quinnbrabender:

BREATHE CAROLINA - WOOLY

So here it is, Breathe Carolina fans. The music video I’ve been talking about. Lots of color grading and effects work on this one, and I’m proud of how it came out.

The day after I shot this, I went out and bought my 28-75mm F2.8, and in retrospect I really wish I could have gotten it BEFORE the shoot. Nonetheless, I’m happy with the end result and I’m excited that I’m still “on track” for my monthly video goal.

Enjoy, and if you LIKE the video, please click the “Follow” button on my blog and keep yourself update on more video work I’ll be doing for bands in the future!

-Quinn

quinnbrabender:

The Chariot, performing “Calvin Mackenzie”.

Something to hold you over while these Listener videos upload. Still proud over how these videos turned out.

Helipolis

listen to the breathing of the trees

the grand oaks, white oaks and Eastern black oaks

slowly decaying

slowly inhaling

.

the bearers of life

the progeny of Osiris slowly

asphyxiating by the 

smothering of jealous clouds

full of hot gas

.

in this forest fractals 

fall apart, a screaming silence

so loud it devours one whole

in this forest things

sink in earth

and

bury in water.

Whenever Richard Cory went down town, 
We people on the pavement looked at him: 
He was a gentleman from sole to crown, 
Clean-favoured and imperially slim. 

And he was always quietly arrayed, 
And he was always human when he talked; 
But still he fluttered pulses when he said, 
“Good Morning!” and he glittered when he walked. 

And he was rich, yes, richer than a king, 
And admirably schooled in every grace: 
In fine — we thought that he was everything 
To make us wish that we were in his place. 

So on we worked and waited for the light, 
And went without the meat and cursed the bread, 
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, 
Went home and put a bullet in his head. 

Who has not waked to list the busy sounds

Of summer’s morning, in the sultry smoke

Of noisy London? On the pavement hot

The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face

And tattered covering, shrilly bawls his trade,

Rousing the sleepy housemaid. At the door

The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell

Proclaims the dustman’s office; while the street

Is lost in clouds impervious. Now begins

The din of hackney-coaches, waggons, carts;

While tinmen’s shops, and noisy trunk-makers,

Knife-grinders, coopers, squeaking cork-cutters,

Fruit-barrows, and the hunger-giving cries

Of vegetable-vendors, fill the air.

Now every shop displays its varied trade,

And the fresh-sprinkled pavement cools the feet

Of early walkers. At the private door

The ruddy housemaid twirls the busy mop,

Annoying the smart ’prentice, or neat girl,

Tripping with band-box lightly. Now the sun

Darts burning splendor on the glittering pane,

Save where the canvas awning throws a shade

On the gay merchandise. Now, spruce and trim,

In shops (where beauty smiles with industry)

Sits the smart damsel; while the passenger

Peeps through the window, watching every charm.

Now pastry dainties catch the eye minute

Of humming insects, while the limy snare

Waits to enthrall them. Now the lamp-lighter

Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly venturous,

To trim the half-filled lamps, while at his feet

The pot-boy yells discordant! All along

The sultry pavement, the old-clothes-man cries

In tone monotonous, while sidelong views

The area for his traffic: now the bag

Is slyly opened, and the half-worn suit

(Sometimes the pilfered treasure of the base

Domestic spoiler), for one half its worth,

Sinks in the green abyss. The porter now

Bears his huge load along the burning way;

And the poor poet wakes from busy dreams,

To paint the summer morning.

A slumber did my spirit seal;
   I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
   The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
   She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
   With rocks, and stones, and trees.

ghostsandonionskins:

Hi
there
you’re
where
I
sat
and
that
might
be
-pardon
me-
my
new
coat
you
are
on
-I’m
Sean

Thanks

(Steps warmly into the street to return home and pour over better words- alone- but liking his jacket a little more now)

An ordinary miracle

Might  make my day  good night.

An everyday freak  hailstorm

Should soften the  certain gravitas of  agony..

My monday to monday   on to a gravy.

My  dumptruck  of good luck   sails in,

All this will be laid to waste.

Then  strong  sprouts,  in not long,  will  no doubt

Green  the  place.

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may 
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

One hand slops suds on, one

hustles them down like a blind.

Brusque noon glare, filtered thus,

loosens and glows. For five or

six minutes he owns the place,

dismal coffee bar, and us, its

huddled underemployed. A blade,

black line against the topmost glass,

begins, slices off the outer lather,

flings it away, works inward,

corrals the frothy middle, and carves,

with quick cuts, the stuff down,

not looking for anything, beneath

or inside. Homes to the last,

cleans its edges, grooms it for

the end, then shaves it off

and flings it away. Which is

splendid, and merciless. And all

in the wrist. Then, he looks at us.

We makers of filth, we splashers

and spitters. We sitters and watchers.

Who like to see him work.

Who love it when he leaves

and gives it back: our grim hideout,

half spoiled by clarity.