#circa

[bobdylan-n-jonimitchell]

Herbie Hancock, Joni Mitchell, & Wayne Shorter, ca. 1997 © Sean El Eh.

[garadinervi]

Massive Attack, Risingson, (12" Vinyl Single), WBRT 8, Circa / Virgin Records, 1997 [Covet The Cover]

[otmaaromanovas]

Now in high quality: Olga Nikolaevna

Showing some beautiful details from her dress and hair. I’ve had questions about how OTMA styled their hair - I hope this photo can help to answer it!

As always, the photo was uncovered by Ilia, LastRomanovs on Flickr. Спасибо, Илья!

[greencaprisun]

proud of them❤️

[singemall-stayallnight]

He doesn't have all of his teeth, but I'm too focused on his bicep to care.

[love-michael4ever]

i love this commercial, Michael needs to be arrested for being so darn GORGEOUS !!!

🎥 " it's the price of fame " the chase

[marvelmaniac715]

Imagine being Hermes during the Odyssey/Epic. You’re wandering around, living your little god life, then some emotionally destroyed sailor arrives to the island you’re on and organises a search of the island with his men, and you decide to help him out because an INSANELY POWERFUL WITCH WITH AN ADDICTION TO TURNING MEN INTO NOT-MEN IS NEARBY so you hand him a little magic herb that is totally NOT weed so he can, like, live. Then you go on your merry way as the Divine Amazon service, then your dad calls you to rescue THE SAME DAMN GUY from ANOTHER insanely powerful woman, this time a nymph, only now you’re fully aware that your family is PISSED OFF at this poor man and the woman you’re trying to save him from is ALSO pissed off because he’s leaving. Then you fly away on your weird winged shoes, presumably thinking “Gods, it must suck to be that poor guy…”. Hey, at least Hermes seems to be having the time of his life when he gives Odysseus ✨Holy Moly✨, good for him.

[spencer-kicks]

In 2013, an Amazon package arrived at my apartment with two new pairs of kicks.

One, DVS. The other, this pair of Circa hightops.

Despite being quite old, since I have a fairly large collection, they have aged well. Take a closer look inside, too.

Witness a bug's perspective as my foot slides in, thanks to a new camera.

[777fawn]

[chaptertwo-thepacnw]

train circa 1896

[bobdylan-n-jonimitchell]

Joan Baez, ca. 1962.

[demonecelestiale]

il full 180 crazy che abbiamo fatto per Cristicchi la prima sera tuttə in lacrime ora lo vogliamo appeso quasi

[all-or-nothing-baby]

i would let her do unspeakable things to me

[wgm-beautiful-world]

Flower form vase by Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company. Circa 1899-1900

[y2kbeautyandother2000sstuff]

Circa Pink and White Skate Shoes

early 2000s

Found on Ebay, seller more4u816

[garrickc]

A savage avowel New York City, Brooklyn, 1955.

I prefer a dangerous freedom, over peaceful slavery.

While Crooklyn's name gets carried in the wind, in the mouths of gangs across every borough. Garrick sits behind the wheel of a Mercury Montclair, a boot pressed deep on the accelerator as he burns rubber like there's no going back. Stingrays are on the precipice of a street war with the Manhattan Jackals, and there's an uncertainty in the air about who'll come out on top. He's lost a couple of Rays to Queens, and he's near enough lost Frankie to backseat bingo with a broad off Main who talks like apple butter.

But he ain't pressed, because he'll handle Manhattan and Queens, he'll take on the Bronx if they want to get up in his gasket about it. Brooklyn's his turf, and he'll head the protests as much as he'll put a roscoe up on display in front of The Lever House if it means they'll back up out of Brooklyn and stop cuffing his guys. Third Avenue is theirs, and they'll race up and down the street until dawn comes to snatch it from them. Roscoes, Jackals be damned.

There is something he's damn sure of, whether it's smart, or savvy to say — and he ain't sure if the crew are going to like it. But they don't gotta. It's not about them.

He's going to marry her.

And he's never done that before.

He thinks about it at the speed of 115. It's not the ocean, where his mind is all unsettled waves and monumental depths. It's the city, with the squeal of tyres on tarmac as he tears around the corner, understands the weight of the chassis, to know when he's pushing. He's always pushing. And maybe, he's trying to razz Lara's berries a little, show her the thrill in the way that has her lighting up. But she suits riding shotgun. Whether they're in a flip top or a Chevy. She looks good in the moonlight, as his second, whilst they cross into Manhattan's East side, and make a backpedal towards the Brooklyn Bridge.

There isn't any room for doubt. Garrick's had centuries to know the right way to do this. Watched in the quiet at every kind of gentleman caller as they present their fineries in velvet pouches and are met with astounding bouts of tears and shrieking. Rarely is there a slap and a door slam. But he's seen those too. Yet, what he notices more than anything is how they always drop to a knee.

He supposes that makes sense; a surrendering of one's heart to another.

But it's a foreign notion to a sailor turned gangster. To become an offering, in the weight of a trivial decision. Garrick isn't a man who surrenders anything.

He thinks he could surrender to Lara.

With that comes the eruption of everything he is. She doesn't know that he plans for her to sacrifice the sun, or to know that the Roscoe they've just passed only has to be a little more attentive to know who he is, tearing down the streets, specifically to dirty a rival's turf. He's a scoundrel and a liar, and he's expecting Lara to understand.

It paints a target on her back, loud and clear. A mob boss' girl is a bartering chip in any play. And how would Garrick decide between her and a street? Precariously balancing the wavering loyalty of the Rays, and the cause that Brooklyn shouldn't be a place of aristocracy and less than. If she were like him, a nightcrawler, she wouldn't ever be a pawn on the chessboard — she'd be the Queen; the most powerful piece in the game.

Say yes, Lara.

To everything he's left unsaid.

To all the lies he's crafted in the eleven months she's been knocking about his world. To be his shotgun, eternally. For every time he'd made excuses for her daylight jaunts. He can't come to the tar beach, because he'd dust. Those cugine's who came running with half-cocked information, because they knew a civvie was at the dinner table with him. He's got to do this part right, because he's all wrong. And her mama ain't about a man like him. A man about equal rights has been playing her like a fiddle when he should've come clean months ago.

But it's not here, or now.

Garrick drifts the car into park, central to the bridge.

It's a beautiful night, and she's all leg and provocation; a classy chassis, if there ever was one. He's sold himself on being a gentleman, might've convinced her he's a man of God. All respect, and holding out. She's made him someone better, and she doesn't even know.

"Hey, doll." he twists in the driver's seat, leans closer: "You good?" It comes with a quick kiss, a thief of everything bloodied, oiled hands can get hold of.

Then, he's getting out of the car, darting around to grab her door before she can let herself free. Garrick's posted two corner guys on either end of the bridge, but he knows they haven't got long before Jackals come crawling, or Roscoe's get them to scram. It's hard to admit that he's got the zorros. If his heart beat, he thinks it might hammer like when someone's afraid; that gallop of brake horsepower, rumbling like a stampede of hooves.

His girl climbs out easily, brushes up against him as she weaves to to slither of a sidewalk. He chuckles, shaking his head as he shuts the Mercury's door: "Easy, pocket rocket."

Lara's straight to the edge. New York is all glitter at this hour. It's a testament to man. A depiction of time. She's a more beautiful sight than the city lights could ever be. The fall beneath them, if she looked down, is all abyss and waters. He wonders what she'd be like, diving into the depths with him.

Garrick presses up behind her, a left arm slides along her waist, before settling on the rail. She's trapped between him and iron bars of the Brooklyn Bridge. His other hand is slower to snake in front of her; a black satin box snaps open to reveal a thin silver band, encrusted with a blood diamond.

Maybe he doesn't go down to a knee, but he favours the sight overlooking the city, with the brisk cold biting at their skin. She's got nowhere to run, and every reason to. It gleams in the dark, much like the city does; it rarely sleeps.

Neither would she, if she says the right thing.

"Whaddya say, Lara?" he whispers, close to her ear as he brushes his front up against her back, waiting, hoping. "Will you marry me?" Will you be a Ray?

Will you love me when you know what that means? "'Til death, do us part?"