish children whose fathers were of African descent. He had also attempted to expel white women who had had children with black men.

Going through all this information, you would think that it couldn’t get much worse than this. Apologies, but it does. As Jefferson was an international racist as well. In his cabinet position as Secretary of State in 1795, he gave 40,000 dollars as well as one thousand firearms to colonial French slaveholders in Haiti as an attempt to thwart Toussaint L’Ouverture’s slave rebellion. Later on as president, lending the French 300,000 dollars “for relief of whites on the island,” as he supported their plans to resume power.

Along with being an international, perverted, and legislative racist, Jefferson was also an ignorant racist. In his book written in 1785, labeled “Notes on the State of Virginia,” he had written “the preference of the ‘oran-outan’ (i.e., an ape-like creature) for the Black women over those of… (its) own species.” He then went on to say that blacks had “a very strong and disagreeable odor” and that they “are inferior to the whites....”

The mistake I made in this is the fact that I am only showing one side of this argument, I am not giving a chance for the other side to make their case, so I will let them. On March 4th, 2018 10:20 AM, a Guest commented on an article that exposed Thomas, they said “What is the point of accusing someone over 200 years ago of being a pedophile? We know that slavery existed, we also know that it was written out of law in 1863. Even with Sally being a slave, who is to say that she did not care for Thomas? Do we have Sally's diary or other written documentation as to how she truly felt about her circumstances? Why are you assuming the status of their relationship (when it is even a crime to assume someone's gender in present times lol)? What is the true purpose of this slanderous article, if only to poke at people who lived over 200 years ago, and to drag Sally and Thomas' descendants through the mud? I'd encourage you to live your life for *today* based on upon your own critical research. Would you want people in 2200 to look back on your life and call you a racist, ignorant, intelligently inferior snowflake - because that's exactly what they are going to do after reading your comments!”

Another guest commented on August 22nd, 2018 at 2:20 AM, “During that time it was common for 14 year olds to marry and have children. So knock off the pedophile bullshit. You assume that Sally and Thomas were not in love with one another, yet have no proof. Twisting bits and pieces of history to suit your pathetic needs. Truly the act of a Coward a.k.a. Coar. Perhaps you should do a bit more research about slavery in Africa and note that the first slave owner in the Americas was black. Perhaps you could also acknowledge the whites who died fighting against slavery during the Covil War and the many whites that marched and died during the civil rights movement. But no, none of that would suit your Racist needs.”

Wow, okay, saying that we don’t acknowledge the whites who died in the ‘Covil War,’ is not true. It is more likely that we acknowledge them more than we do the actual slaves who died during the time period, or the 100 year gap that took place after the war when organizations such as the KKK began. And yes, although it was common for 14 years olds to already be married and have children, it doesn't make it better. We have evolved from that time and have finally realized that kids shouldn’t have sex with adults. 

“Who is to say that she did not care for Thomas?” She was a slave to his daughter, even if she did have some sort of positive feelings for him - which as you said we have no proof that she felt any feelings towards him, as we don’t have her diary, but we do have excerpts from her son, Madison Hemings book, Life Among the Lowly. In which he said “He wished to bring my mother back to Virginia with him but she demurred. She was beginning to understand the French language well, and in France she was free, while if she returned to Virginia she would be re-enslaved. She refused to return with him.”

But, as you said random commenter, we obviously don’t know how she felt. But, one could assume that due to the fact that she refused to return with him, her feelings towards him were negative.

#history #sally hemings #usa #blacklivesmatter #thomas jefferson #founding fathers

[spaceexp]

With New Shepard launch, space researchers become space customers

Gainesville FL (SPX) Oct 20, 2020 The University of Florida is helping to launch a new era in space research with a plant experiment aboard Blue Origin's New Shepard rocket that blasted off from the company's West Texas site Tuesday morning. Rob Ferl and Anna-Lisa Paul have been studying how plants respond to stressful environments for decades, placing their genetically engineered mustard plants on high-flying planes, on t Full article>>

#space

[introvertichabits]

enough...Enough.

During these few quarantine days that we are experiencing , I have actually had the time to acknowledge my feelings and something that I’ve been blocking off for a minute now.

So I started talking to someone back in October and things seemed to be very good. He was an individual that I seemed to grow fond of and I was intrigued to get to know. Things started to grow and I was unsure of how committed I would be to this. Just stating that because I had been single for about 5-6 years now and was very content in it. I was liking where things were going but I also was making sure that I was certain in this choice I was gonna make in terms of entering in a relationship with him. We were going on dates, dinner, talking, so ending quality time with each other, listening to each other, etc. Everything I could have found in him, I did. But again I didn’t feel fully committed to it. October changed to November. November moved swiftly into December. December had a shift on how we communicated with each other due to his career and schooling(Medical Field). Something I also had to get used to. But nonetheless I stated that I would be able to stick things out as much as possible. We exchanged gifts and realized we actually liked each other. Then New Year Eve came and we didn’t bring it in with each other. 🥺🥺 Honestly I was very bothered by it because I do feel like thosr who you are around is who you will eventually be around for the rest of the year. No new year kiss, no year call, and barely a text message. Should have kept that in mind. But never said anything.

The new year starts (Happy 2020!!) and now we haven’t seen each other for about 2 weeks now, again due to schooling and his career. I thug it out as much as possible and need some quality time in order to feel wanted and needed. Being the more assertive masculine, to his beliefs, I am the one who is suppose to voice what I want, or where I wanted things to go. In January, I was very much still unsure of how being in a relationship would feel. Very intense discussions about why haven’t I made the step yet. My uncertainty killed me on the inside because at the end of it, I felt like I couldn’t really be the man that I needed to be for him and we just wouldn’t have the time for each other. But nonetheless, I again thugged it out and surpressed my ferlings for the sake of trying to make sure he would be happy. Because after 4-5 months of dating, most people are trying to figure out....what are we doing? What game are we playing? So with uncertainty still in my body, I took his very though and feelings into consideration.

February comes and the pressure of making us a couple has grown and is weighing on me deeply. I take all my uncertainty, my doubt, my feelings and throw them to the side and fully consider him. I make the bold decision to just stick it out and ask him. I plan things and do it so romantically. (If I was to date me, I would because it was hella romantic) In front of my close friends, his friends, strangers and all. But even in that day, I still felt my uncertainty call to me. I ignored her and said no, Imma make this work regardless. After he said yes, it was still unbelievable for the first week. But because I was happy to finally not be single, it felt good. With his schooling and his job getting more intense as the day goes by, I feel less wanted and needed. But I told myself that all relationships don’t stay in the honeymoon stage. The talks seemed less intriguing, the dates seem to be less and more now scheduled, and seeing each other had to planned around getting off of work. So now because I ignored her, uncertainty is in my face like a bitch now. So now it is March, the Coronavirus had affected the world extremely and even during this time...all I want is quality time. I have hinted it, voiced it and mentioned it plenty of times. Even had the opportunity to move into my own place at the beginning of the month, and still uncertainty sits in this room with me more than he does. We could be quarantined with each other, watch movies, study his lessons, cook for each other, be with one another more in this time than anything. But nope.

So am I wrong for doubting this, feeling uncertain in myself or the relationship I have gotten myself into? Is it wrong for feeling like someone can be the one for the moment but not THEE one for your life? Does this sound like something we’re just doing to pass the time or just for the sake of being boyfriends?

#confessions of a thick gay boy #just a black boy #this is a long read #asktumblr #gay black love #relationship

[crazymusicianpoop]

My Practice Routine

Hey everyone, so here’s the post nobody asked for: My New Practice Routine

So when I got back to my apartment and was able to go to school to practice, I ended up creating a routine/schedule to follow everyday. It kind of felt like it just came to me, but after some thought I’ve realized it’s just all stuff I’ve been told I should do by professors or things I need to do for the school year. I’ve never shared any sort of practice routine simply because I’ve never had one, even when I did practice challenges in the past I had no goals or routine to work on the things I truly needed to. Pictured is all the books and sheets I’m currently using, almost in the correct order from left to right but I do use one twice at different points so my explanations will go into that

5 minutes breathing exercises:

Once I get my oboe and all of my supplies out and organize my books, I get up and do breathing exercises for 5 minutes. Mostly breathing in deeply and holding it to help expand my lung capacity since my breathing is terrible. I texted one of my old teachers to ask for more ideas so next week I’ll be adding some of those to my routine as well. After the timer goes off I sit down and work on the reed alone for a minute to get my embouchure and posture in place before I play.

30 minutes of Barret scale/articulation exercises:

There’s 30 scale exercises in the Barret book and I do one from every page, so probably 10 of them altogether. I really try to focus on having a full sound and being supported especially on the slower exercises. I usually finish with around 10 minutes on the clock once I’m done, then I use the rest of the time to focus on one of the 12 articulation exercises in the book.

30 minutes scales reverse 3rds/6ths:

For my next scale jury I have a few sheets with scales in reverse 3rds, 6ths and reverse 6ths I need to work on. Right now I’m taking them as slow as needed, mapping out the fingers and working on the leaps so a lot of the time I don’t get through all of it which I’ve realized is okay. I just get as much as I can in the time I’ve blocked out and pick up the rest the next day.

30 minutes of the Vade Mecum scale exercises:

My current prof has been pushing using the Vade Mecum scale exercises since he got here last year, so I’m trying to implement it into my schedule since I’ve had the book forever. It’s the same sort of thing, I’ve been going as slow as needed and mapping out fingerings so I don’t usually finish this either and I just leave it once time is up as well.

30 Minutes of Ferling etudes:

I was really frustrated with the Barret Grand Studies, so I decided to revisit Ferling etudes which I haven’t done since high school to do something different. I work a bit on the faster etude I’m doing then give my hands a rest to work on the slower etude. I’m taking the faster more technical etudes as slow as needed and using techniques I’ve been taught to get it all smooth and kind of effortless.

30 Minutes of Orchestral Excerpts:

This is what I consider the fun part of my practice because orchestral playing is my favorite part of music in general. I choose like 2 to spend 15 minutes on each, it really depends on how long or technical the excerpt is. For example, one of the audition excerpts is super short and there’s not a lot I can do with it so I maybe only allot 5 minutes of super focused practice on it. I use the Vade Mecum for my excerpts, as well as taking the sheet of audition excerpts as well. Right now I’m not going too hard on audition music but I really want to focus more on it the next few weeks.

Scale Chop Busting Exercise (Maybe 20 minutes??):

This last one was a suggestion from my former prof who I had a lesson with to get back in shape, and it’s been kicking my butt. Basically I’m doing every 2 octave major and minor (harmonic+melodic) scale from Bb to G on 16th notes then doing the arpeggios to go with them. I just start my stopwatch at the beginning and log the time I spend which has been getting faster because I’m speeding up the metronome a bit every time. Then I die and stagger my way home

Things I do in between or extra helpful things for me:

- I take out my reed a lot to blow on it alone to remind me to reset my embouchure correctly

- I’ve started logging everything so I remember what I needed to work on the next day

- I set a timer for each block and if I don’t finish I don’t sweat it and pick it up the next day. Mainly because I get frustrated and I think working on things while you’re upset or emotionally charged can be counterproductive and you make new mistakes and possibly set yourself back. I would obviously change this if I was working on things that had a deadline and adjust accordingly, but since it’s summer and I’m working on things without a deadline besides auditions I can do that.

- I take frequent breaks and either get up and walk around or do something on my phone to get my mind off practice for a little

- This is for Monday-Friday, I’m purposely taking it slow on the weekends to help my hands recover so I only do like an hour Saturday-Sunday

-This will definitely change during the school year with ensembles and juries so I’ll have to rework it, but I’d like to keep all of this in my routine

I think that’s it, I’m actually really enjoying practicing for the first time in awhile and I think this routine is helping. I’ll be at school for like 4-5 hours and it feels so short with the breaks, all of the blocks go by super quick and I’m feeling some improvement

- HM

#music #musician #life of a musician #music major #music major life #practice #practice room #practice routine #woodwinds #brass #strings #oboe #double reed #barret #ferling #college #band #orchestra #trying to improve #scales #etudes #orchestral excerpts #my life #summer

[pikapepikachuu]

Lawrence Ferlinghetti: The radical voice at 100

Ferlinghetti, left, and Allen Ginsberg in 1988. Though their friendship lasted until Ginsberg's death in 1997, Ferlinghetti kept himself at a remove. "I was his publisher, not his playmate." Credit:JON CHASE The prosecutor, a self-proclaimed "specialist in smut cases", ignored Ginsberg's tragic, era-defining portrait of "the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked", instead totting up the four-letter words. Unexpectedly, the judge a conservative Sunday school teacher found Ferlinghetti not guilty, declaring that unless a book "is entirely lacking in 'social importance' it cannot be held obscene". That victory for freedom of expression paved the way for the American publication of Lady Chatterley's Lover and cemented the idea of the Beat Generation. The trial has even had the Hollywood treatment, in Howl (2010), with James Franco as Ginsberg. Ferlinghetti points out that the Beats were self-mythologising from the start, because Ginsberg "was a very clever publicist for his group of poets. Without Allen Ginsberg there would not have been the Beat Generation. It was a creation in Allen Ginsberg's mind." Though their friendship lasted until Ginsberg's death in 1997, Ferlinghetti kept himself at a remove. "I was his publisher, not his playmate," he tells me.

Little Boy is Lawrence Ferlinghetti's long-awaited memoir-cum-novel, the fruit of two decades' work. City Lights Pocket Poets, which he ran from his bookshop, became a spiritual home for the Beats, introducing readers to the poetry of Jack Kerouac, Diane di Prima and Gregory Corso (who once raided the shop till; Ferlinghetti calmly deducted the cash from his royalties). Ferlinghetti's vision, though, was fiercely independent: "As for myself, I was never Beat." When Ginsberg tried to push "Ferl" to publish more of his friends, he replied: "I'm not out to run a press of Poets That Write Like Allen Ginsberg." To his credit, he didn't. City Lights' eclectic list ranged from Denise Levertov and Malcolm Bradbury to William Carlos Williams and Pablo Picasso. As editor, Ferlinghetti had an eye for talent, sensitivity and patience. He wrote Frank O'Hara postcards for five years saying he would "starve" without a full manuscript for his Lunch Poems, before O'Hara finally handed one over. ("I am very happy that you have stayed hungry," wrote O'Hara. "Lunch is in toaster and I hope you like it.")

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, pictured in 1973. City Lights' goal was not to promote "our gang" but to start "an international, dissident, insurgent ferment", open to hepcats and "Red Cats" (Soviet poets) alike. Shunning the "Beat" label, Ferlinghetti always preferred the term "wide-open" which is how Pablo Neruda, another City Lights poet, described Ferlinghetti's verse when they met in Cuba in 1960. There, over dinner, Ferlinghetti looked up to see a "big guy with beard wearing fatigues and smoking cigar come out of restaurant kitchen". It was Fidel Castro. The poet realised they had an acquaintance in common: "Soy amigo de Allen Ginsberg." This was enough to win him a "big smile" and a "soft handshake". Ferlinghetti's politics he is a socialist pacifist date back to his war experience. In the Normandy landings, he commanded a 30-man submarine chaser, part of the so-called "Donald Duck Navy" of tiny wooden craft, which were nonetheless entitled to call in as many supplies as a battleship a loophole he used to request a full set of the Random House Modern Library and copious amounts of "medicinal" brandy. The war went by with Ferlinghetti "enjoying every minute of it", until he was posted to Japan, and saw Hiroshima, weeks after the bomb. "It made me an instant pacifist," he said in 1999. "There was just three square miles of mulch with human hair and bones sticking out blackened unrecognisable shapes sticking up on the horizon, teacups full of flesh " In 1946 he moved to Paris to study at the Sorbonne and met his future wife, Kirby, on the ship over. They had two children, Julie and Lorenzo, and separated in 1973, but remained close until Kirby's death in 2012. Though Ferlinghetti is now settled with Lorenzo in North Beach, for much of his life he travelled compulsively. "Why do I voyage so much? And write so little?" he once wrote, on a bus to Mexico. The answer may come from his nomadic childhood, described elliptically in Little Boy, "the monologue of my life seen as an endless novel simply because I don't know how to end any life". The youngest of five children, Ferlinghetti was born in Yonkers, New York, a few months after his father, an estate agent, died. When his overwhelmed mother was committed to an asylum, he was adopted by his aunt Emilie then Emilie's husband ran off, leaving her destitute. She was forced to send Ferlinghetti to an orphanage (of which his sole memory is "undercooked tapioca pudding") until she landed a job as a live-in governess to the Bislands, a wealthy family in Bronxville. They were happy, then one day she left forever without a word. Ferlinghetti now supposes the glamorous Emilie must have charmed Mr Bisland "a little too much". The Bislands, who had lost a son called Lawrence in infancy, went on to adopt Ferlinghetti. The most poignant moment in Little Boy is the unexpected arrival of his mother and brothers to the Bislands' home. They weren't invited inside. Instead, aged just six, Ferlinghetti was forced to go out on to the lawn and choose between the families: "He finally stuttered out, 'Stay here,' and that was it, as his true mother and brothers just went away and he only half realising at all what he had done, his whole life decided in an instant." "My mother must have felt terrible about that moment," he tells me. Did he ever see her again? "It was the last time." In his 2007 Poetry as Insurgent Art, Ferlinghetti suggested that every poet must decide whether birdsong is joyous or sad, "by which you will know if you are a tragic or a lyric poet". Readers of Ferlinghetti's poetry often funny, always alive with music, and "constantly risking absurdity" might have imagined him to be in the lyric camp. But the final words of Little Boy make his choice clear: "the cries of birds now are not cries of ecstasy but cries of despair". Little Boy is published in May by Faber & Faber at $29.99 Telegraph, London Most Viewed in Entertainment Loading https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/books/lawrence-ferlinghetti-the-radical-voice-at-100-20190401-h1d1rq.html?ref=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_source=rss_feed

[geliefe-blog]

Footnote To Youth

The story I read intitled the Footnote to Youth, that is writen by Jose Garcia Villa. The story is nice, it is all about the man that so aggressive in married. He wanted to marry at the young age, he didn't listen to his parents only he can do is to be angry like it's have a trouble to their friends later. That is what he want to discover or recognized by his parents, so that he will be granted of what he want. His parents haven't do anything but to allow his son Dodong to marry Teang and because he did say that he love Teang so much. I think the purpose of the writer in this story is to know the readers/people that having a family in a young age is very hard. Especially if you have no longer enough a matured mind and you are not ready in marrying someone. The writer wanted to say that, think first before you take the challenging world because I know that the writer's know also how hard having a family, especially if you are not ready enough in this situation. You must to think and consider also if what level status you have to do those things. Yiu must be consider your expertness in handling a family especially, if you have already childrens. The message of the story is obey your parents because parents knows everything. That is what happened to Dodong he is so aggressive and interested to have a family and marry Teang but after some days, Dodong did realized that having a family in a young age is not easy. He feel it in some days or somehow he felt it in how many days, he started feel guilt if what he did, he felt embarrassed about what he did to his parents, because he realized that all he did to his parents is not good. The supporting arguments I think in this story is when the time that Dodong and Teang live together in a same house and having a children, that the reason why did Dodong ferl guilt and embarrassed if what he did. He realized that before, he is so interested and wanted to marry Teang, that also his parents cant force him to not married in a young age. And now Dodong wanted to run away and left Teang. He realized that if he listen to his parents before that he will not marry directly because he is young, I think he will not felt embarrassed right now. But when he heard the voice of his son his heart was touch and wanted to hold the baby, he wanted to get it to his parents, he want to see his son eye to eye and etc. The coherence of ideas and theoretical soundness is nice and awesome, because it can firmulate, recognized, influencing or somehow it convince the readers/people to not easily enter the most challenging world in life in building a family. It influenced the people to avoid this things or to avoid this situation. You need to consider first your status in life before you take this. It same's like, the writer wanted to avoid this situation by many people. He wanted to influence the readers not to take this challenged if you are young but beside of that if their are a chance to educate yourself and having a studies in life, it much better to decide like this, to have a education, so that your life and yourself will not be bored. You have a time to study and to teach your children someday if you build already your own family. You must be ready in all of this, you must be ready to take this challenge in your life. If you have this, your family is very lucky especially to yourself because you give a better future and a good life to your family especially to your children. I can conclude that, this story is more on influencing especially to the youth today in this generation. We must avoid the challenging world. We need to obey our parents and listen to them. We need to open our mind to this situation, not just we consider only our wants and our heart but also we listen to our parents especially. Having a family is hard and most of all it is not easily handling it. The benefits of it, is we know already how to avoid this and to know better what is the significance in having a family at the young age. We need to consider our status in life. Then, if we build our family some day we will know already how to manage it, even though we have a problem or challenge by God to our life, atleast we know how to handle it. We know hiw to teach our children someday that not like Dodong that he allow his son to marry like him in a very young age. My suggestion is, if I am in Dodong place I would not allow my son to marry like me at the young age but I think the saying must be true that " kung ano ang puno siya rin ang bunga".

[saxlockian]

New video! Ferling Friday 🎉🎉🎉🎉

Check it out on my YouTube 🎬

🎷❤️🎷

https://youtu.be/eIj7VH_UYzg

#saxophonist #saxophone #alto saxophone #muso #classical music #music #youtuber #youtube channel #youtube #musicvideo #sax #saxy #ferling #etude #saxophone etude #muisc lover #study #musician #musiclover #my music #classical

[sonofhistory]

Title: I Know You By the Flames Scattered Across Your Nose (Chapter One)

Part 7 of Early American History | Stories They Won't Tell

American History RPF, 18th Century CE RPF

Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson, Martha Jefferson/Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens

Words: 3098

Historical note: Location and timing have been thoroughly researched. Every cites the first recorded meeting of Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson as 1790. But what if I told you that both Jefferson and Hamilton served in congress in Philadelphia in 1782, both boarded in the same area and both considered James Madison (who was staying at Jefferson's lodgings) a friend. A most likely meeting between the two went unrecorded during Jefferson's seventy-five day stay in Philadelphia which begs the question; did they really meet? Biographer John Ferling and I believe so.

____________________

December 27th, 1782 || 11:00 pm

_____________________

          Sleep swam in Thomas Jefferson's eyes and he dragged a hand up to swipe across his eyelids. He rotated his neck, feeling tendons cracks vivaciously in his aching back. The roll of the carriage wheels echoed, bouncing off the brick buildings and floating back to him in waves. He struggled to keep his eyes open and felt his head continuously dipping forward before he snapped his shoulders, waking himself up. Darkness enveloped the city streets of Philadelphia and out the window he caught sight of a woman in a night cap shutting the shudders of an upstairs balcony before blowing out a candle. Thomas blinked again, tapping his head to the side of the walls, his body shifting with every vibration from the cobblestone streets.

             Vision partly blurred, he dug his hand into his waistcoat pocket, pulling out his pocket watch, flipping the silver head open with his fingers. He pursed his lips, it was too dark to see when he glanced down at the object, holding the watch directly in front of his face and squinting: 11:02. The bolt clicked back into place and was stuffed back into his pocket. He extended his long legs out and allowed his shoulders to sink, shadows from taverns caressed the outside of the carriage, so numb with sleep deprivation even the crack of a whip from the driver couldn’t end his body from shutting throughout him (although the corners of his mouth did cringe).

           How much longer? Thomas wondered and brushed a piece of curling, ginger colored hair behind the shell of his ear. He revolved his tongue in his throat, thirsty , his empty stomach let out a growl, hungry. He groaned, straightening and becoming irritated when the strands did not remain behind where he had placed them and fell back into his perception--he was too sleepy to even care. His attention fell towards the seat next to him and the small head lying in his lap. His daughter, Patsy Jefferson’s auburn shaded hair frayed across his legs, in a slumber and her knees, nestled, coiled up into the fetal position against her stomach, gentle breaths moving her chest up and down. A sigh penetrated the air, and he ran a hand over the top of her tiny skull, wrapping a finger around one of her curls; the father ceased this action when she began to stir, eyebrows meeting at the center of her brow before stalling into grace once again.

          He chewed on his lip, twitching his nose from the cold. So cold and yet no snow? His hands were stiff, even inside of his gloves, the cold nipped at the joints. A thin pasty shirt and waistcoat over his arms, shivering in his seat, his coat temporal like a makeshift blanket across Patsy’s shoulders and he suffered from the sacrifice. The carriage jolted, catching on a specific stone, the fabric slipped from his daughter’s neck and he hurried to cover the revealing skin to the frigid air. The hair on his arms standing straight up and Thomas clenched his jaw and the base of his neck jittered. Books in the opposite seat seat across from them, a few on the floor near his feet but he wouldn’t dare move and disturb Patsy’s peace. He wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her closer to him, studying how shadows from the whale oil street lamps danced on her cheeks.

           We’ll be there soon.

           The carriage wheels grew more quiet and arrived to a halt as the Virginian lifted his temple off of the door, where his breath had cloaking the glass, sitting upright. “Fifth and Market?”, a coarse voice, shaken with illness and wavering in sicken tones called from the front, slightly echoed. Thomas Jefferson did not answer, kicking off from the wall and skimming Patsy’s jowl with his glove. For some reason he nodded, yes, though the driver could not witness his motion.

        He hesitated for a minute until he heard the man step off of the top and onto the streets, bolts and wrenches easing as it toppled on one side from the weight and he shifted. “Patsy?”, he whispered, shaking her shoulder slightly, “we’re here, dear.” She murmured incoherently, eyelashes fluttering across her pale cheeks before they shut again. “Patsy… come on, up.”, he shuddered her again in an another attempt.

        “No… Papa…”, her head slid off of her father’s lap and onto the seating, rubbing her cheek. Thomas gave up, carefully placing her crown down before opening the carriage door; he contemplated grabbing his coat off of his daughter’s covering but tossed the thought away and treaded out onto the icy Philadelphia streets.

        If he was frosted stiff arranged in the carriage idle, it was naught compared to the slick streets under his boots and although there was no wind, the temperature--slightly before zero--caused Jefferson to tug the sleeves of his thin shirt until they came to his knuckles and stiffening his rigid exterior. What a bliss it would of been to of had snow pierce the earth in this very moment; a divergence of mood. He strided towards the rear of the carriage, gliding his fingers across the surface of the ride. The driver had already began to unload the bags out of the back, setting them with an odd delicacy.

        Thomas stepped forward to aide the man in his strain, raising an arm to grab a trunk but the man shrugged him off, blocking him. Thomas faltered, clicking his tongue. “I’ve got it, sir.”, he remarked. Apparently he didn’t because a trunk faltered off the top of the coach, chipping away paint in the corner. Containing his malcontent he trailed the rider as he lugged two of the bags into the inn. Mary House’s inn, the letters swirled elegantly against a verdant backdrop above the sloping roof, that shrouded the wood porch in a shade, two stairs connecting up from the cobblestone. The lights were still in the window, illuminating against the red brick, creating an inferno of flames. It was only a trunk, and four large bags they had brought--the trunk of course, now chipped.

        As the driver disappeared and then re-came, trotting back down the miniature steps and gathering another bag, the previous gone, Thomas lifted the door of the carriage open once again, climbing halfway into the backseat. “Patsy”, he pleaded sharply and nudging on her arm again. Only moans were received back. He rolled his eyes, climbing farther in and grabbing her underneath the arms, lugging her head over his shoulder and her stomach against his chest, lifting her up as you would a small child. She rustled, tensing her legs before relaxing and wrapping them around her father’s stomach, lacing fingers behind his neck; but those too soon grew to be dead weight as she was not even attempting to keep herself up. He shut the carriage door and made his way slowly to the doors of the inn, the corner of his eyes watching to make sure his boots don’t catch. This section of town surprisingly muted at the time and the heavens blinked down with navy orbs, piercing the night in sharp, bright stars that cut into the sky like rough diamonds.

        Thomas definitely expected Mary House’s inn to be far more busy and to his luck it was practically patent at this time. According to Madison, there was no place better in Philadelphia. Using his free arm, he entered the inn. Mary House was an elderly woman whose daughter, Eliza House, manned the building with the help of her husband. The inn as Jefferson soon discovered consisted to two floors. The first, with wood floors that creaked at the center had to the left a collection of tables with four chairs each around them. Towards the back wall, three longular boards with six stools on either side. In the center, vacant from tables were two thick, jagged wooden posts which held up the eggshell colored ceiling; at the end of the posts was a wide staircase that went up before more stairs sharply jeered to the left. To the right he acknowledged there were sixteen bar seats pushed in neatly to the counter with worn leather covers on the tops and painted gold beads circled them. Farther, near the staircase a large fire flickered and swayed, two carmine seats in front of the fireplace.

          Grateful for the warmth and still holding Patsy in his arms, Thomas shifted her weight from one arm to the other and toppling over to the counter. Besides an older man laying, with optics fastened by one of the chairs at the fire; three men concentrated rather somberly in the corner blinking tiredly and sloshing the clear liquid in their glasses back and forward; a gentleman leaning over his potatoes and flipping the pages of his book; and finally a woman with muscular hands, and vivid rose cheeks twisted a rag inside a glass and setting it onto a shelf with others--there was not one else downstairs, most having retired for the night.

            He huffed, a fiber strand of hair out of his face, “Excuse me?”.

              The woman’s attention immediately thrown to her side, acting as if she were startled, Thomas blinked, arms growing painfully numb. “Mr. Jefferson?”, she replied peeking at Patsy across his shoulder, wiping the once white rag across her hands and folding it onto the counter next to a pitcher of empty beer.

              “Yes, I have a room here?”

            She beckoned, close enough to toss her wrist over the counter and even with his taken hands he was able to give back a feeble extension, “Eliza House, pleasure to officially make your acquaintance, Mr. Jefferson.”

            Already heated by the temperate ventilation in the room, color flooded to the tips of his ears, scorching, nodding in acceptance. Coarse skin, and muscle that spiraled around her thumbs and the meat of her palms rather menacingly, their grip faded and she turned away, pushing open the thigh-high swing panel heading into a backroom that Jefferson merely caught a glance of. A case of keys glittered in a glass case that she opened with a key of her own, grabbing one off the third shelf and holding it out for Thomas to take--which he took and rubbed the pad of his finger over the imprinted number seven.

           Eliza began to make her way around the bar, “Allow me to lead you.” motioning with her chin toward the stairs at the end of the room.

             Thomas closed her off, “No, it is alright I won’t be a bother.”

           She nibbled on the edge of her lip, raw knuckles on her hips, contemplating before accepting. “I’ll at least get you a candle.”

           “Thank you,” he murmured into his daughter’s shoulder when she tried to speak in her sleepless disorientation.

            Shifting the key to his smallest finger, Eliza placed a metal tray with an already lit candle into his grasp, “the stairs lead to the second landing, Mr. Jefferson.” gesturing towards their bags near the door, “I’ll get my husband to bring them to you tomorrow morning”.

         He accepted, thanking her again and heading on his way.

        “And, Mr. Jefferson?”

        He side eyed her, “Yes, Ms. House?”

        “If you want, we still have soup and potatoes--I could heat some if you’d like.”

        The Virginian sighed with relief, his stomach aching and riping in agony, how long has it been since he last ate? He would’ve of eaten earlier had he hadn’t of given the last apple to Patsy a few miles out of town, and several minutes later--unable to ignore the lethargy and no longer able to stay up--she leaned against his shoulders before shutting her eyes.  

               “I’d like that very much.”

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              Up the stairs and near the center of the corridor was his room with a glittering number seven that glistened against the flicker of the wax candle on the upper midway of the painted door. A brass handle met his grasp and from the faint gloss of the flame he received a glance of his inner room. Three compacted rooms close to one another, one a limited bedroom with thick copper curtains that held back from the window, illuminating the room in shine from the oil lamps down in the street; it had a bed, and a tiny dresser in the bend (Thomas observed there was a patch of faded paint where a mirror used to hang that was now gone). Another room, half larger than the other had a bed more than twice the size with wall etched in a deep maroon color. A desk under the high ceiling made of cherry wood (he suspected) owned a chair and four poster bed frame built for two that sat in between the two walls and small tables on one side of the bed near the window. Both rooms led into the largest gathering, where a couch stood in the core of everything as if it was holding everything together.

            Thomas guided himself to the modest room, placing the candle on the top of the dresser, the lucent rebounding across the ceiling, enlightening the entirety of the room. He gently placed Patsy down on the bed, nestling the back of her head against a cream hued pillow. Revolving his shoulder, he felt blood rushing back into his arm and he allowed a sigh to pass his lips. Kneeling down at the foot of the bed, he tugged off Patsy’s brown leather boots, neatly placing them by the door to the room. He stood, about to exit the room.

             “Papa…”

             Thomas paused, Patsy’s weak voice cutting into the silence that once enveloped the atmosphere. Her eyes were separating, only some what welcoming the light, rolling on her side to face her father. He didn’t say a word, taking her hand in his and managing a half meant smile. Another hand dragged its way to side off her face, cupping her cheek and brushing stray hairs off of her forehead. A howl of wind ripped across the window pane, but neither looked to inspect.

            “I’m cold, Papa”, no blaze lit even though there was a fireplace in the main room, Thomas could understand, even he caught himself still shivering as the wintry blast fluffed right under the cracks at the edges of the icy glass. She lifted her feet and he aided in helping her body slip beneath the sheets.

              Rubbing his finger underneath her eye, before she began to fasten her orbs, “Are you hungry? Would you like something?”.

          She was already asleep before the last word even came out. He rose an eyebrow, her chest serenely drifting up and down with her subtle breaths. The candle’s wild flicker wavered across the walls. Thomas waited, hoisting himself up on his ankles at Patsy’s weakening grip on his fingers as she shot into obscurity. The blend of the room blended, shining across her cranium, fraying across her pillow in its carrot tinctures at many strands and locks. Chocolate eyes now shut, his own streamed down her sharp chin, precise forehead and cutting fuchsia lips--all features of her own father. That was not it, no matter how much he willed to disregard her rounded chin, her tendency to grow into temper or the ginger filaments that seeped across her hair sometimes when she laughed--Thomas Jefferson couldn’t ignore his wife.

        Head : Why do you weep over those who have passed?

        Heart : We weep not for those who have passed.

        Head : Then why weep at all?

       Heart: They weep for half their soul which is buried in the soil; they weep for the lost half of a whole they cannot live to ever receive back.

         Head : ‘tis a stupid thing, to give oneself up for another without knowing whether they’ll be here forever more.

         Heart :  It’s what you do for love. The ability to cure the worst type of wounds, wounds that bleed on the inside.

            Thomas shook his head, hand faltering from Patsy’s visage and caressing softly over her hair. Pieces of Martha in those darker strands he held between his grasp, twisting around his fingers. He could almost swear he was in his bed at Monticello, Martha next to him with her arms carefully placed around his waist and his hold on her hips; drinking in the scent on her neck and growing more addicted each day to to feel of her velvety skin rubbing against his own. There was nothing more awful in the crumbling, romantic world than losing someone he loved, knowing he’ll never feel her lips on his teeth and must learn to grow sober not having her as his favorite drink. There was a hole in his heart in the shape of her searing silhouette, every time he beamed her beauty glowing in the darkness. She was still like ash on his fingertips, and at the edges of his brain, the centers of what remains of him. Somehow Martha was in the sun, and the wind in every breath of air that he breathed; every mournful tune plinked across a bow or keys was a tone of her song. He’d see her in the clouds as they drained, dripping from the heavens sweet, singing her name; she always loved the rain.

        Thomas’s lip quivered and teeth etched to cremate themselves in the flesh of his lower lip to stop the quivering. Hands shaking he lifted them off of Patsy’s tiny head, rising the covers up to her chin, lifting off his ankles and dragging a finger underneath his eyelid. The stars practically invisible in that navy sky, he remembered he had cried much more than he pondered he would of, almost mediating if love was a price--oh, how he payed. He grinded his eyelids, arms heavy from sleep and back exasperated, stiff from the carriage. Quietly, leaving the candle on the dresser, he rolled up his sleeves flipping a button to push them up to his elbows. He exited Patsy’s temporary room, tossing one last reconnaissance and inclining against the door frame, tugging the door closed and hearing the lock click into place.

             She’ll be fine, anxiety brewed in the pit of his gut, swimming disconcertingly.

         He shut the door to their room, throwing the key into his pocket where it jingled against a few coins. Gathering himself in calming respirations and flickering away a few stray tears lingering in his eyelids; he made his way down to the ground floor.

#Jamilton #Presley writes like he’s running out of time #THomas Jefferson #martha jefferson #alexander hamilton