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LoGo work @extremecleanwash . Work done for @the_trophy_case . #logographic #cleanwash #autodetailing #shopbrandname #logodesign #carwash #autos #shoplogo #brandlogo #logodesigner #logomaker https://www.instagram.com/p/CfeY4zzpwMh/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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Profumo di fresco, di pulito...di biancheria asciugata al sole, dei lini e cotoni della nonna che svolazzano con la brezza dell'ora del tramonto... Queste sono le magnifiche e piacevoli sensazioni che la candela alla fragranza di "clean wash" trasmette non appena la si accende.. 📣 Sensazioni uniche da non dimenticare💟 Per info e ordini ⏳ 📸 Direct instagram; 📲 whatsapp 391-7514842; 💻 www.fragranzeria.com . . . . . Scent of fresh, clean ... of sun-dried linens, grandmother's linens and cottons fluttering with the sunset breeze ... These are the wonderful and pleasant sensations that the "clean wash" fragrance candle transmits as soon as you light it ... Unique sensations not to be forgotten . #cleaning #cleanwash #candele #pulito #profumodicotone #profumodilino #biancheria #armadioprofumato #candleshop #nonna #grand #grandmother #clean #cleaneating #puliziedicasa #pannistesi #giornatadisole #homemagazine #interior_and_living #luxuryhomes https://www.instagram.com/p/Bw8VcszlOg-/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=v7vq3ev5j5ti
francis, it's not about the bucket.
it was long and awkward for my size, especially when filled with water for a winsome old goat, feed for frank sinatra, oscar wilde- that hulking honey brown sage, or my great big beloved spot- brown with a white heart gleaming just above his left back leg. if the boys heard you coming they’d run like devil twins run, through the brambles and the mud, down the hill. turning a simple task into a hopeless struggle: the scattering of food in a trough around three bull’s eyes and mouths and sand papery tongues- diamonds in the rough. you'll make it out of this scathed. so it was me and a young woman who could, if she had a craving, make duck soup out of me- i would get in a few prodding blows, but it would end in her eating me for breakfast, probably lunch and dinner, too she never carried the bucket. it sabotaged my bad hip and turned my arms into jelly- you’re gonna carry that weight a long time. i thought about getting mad and how it's best to choose your battles with someone who can’t come careful to reason. by can’t, i mean won’t. i thought about how much stronger i would be if i just carried that bucket every day. then i wanted to carry more. i scratched hearts into sprouting potatoes and stuffed them in my pockets. the first morning i walked with them to the field frank sinatra ran at me from atop the hill and stopped 15.24 centimeters from my face to slurp a red spud from my hand. he was a fervent force, so easy and ardent and calm, that it left a fluttering in my stomach- it was the first of many times i would kiss him. i gathered thorny leaved branches that made my body bleed, picked wildflowers growing on the cliffs in the mist of the north atlantic, and collected them into bouquets that i brought to gemma when she could no longer walk. she’d head her door open in the morning- inviting helpless torment from kids alive only to bite and drink and climb. to her it was worth enduring for one glimpse of the sun which she loved better now that she was missing clusters of hair, seeing the sand fall with the rain, bowing at it all in gratitude. it was heavy, it hurt. so good.
big yellow taxi
in high school my friends and i had sleepovers every weekend which were convenient covers for climbing out of windows after curfew to sit in boy’s basements drinking the saddest excuses for beer- nothing natural, no one’s best.
one night it rained particularly hard and we waited to call a taxi, thinking that we knew anything about the weather believing that it must let up. though i knew better, there are some things that never do. the sunrise approached us faster than the rain fell and when the taxi arrived our quick relief shifted to panic as it became trapped in mud that was deep turned to deliver us from our trouble.
convinced that the only chance of making it back in time was to run the three miles between us and the window we took deep breaths and tied extra knots in our shoelaces when the driver asked, what about him?
his question froze us like catholics at a funeral and turned us in our guilt to help.
mud kicked back as we pushed and rocked that boaty buick in the near blinding rain. we freed it, proud as if it had been willy and as the sun kept on with it's rising we sped back to the window from which we came, worrying all the way about the trouble that wasn’t waiting on our return. that time.
what would the bay village police have done, had they come upon 5 slight and shivering 15 year old girls, pushing a cab out of the mud that covered them during a torrential rainstorm at 5 o’clock on a sunday morning in the middle school parking lot?
i wish i had a picture of that moment and of all the absurdity of those years. i would laugh and cry forever.
gasoline
all of the males in the family were outside doing yard work as i walked around the bend along the river, where daffodils grew wild, like weeds. i was in a tiny irish village holding an ice cream cone in my hand.
there was an afternoon over twenty years ago when the mother of my brother’s friend rolled down her window one summer day and marveled and laughed at me mowing the lawn on riverway drive, where daffodils bloomed every spring. i was always stronger than anyone presumed.
that was the summer i learned to love the smell of gasoline- the sweet toxic stink of things accomplished. the time i fell in love with machines and they way they make it so easy always a method, always logic to their disarray. i can pull them apart- bolt by bolt, from guard to arm flush out the bad oil, clean the filters, allowing unlabored clearer breath. i can make them new, work better, people don’t work that way.
some are too consumed in the rust that covers them suffocating in apathetic oil- they don’t want to breathe clearer do the dirty work pull their parts apart when they’re in pieces because those things are hard.
like a 9 year old pushing a lawnmower in 1992. like a laugh. like a choice. like telling the truth, allowing love.
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i-90
he was rear ended on the highway in a brand new truck that he worked so hard for. it quickly smelled of his favorite cigars, had a stereo that held a cd for each of his children, leather seats the color of straw faded in the sun, and the outside was the same shining green as the casket his wife would be buried in.
the man at fault pulled a gun when he stepped out of the truck and had to be taken down and restrained on the shoulder while his helpless baby cried in the car. police arrived and the daughter wailed when anyone other than my father tried to hold her in their arms. so he stayed there, until the tow truck arrived for the offending car, holding the smiling infant of a man who would have killed him.
he had a way about him that mesmerized children, they lost all fear in the oceans of his eyes, saw the key to the universe in the gap of his smile, their own innocent reflection on his bald head. the fragments of his absence spread deeper when i think of how my children will never know all they will never know.
FRIDAY FRENZY | etsy find of the day 5 | 4.13.12 'i promise.' letterpress print by cleanwash "i promise i shall never give up and that i'll die yelling & laughing" -jack kerouac love.
