#Sixit

[eroticlamb]

Bob Dylan at a press conference, Mayfair Hotel, London, May 3 1966. Photographed by Tony Gale

my favourite twink

[gallusrostromegalus]

My housemate reminded me of a flashbulb memory I have that I really wish I had a photograph of because it would be a magnificent image to inflict on the internet at large with Zero Context, but I'll try to describe it here, and then draw it after dinner.

Image Description:

As seen from about three feet off the ground: Interior, the den of an american suburban house built at the height of the atomic age and still decorated like it years later. There's dark wood paneling about halfway up the walls that offsets the almost neon pink-orange light of late sunset visible through the large window. Every object in the room is highlighted by the last of the sunlight. The only other light in the room is a TV set that was manufactured the same year Howdy Doody debuted on air, now broadcasting PBS Newshour in black and white.

Closest to the viewer, there is a small end table with a Nearly Full Martini glass, and a Half-empty glass Martini Pitcher, indicating that two of the five martinis it holds have been poured out.

Just behind it, an old man sits in a chair that was bright green and yellow when it was new but is now more Grellow. The man is in his mid-sixites, somewhat heavyset, with a full head of snow-white hair and thick glasses. He's wearing a dark brown tweed suit with leather elbow patches, and a white cotton button-up. He's watching the news with a calm and dispassionate demeanor. Tired, but still engrossed with the world's events. He's wearing dark brown penny loafers and garish argyle socks.

Behind him is a couch that is a matched set with the armchair, with the same Grellow chevron pattern, but there is a very large crochet afghan that has been spread out over the back to be decorative and maybe protect the couch from it's current occupant: a 120lb Wolf Hybrid.

She's seated lengthwise on the couch, like she had also been watching PBS Newshour, posed like a sphynx. She's close in wieght to the man, and definitely taller than him if she stands up, with a dark gray agouti coat and a bit of white countershading from the trace of domestic dog in her. She's turned her head to the viewer, bright yellow eyes focused on them, and the fur of her head and neck haloed with the sunset. She is pleased to see the veiwer, which means most of the teeth in her lower jaw are visible in her canine grin. The effect is very menacing if you don't know her.

Clutched rather neatly between her front paws is a second, identical martini glass, only not nearly quite so full as the old man's.

Title: "Oh, I didn't think you'd be back for another hour/GODDAMIT EDWIN"

[dudewhoabides]

The Rolling Stones Gimme Shelter Live Pop Go The Sixites 1969

[vanderlysposts]

The Rolling Stones Gimme Shelter Live Pop Go The Sixites 1969

[stray-kaz]

On Blind Faith : a Matt Murdock x reader FF : SIX

It was so late by the time Matt arrived home, Luca was already fast asleep, and you were free to fall into strong arms as soon as the door closed behind him. He dropped the takeout bag of Thai food as soon as he heard you move and was ready when you impacted with his chest, your hands coming up to rest tentatively on his shoulders. Smiling, Matt took them gently in his own and tugged them into his hair, where he knew you really wanted them to be.

“There you go” he murmured, touching his lips to your temple. “Your pulse just jumped.”

You sighed and buried your head in the crook between neck and shoulder, standing on your tiptoes. Now that the ice had been broken that morning, you could give in to the desire to burrow as close to him as you could get, and he chuckled as he heard and felt you inhaling the scent of his skin.

“Are you in need of food?”

You nodded and let go, stepping back so he could bend to pick up the Thai and carry it through into the kitchen, dimly lit by one overhead bulb.

“Is Luca asleep?”

“Yes.”

He hummed quietly as he dished for the two of you, his movements smooth and precise. You eyed his hands, marveling slightly. Matt cocked his head to one side and smiled in puzzlement.

“What?” he asked.

“I think you’re tidier than I am, and I can see.”

He laughed and handed you a bowl filled with chicken pad Thai.

“Foggy said this is your favourite” he said. “Did I get it right?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome.”

You perched atop one of the kitchen stools and started in on your meal, humming contentedly as you ate.

“Did Foggy give you a hard time today?” you asked after a while.

Matt winced slightly, so you knew that he had.

“A bit, yeah” he admitted reluctantly. “Mostly told me that you’re family to him and if I break your heart, he’s going to kick my ass, yada yada yada.”

You couldn’t help grinning.

“Yeah, sounds like Foggy” you mused. “He used to tell people he was my big brother so they’d leave me alone if I was being bullied. I never corrected him. That’s what he is, or the closest to it I’ll ever have.”

“But Karen, she is another story.”

You raised your eyebrows, waiting.

“What did Karen say?” you asked curiously.

Matt turned up the devilish in his smile and you felt your insides melt away to goo.

“She told me to show you a good time.”

“Oh” you said, your voice small. “And?”

“I plan on doing that, but only when you give me the green light.”

You nodded slowly, tapping the fork tines against your teeth.

“Do you still want me to describe my tattoos?”

Matt’s dark eyebrows shot up and his gaze honed in on where he heard your voice coming from.

“Yes, please” he answered, a little breathily.

You slid from the stool and placed both empty bowls and cutlery in the sink, running water over them, before taking Matt’s hand and leading him into the bathroom, where you brushed your teeth side by side and then retreated to the bedroom. Matt stood listening with bated breath at the sound of your dress slipping off your arms and pooling in a soft rustle of fabric around your feet.

Then you were reaching out to touch him, your hands silently asking for permission. Matt nodded and you gently loosened his tie, pulling it free from underneath his shirt collar before nudging each shirt button out. Your hands shook a little as you pushed the shirt backwards off his shoulders and slid it off his arms, dropping it to the floor. The tremble increased as your fingers lowered to his belt, skidding over the buckle a few times before you could undo it properly, his hands skimming over yours to steady them.

And at last, his work slacks fell to join the rest of the clothes, leaving you to soak him in from head to toe, his underwear the only piece still in the way. That could wait.

You sat on the end of the bed, guiding Matt to follow you, until you were both lying down, propped up on elbows. You took his free hand and placed it at the base of your collarbone, where the first rune tattoo began. You kept up a murmured commentary as you guided his hand down, following the shape until it met with a new one at the top of your left breast. His breath hitched as his fingers gently followed the cotton coated swell to the top of your rib cage.

“Then, back up here” you said softly, and took his hand back to your shoulder.

The tattoos writhed and twisted down both your arms, the tops and sides of your breasts and stopped at the top of your stomach, and Matt’s fingers traced and delineated every one. And then he moved to hover over you, following after his fingers with his lips. You hissed in a breath as his tongue and teeth emerged, nipping and soothing as he went, his memory impeccable as he remembered every single marking.

Then his mouth bumped over a different texture on your skin and he raised his head to you and curiously swept his fingertips over it.

“What’s this?” he asked, moving around on the bed to settle between your legs, his chin resting on the waistband of your underwear.

You lifted your head off the pillow to see the silvery white line that ran across several inches of your stomach just above your pubic bone.

“Caesarean scar” you said quietly. “It’s pretty faded now, but it’s never gone away completely.”

“So Luca was cut out of you.”

“Mmhmm.”

Matt pulled himself up on his knees and crooked his fingers at you. You slowly rose to meet him, your legs trembling a little. He gestured to himself and your gaze traced over the litany of scars painted on his skin.

“We match” he murmured. “We both have victory scars.”

You hesitated with your hand outstretched, centimetres from his chest. He reached up and took your hand, moving it forward until your fingers made contact, holding your palm flat against his heart. You felt it thrumming, hard and fast.

You found each and every visible scar with the tips of your fingers, every dip and divot where he had been stabbed, shot or slashed, unbeknownst to you.

“How did you get these?” you asked him softly.

He shrugged.

“I can handle myself, but sometimes people want to mess with the blind guy. You should see how they ended up.”

You put your hands on his shoulders and shuffled forwards onto his lap; he lifted you up and stretched his legs out in front of him, settling you down again. You crossed your ankles behind his back and your stomach brushed his. His fingers sank into the curves of your waist, soothing up and down. His thumbs touched the edges of tattoos, and he could feel the subtle change in the way your skin felt, inked and then without.

“How long has it been since someone told you you’re beautiful?”

You shuddered involuntarily and buried your face in the side of his neck.

“Too long” you mumbled, pushing your hands up into his hair.

“A crime” Matt murmured back, nudging at you until you lifted your head enough to touch his lips with your own. “You are beautiful, sweetheart.”

He slowly pushed you back down onto the mattress, silk billowing up around you. You curled into a question mark and he wrapped his body around yours, an unspoken answer.

Tagging: @harringtonstudios​ @emiemiemiii​ @succsessions​

[bloopington-indiana]

Although I am an agnostic, I like this lady’s singing, not so much now as in the late 1960s...this music is what gave birth to the sixites soul music that I loved as a teenager, and still do.

[lovemymaltese]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Bundle of two (2) 1000 pc. puzzles.

[nucifract]

Dez 2012

Calatravas Kronprinzenbrücke. 

Falsch entwickelt, schlecht gescannt.

Man kann wirklich kaum mitansehen, was ich damals in Sachen Photo angestellt habe. 2012 (heute auch noch) schrieb die reine Photolehre vor, ein 35mm Prime zu verwenden. Habe ich mich brav dran gehalten.

Ich, der ich so schon zu viel Abstand zu meinen Mitmenschen halte. Und dazu dann ein Objektiv, das dafür konstruiert ist, frech in die Intimsphäre der Mitmenschen einzudringen. Kann ja nix bei rauskommen.

Sowas ging vielleicht in den Sechzigern, als man sich noch alles herausnehmen durfte. Die Maoisten, Tschekisten, selbsternannten Arbeiterführer, die damals alle Tabus brachen, sind heute an der Macht und haben ein Netz von Verbots- und Apostasie-Systemen um das öffentliche Leben gelegt, gegen das jeder frühneuzeitliche Inquisitions-Staat eine ultra-liberale Hippie-Kommune war.

Heute kämpfen sie nicht mehr für die Arbeiter, sondern vertreten die armen Afrikaner, armen Islamisten, armen Asiaten und natürlich die arme Natur (sic). Die kann sich am wenigsten wehren gegen ihre ungefragt angetretenen Fürsprecher. Und jene selbst eingesetzten Anwälte erheben den Alleinvertretungs-, Darstellungs- und Interpretations-Anspruch in all diesen Angelegenheiten. Und  nicht zuletzt auch noch den auf das Richteramt in Sachen maoistischer Gleichstellung.  (Wenn nicht alle Klavier spielen können, dann soll keiner Klavier spielen können.)

Nichts ist mehr wie in den Sixties: Wer heute mit einem 35mm auf Mundgeruchnähe an seine Mitmenschen heranwieselt und abdrückt, macht sich wahrscheinlich wg. 27 verschiedener Verstöße gegen die woken Gesetzestafeln strafbar.

Im GGsatz zu den Sixites sind heute die alten Maoisten an der Macht. Und was sie zum Taboo erklärt haben, das ist tabu. Wer an ihren heiligen Glaubenssätzen zweifelt, ist für immer erledigt. Diese alten Maoisten, Tschekisten und oder zumindest ihre heimlichen Meisterschüler  sitzen in den Redaktionen, in den Ministerien, sogar in den Führungsetagen der Polizei. All ihre Vettern und Freunde sind untergebracht als Beauftragte, Ethikräte, Vorsitzende von Stiftungen oder sog. NGOs oder gerieren sich in anderer Funktion als selbsternannte Sprachrohre einer imaginierten Zivilgesellschaft. Die sie in Wirklichkeit schon lange nach Hautfarben, Geschlechtern usw. in ihre Atome gespalten haben. Und sehen sich über und über umringt von Verschwörungen und Rechten.

Sie alle üben Macht aus und werden meistenteils aus Steuergeldern bezahlt. Wer aus der Linie ausschert, kann sich warm anziehen. Er wird öffentlich Selbstkritik üben müssen und später kaum noch eine Möglichkeit finden, sich zu äußern. Sich mit Gleichgesinnten zu treffen. Geschweige denn, sich zu organisieren. In jeder Stadt Deutschlands steht eine kleine Armee bereit, mögliche Opposition zu bekämpfen. Zusammengesetzt aus paranoiden Zeitgenossen, die, wie Honecker dereinst, überall imperialistische Faschisten sehen. Und das gefühlte Mandat haben, auch körperliche Gewalt anzuwenden. Bis hin zu Verstümmelungen und Tötungen.

Mann, ich will ein paar launige Sprüche über meine Unfähigkeit als Photograph loslassen und lande doch sofort wieder bei dem einen Thema: Der eindimensionalen, diktaturaffinen Gegenwartspolitik. Die überall Faschismus sieht und Verschwörung. Nur nicht da, wo der Faschismus tatsächlich seine teuflischen Kräfte entfaltet.

Wenn wir ihnen nicht Einhalt gebieten, marschieren wir ohne große Umwege in eine rotbraune Hölle aus Hunger, Unterdrückung und Hirnwäsche. Man darf sich von dem grünen Tarn-Anstrich nicht täuschen lassen.

[twixnmix]

Miles Davis and his wife Betty Davis in front of one of his paintings at their home in New York City, October 1969.

Photos by Baron Wolman

[bilbao-song]

Grand Canyon souvenir photo book, 1969.

[pleasepleasedontbotherme]

Blushy boy

[vanderlysposts]

The Rolling Stones Gimme Shelter Live Pop Go The Sixites 1969

[topoet]

The Barbarians and Other Critters

The Barbarians and Other Critters

This is the last of the five cd retro collection. The Barbarians, out of Cape Cod- one-hit wonder garage band from 1965 Their song ‘Are You A Boy or Are You A Girl’ gets its own Wiki page. The album of the same name is mainly fun covers of things like Mr. Tamborine Man. Uncomplicated rock music full of energy & hope. I remember this song & was one of those guys who was taunted on the street with…

[elemental-child]

[floopsimp69]

Audrey Hepburn looks like a borzoi, just sayin

[oldshowbiz]

Heather MacRae, daughter of showbiz luminaries Gordon and Sheila MacRae, was arrested for screaming, “Fucking pigs!” at Florida police after they arrested her fellow cast members from the rock musical Hair.