Brother Malcolm

Come Away With Me

This image reminds me of this image I have in my mind of my dream home. Sure the home here is a lot smaller than the one I imagined, but the scenery is more along the lines of what I’d like for a cottage-like getaway home.

...and we'll kiss

The water close by, lots of green. A place close by for the night-time bonfire.

If I could merge the above with these other images, and find that place in real life, I’ll do whatever it takes to make it mine.

my own personal horse, Zulu

Reminds me of some scenes in films. The first two that come to mind, are strangely, both starring Russell Crowe and directed by Ridley Scott; Gladiator and A Good Year. The scenes in Gladiator where he is imagining being reunited with this family, running his finger tips over the tips of the tall wheat stalks. And in A Good Year, almost every damn scene, the French language, the love of fine wine, and of course a beautiful belle to share it all with. Throw in a stable for horses, a long pier/dock complete with paddle boat, and I’m good.

monet

Sing it Norah!

 

me and you

Want to join me?

The Importance of the Male Pedicure

Dear Gents,

If you’re like me, and read that book years ago that shows Michael Jordan’s corn and callus ridden feet, and used your own frequent sport playing to justify your ugly feet, you like me, need to change.

I’m not new to pedicures. On the contrary, my mother insisted I get them when I was still living with her. But now that I am on my own I have to motivate myself to get out to the salon what-have-you and get my feet tended to.

The main motivation? As with most things for us gentlemen, the driving force is women. They don’t want us to keep our socks (and shoes if you’re a black male porn star, no homo) on while we’re in bed. And we shouldn’t want to either.

There’s nothing like that completely unhindered, unfettered, unobstructed feeling of being stark naked in bed with a woman.

There’s also nothing quite like the embarrassment of when your sharp toenails slice open her achilles tendon. Of course, I’m using hyperbole to accentuate my point; I have never done that to a girl. But I have cringed and shied away when our feet touched, and I felt my rough, dry feet, mingling clumsily with hers.

Men, we don’t have to be soft all over like our women. Oh no! I will be the first to advocate chest hair (though trimmed like all other excessive body hair: pits, pubs). But this is one thing we can do for ourselves and for her.

get comfortable

Maintain your feet. She’ll thank you for it.

Stay classy,

Black Ty

If by Runyard Kipling



The Man Who Would Be King, The Jungle Book, and more from Runyard

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too: If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream---and not make dreams your master; If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same:. If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings, And never breathe a word about your loss: If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

 

String Theory

In an earlier post this month, I mentioned my frustration when attempting to send a postcard back home to Canada.

I must have deleted the picture of the postcard, but I found the words I typed before writing them on the postcard by hand.

Here they are:

Strings attached.

My Dearest _ovial _lluring _electable _xception*,

There’s a relatively new “theory of everything” in physics called string theory which takes on the lofty challenge of describing the fundamental forces and matter found in our universe and unifying them in one complete, mathematically sound system.

The theory has yet to be proven, but if true, it would mean that there are an infinite number of unending, invisible, yet incredibly powerful threads connecting everything and everyone, everywhere. Even the strings on the face of this postcard, cut in some places, are not cut off from those around it, from the camera which captured their image, or from the photographer who pointed and clicked. All are one. All are connected.

I have ran my fingers over the entirety of this postcard. Thus weaving the strings which run through me, through this card. When it reaches you and you take it in your hand, you will instantly intertwine your strings with my strings, and in a matter of speaking fold time and space so that our hands touch, even if only on a dimensional plane not entirely perceivable by the ordinary human.

But of course, you are far from ordinary*, and I like to think that our bond was forged with some pretty strong thread.

Pull on a string. Can you feel it. We’re attached.

❤ Ty

can you feel it?