photo | nancy caldwell | financial district

 

photos | dina livotsky | where the amish go on vacation

 

the new yorker | apr 17, 2018

st basil of caesarea | easter hymn

Today hell groans and cries aloud:

"My power has been destroyed.

I accepted a mortal man as one of the dead;

yet I cannot keep Him prisoner,

and with Him I shall lose all those whom I ruled.

I held in my power the dead from all ages;

but see, He has raised them all."

Glory to your Cross, O Lord,

and to Your Resurrection.

icon by ivanka demchuk

christian dahlberg | vancouver neon | cinemas

 

website

photo | michael pasche | carts

 

ides of march pencil holder

 

the indescribable essence of vinyl

 

"Is there anything under the sun that does not have an indestructible essence?" LS

tom waits | radio

When I listen to old field recordings, maybe you’ll hear a dog barking way off in the background. You realize the house it was recorded in is torn down, the dog is dead, the tape recorder is broken, the guy who made the recording died in Texas, the car out front has four flat tires, even the dirt that the house sat on is gone—probably a parking lot—but we still have this song. Takes me out when I listen to those old recordings. I put on my stuff in the house, which is always those old Alan Lomax recordings.

When I was first trying to decide what I wanted to do, I listened to Bob Dylan and James Brown. Those were my heroes. I listened to Wolfman Jack every night. The mighty ten-ninety. Fifty thousand watts of soul power. My dad was a radio technician during the war, and when he left the family when I was about eleven, I had this whole radio fascination. And he used to keep catalogues, and I used to build my own crystal set, and put the aerial up on the roof. And I remember making a radio on my first crystal set, and the first station I got on these little two-dollar headphones was Wolfman. And I thought I had discovered something that no one else had. I thought it was comin' in from Kansas City or Omaha, that nobody was getting this station, and nobody knew who this guy was, and nobody knew who these records were. I'd tapped into some bunker, or he was broadcasting from some rest stop on a highway thousands of miles from here, and it's only for me. He was actually broadcasting from San Ysidro near the border. What I really wanted to figure out is how do you come out of the radio yourself.

Photos for MAGNET by Christian Lantry