Traditional Vibe

Contemplations about the Right Wing, along with general musings on Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, the South, history, music, sports, relationships, humor and pop culture. Basically it’s all about life. Scroll on y’all.
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Working two jobs since April hasn’t allotted much time for leisurely blogging. I hope to return soon. Y’all be good.


From the series of photographs called Breathe by Elizabeth Gadd.

(via alternaterealitygame)


Went to the 9/11 memorial today and it was so sad! I’ve never been to a museum and be around so many people and just have complete silence. Nobody talked the whole way through. It was dark and quiet and cold and it’s like you could hear what everyone was thinking. It was definitely weird technically being inside the old World Trade Center and being where so many people died. It was heart breaking. It’s the first time I have ever been to the WTC site. I remember the chills I felt when I got home from school in 5th grade and watching it on tv. I felt the same chills today. God Bless everyone who perished that day. 😢😢😢

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Scotland [2]: Isle of Skye 

- The Quiraing, Sligachan Bridge, Fairy Pools, Loch Harport, Kilt Rock/Mealt Falls, Loch Ainort, Glen Brittle, Uig, The Quiraing, Fairy Pools

(via hickster55)

Thanks Denise.

Thanks Denise.

(via hewillnotfall)


Grace Kelly and Frank Sinatra on the “High Society” set, 1956

(via vintagerules)

(via story-dj)


To commemorate each British and Colonial soldier lost during WWI, Paul Cummins and Tom Piper installed 888,246 ceramic blood red poppies flowing from the Tower of London for a project entitled Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red.

(via fortis-cadere-cedere-non-potest)


The OC

I remember these two. I don’t recall the stereotypical guy-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-track’s name, but I’ll probably have a crush on Mischa Barton for another 20 years.


Pollok House, Glasgow, UK (by Kenny Muir)

(via virginiagentry)


Ode to the Confederate Dead

Allen Tate, 1899 - 1979
Row after row with strict impunity
The headstones yield their names to the element,
The wind whirrs without recollection;
In the riven troughs the splayed leaves
Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament
To the seasonal eternity of death;
Then driven by the fierce scrutiny
Of heaven to their election in the vast breath,
They sough the rumour of mortality.

Autumn is desolation in the plot
Of a thousand acres where these memories grow
From the inexhaustible bodies that are not 
Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.
Think of the autumns that have come and gone!--
Ambitious November with the humors of the year,
With a particular zeal for every slab,
Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot
On the slabs, a wing chipped here, an arm there:
The brute curiosity of an angel’s stare
Turns you, like them, to stone,
Transforms the heaving air
Till plunged to a heavier world below
You shift your sea-space blindly
Heaving, turning like the blind crab.

     Dazed by the wind, only the wind
     The leaves flying, plunge

You know who have waited by the wall
The twilight certainty of an animal,
Those midnight restitutions of the blood
You know--the immitigable pines, the smoky frieze
Of the sky, the sudden call: you know the rage,
The cold pool left by the mounting flood,
Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.
You who have waited for the angry resolution
Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow,
You know the unimportant shrift of death
And praise the vision
And praise the arrogant circumstance
Of those who fall
Rank upon rank, hurried beyond decision--
Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall. 

     Seeing, seeing only the leaves
     Flying, plunge and expire

Turn your eyes to the immoderate past,
Turn to the inscrutable infantry rising
Demons out of the earth they will not last.
Stonewall, Stonewall, and the sunken fields of hemp,
Shiloh, Antietam, Malvern Hill, Bull Run.
Lost in that orient of the thick and fast
You will curse the setting sun.

     Cursing only the leaves crying
     Like an old man in a storm

You hear the shout, the crazy hemlocks point
With troubled fingers to the silence which
Smothers you, a mummy, in time.

                               The hound bitch
Toothless and dying, in a musty cellar
Hears the wind only.
                    Now that the salt of their blood
Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea,
Seals the malignant purity of the flood,
What shall we who count our days and bow
Our heads with a commemorial woe
In the ribboned coats of grim felicity,
What shall we say of the bones, unclean,
Whose verdurous anonymity will grow?
The ragged arms, the ragged heads and eyes
Lost in these acres of the insane green?
The gray lean spiders come, they come and go;
In a tangle of willows without light
The singular screech-owl’s tight
Invisible lyric seeds the mind
With the furious murmur of their chivalry.

     We shall say only the leaves
     Flying, plunge and expire

We shall say only the leaves whispering
In the improbable mist of nightfall
That flies on multiple wing:
Night is the beginning and the end
And in between the ends of distraction
Waits mute speculation, the patient curse
That stones the eyes, or like the jaguar leaps
For his own image in a jungle pool, his victim.

What shall we say who have knowledge 
Carried to the heart?  Shall we take the act
To the grave?  Shall we, more hopeful, set up the grave
In the house?  The ravenous grave?

                                   Leave now
The shut gate and the decomposing wall:
The gentle serpent, green in the mulberry bush, 
Riots with his tongue through the hush--
Sentinel of the grave who counts us all!

From Selected Poems by Allen Tate, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.


Hamas…. monsters

(via harbi-doll)