“Little Shining Man” by Heather and Ivan Morison

Little Shining Man 2 605x403 “Little Shining Man” by Heather and Ivan Morison little shining man kite

A kite by Heather and Ivan Morison, designed by Sash Reading, and according to Today and Tomorrow, was “engineered and fabricated by Queen & Crawford. It features 1700 3d printed connectors, carbon fibre rods and cubenfibre aerospace fabric.” It flies.

Three Cubes Colliding from Jimandtonic on Vimeo.

From The Citrus Report

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F. Scott Fitzergald

f scott fitzgerald2 605x824 F. Scott Fitzergald letters letter f scott fitzgerald 1933

To Frances Scott Fitzgerald August 8, 1933 La Paix, Rodgers’ Forge, Towson, Maryland,

Dear Pie:
I feel very strongly about you doing duty. Would you give me a little more documentation about your reading in French? I am glad you are happy—but I never believe much in happiness. I never believe in misery either. Those are things you see on the stage or the screen or the printed page, they never really happen to you in life.

All I believe in in life is the rewards for virtue (according to your talents) and the punishments for not fulfilling your duties, which are doubly costly. If there is such a volume in the camp library, will you ask Mrs. Tyson to let you look up a sonnet of Shakespeare’s in which the line occurs Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Have had no thoughts today, life seems composed of getting up a Saturday Evening Post story. I think of you, and always pleasantly; but if you call me “Pappy” again I am going to take the White Cat out and beat his bottom hard, six times for every time you are impertinent. Do you react to that?

I will arrange the camp bill.

Half-wit, I will conclude. Things to worry about:

Worry about courage
Worry about cleanliness
Worry about efficiency
Worry about horsemanship…

Things not to worry about:

Don’t worry about popular opinion
Don’t worry about dolls
Don’t worry about the past
Don’t worry about the future
Don’t worry about growing up
Don’t worry about anybody getting ahead of you
Don’t worry about triumph
Don’t worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault
Don’t worry about mosquitoes
Don’t worry about flies
Don’t worry about insects in general
Don’t worry about parents
Don’t worry about boys
Don’t worry about disappointments
Don’t worry about pleasures
Don’t worry about satisfactions

Things to think about:

What am I really aiming at?
How good am I really in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to:
(a) Scholarship
(b) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them?
(c) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it?

With dearest love,

From The Citrus Report

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“The Suburbanization of Mike Tyson”: A great read

Again, we are spending our waking hour reading things like this, “The Suburbanization of Mike Tyson” written wonderfully by Daphne Merkin. It is a big profile, about the former heavyweight champs new life in the suburbs of Las Vegas. Do we really believe that Tyson lives this calm existence? Its tough to say, but he will always be a fascinating read and character.

Even the beginning gets you hooked in a sort of simple, American fiction sort of way. Love the Hemingway reference.

The gold caps on his teeth are gone, as are the frenzied trappings of celebrity: the nonstop partying, the cars, the jewelry, the pet tiger, the liters of Cristal. Mike Tyson — who was once addicted, by his own account, “to everything” — now lives in what might be described as a controlled environment of his own making, a clean, well-lighted but very clearly demarcated place.

From The Citrus Report

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Djuna Barnes

Posted from The Citrus Report

Reading Djuna Barnes’ cult 1936 novel, Nightwood, isn’t an easy task, whether reading it when you are 19 or 39 or 59. It took us a few sit downs with the novel to understand the significance of the prose, the author, and what we have come to understand as a monument of Modernist writing. When Gertrude Stein said “Paris was where the twentieth century was,” we feel she was saying this because Modernism was at home in Paris, and Modernism is was the voice of a new consciousness. And Barnes was at the center of it. Maybe even the center-left.

We hate using the phrase, but she was almost like the first hipster. As a teen, she was a major part of the Greenwich Village scene of the early 1910s, and in the 1920s, she befriended the likes of James Joyce while living in Paris and gained the confidence of her own fiction. Of course, hanging out at Peggy Guggenheim’s rented home in the early 1930s to write Nightwood helps with the hipster on the heels of the rich and famous that we see today, but her output was more than just whimsy.

We share with you some of our favorite passages from Djuna Barnes’ works… and show you some of her personal drawings below as well. The Citrus Report staff

“New York is the meeting place of the peoples, the only city where you can hardly find a typical American.”

“We are beginning to wonder whether a servant girl hasn’t the best of it after all. She knows how the salad tastes without the dressing, and she knows how life’s lived before it gets to the parlor door.”

“The heart of the jealous knows the best and most satisfying love, that of the other’s bed, where the rival perfects the lover’s imperfections.”

“A strong sense of identity gives man an idea he can do no wrong; too little accomplishes the same.”

“Sleep demands of us a guilty immunity. There is not one of us who, given an eternal incognito, a thumbprint nowhere set against our souls, would not commit rape, murder and all abominations.”

From Fifth Avenue Up

SOMEDAY beneath some hard
Capricious star—
Spreading its light a little
Over far,
We’ll know you for the woman
That you are.

For though one took you, hurled you
Out of space,
With your legs half strangled
In your lace,
You’d lip the world to madness
On your face.

We’d see your body in the grass
With cool pale eyes.
We’d strain to touch those lang’rous
Length of thighs,
And hear your short sharp modern
Babylonic cries.

It wouldn’t go. We’d feel you
Coil in fear
Leaning across the fertile
Fields to leer
As you urged some bitter secret
Through the ear.

We see your arms grow humid
In the heat;
We see your damp chemise lie
Pulsing in the beat
Of the over-hearts left oozing
At your feet.

See you sagging down with bulging
Hair to sip,
The dappled damp from some vague
Under lip,
Your soft saliva, loosed
With orgy, drip.

Once we’d not have called this
Woman you—
When leaning above your mothers
Spleen you drew
Your mouth across her breast as
Trick musicians do.

Plunging grandly out to fall
Upon your face.
In grimace,
With your belly bulging stately
Into space.

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