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All Titles TV Episodes Celebs Companies Keywords Advanced Search. Sign In. Big Dick Pussy. Big Dick Pussy is a short, voyeuristic look at the street where the filmmaker lived at the time of the filming; the focus is on neighborhood pre-teens and teenagers playing football in the street. Visually, the piece is largely obscured; the viewer is situated as a hidden observer and can see only bits and pieces of what's going on out in the street. The audio of the piece is clear, though A- for three minutes, the film taps into the interaction between kids left to their own devices.Fucking in pantiehose.

Over time, the intricate descriptions of the cities begin to overlap until the khan slowly realizes that his appointed traveler has been describing the same city, an imagined city, over and over, in fragments - each vignette exposing another perspective, unveiling yet another city, where death mirrors life and cities are named after Italian women.

Each city is suspended between reality and imagination, structured on a set of absurd rules, reminding the reader that a city can only be absorbed through short glances, each glance anchored to an object, a story, or a memory. I've been reading and rereading Invisible Cities for over a decade.

Before the Syrian revolution, Calvino's poetics were safely rooted in the realm of fiction.

When I recently picked it up to look for a quote, I began to read it once more - this time sneaking a few pages at a time between my daily intake of endless streams of gruesome images emerging from our all-too-real Syrian cities. For the first time, Calvino's words detached from fantasy; Syria's cities became embedded within the lines of the Invisible Cities.

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I listened, along with Kublai Khan, to Marco Polo's narrations and tried to understand how cities become invisible. Over time, the intricate descriptions of the cities begin to overlap until the khan slowly realizes that his appointed traveler has been describing the same city, an imagined city, over and over, in fragments - each vignette exposing another perspective, unveiling yet another city, where death mirrors life and cities are named after Italian women.

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When I recently picked it up to look for a quote, I began to read it once more - this time sneaking a few pages at a time between my daily intake of endless streams of gruesome images emerging from our all-too-real Syrian cities. Watching death has become a pastime of the revolution. There is much to learn from it.

Death is sudden; it is shorter than a short YouTube clip. Death is a man wrapped in his shroud, bloodied gauze strips tied around his head, cotton stuffed in his nostrils, and the bluish-gray tinge of his skin. The death of Syrians accumulated so fast it seems impossible to comprehend over 40, lives lost in less than two years.

But the death of a city is different. Witnessing the deaths of your cities is unbearable. Unlike the news of dead people - which arrives too late, always after the fact - the death of a city seems as if it can be halted, that the city can be saved from the clutches of destruction.

But it is an illusion: The once-vibrant cities cannot be saved, so you watch, helpless, as they become ruins.

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Ruins are sold to us as romantic and poetic. As tourists wandering ancient sites, cameras dangling from our necks and guidebooks in hand, we seek beauty in the swirling dust over the remains of a dead civilization. We imagine what is was like then, before empires decayed and living objects became historical artifacts.

But that kind of romanticism is only afforded with the distance of time and geography. In war, ruins-in-the-making are not beautiful, not vessels of meaningful lessons, not a fanciful setting for philosophical contemplations on the follies of men. When you witness it live, when it is real, and when it happens to your city, it becomes another story altogether. Being from Aleppo is unlike being from anywhere else in the world.

We walked on history so deep, we did not understand it - we simply learned to call this place, older than all others, home. We grew up knowing that our insignificant existence was the thinnest layer of dust on the thick geological strata of empires, kingdoms, and generations, which lived within our stone walls. When you are from Aleppo, you are plagued with a predicament: Nothing here will ever change.

For some people, living in the city that never changes becomes too difficult. After you leave, no matter where you are in the world, you know that Aleppo is there, waiting exactly as you left it.

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Instead, it is you who returns in a reinvented form each time you come home - a university graduate, a bride, a mother, each time proudly carrying your new ideas and identity to your patiently waiting city. It is a city where the spices of Armenia meld with the tastes of Turkey. It is a city where Arabic, Kurdish, and Armenian tongues speak parallel to each other, with an occasional French word mixed in here or there.

It is a city of trade and industry, where men are constantly bargaining and negotiating in the same souks as their fathers before them.

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It is a city where girls walking down the streets in tight jeans and high heels pass by women in long black coats and white veils pinned under their chins.

And they know they all belong right here, to Aleppo.

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Perhaps, because I was always inside it, I never searched for it when we returned. I never doubted that it would always be there, exactly as I left it, untouched, unchanged.

But he was right; Aleppo is an inward-looking city; it sees the world reflected in itself.

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The Citadel sits on an oval hill in the heart of Aleppo. This is where you bring every visitor.

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You guide them up the steep stone steps in the summer heat, always promising the tourists trailing behind you that inside will be much cooler. And it is. You lead them out once more into the bright hot sun, wincing as your eyes adjust from the darkness to the harsh Aleppine light. You buy a bottle of water at the cafe because by now, the heat has melted you as well. Then you are at the very top, and as always the breeze from the west surprises you all.

You extend your arm toward the majestic view, as the city of stone and minarets unfolds in front of the guests, like magic.

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This is my city. Today, the Citadel is no longer a stage for impressing visitors.

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It is no longer a protected UNESCO World Heritage site. It has reclaimed its original purpose - a fortress in an active battle between Syrian sons, a site to be occupied and captured once more.

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The ancient nails and iron horseshoes that once adorned the indestructible doors are now twisted and the wooden planks are broken. The limestone, untouched for centuries, is riddled with fresh bullet holes, and the newly repaved street below is bloodied with fallen victims, corpses that sometimes rot for days before they can be reclaimed.

Misplaced pride has proved us unworthy of this history that we could not protect. The Old City, the Citadel, and the souks were not just a stage for us to perform upon in front of others - they were the heart of every Aleppian.

Being from Aleppo is in our blood, and this blood now flows down the cobblestone streets. The broken city is no longer amused at the pastimes of its children.

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Syria has become the land of topless minarets and headless little girls. It seems in every video there is always something missing, something broken, something that can never be mended.

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You learn about things when they are broken - friendships, love, people, and even cities. I learned from watching the revolution that when things are broken, they take up more space. Whole objects are compact and efficient.

A minaret is sleek and graceful standing in the sky - but when it falls, it breaks into mountains of rocks in the street, its top tiers taking down a face of a building along with it.

Screen Shot at AM. Credit: Phaedra Parks/Instagram. After attending Star Jones' tropical wedding on board a Royal Caribbean cruise, the former Real Housewives of Atlanta star Dr. Dre and Mary J. Blige Lead Super Bowl Halftime Show, Katy Perry Gushes Over Orlando Bloom Big Dick Pussy is a short, voyeuristic look at the street where the filmmaker lived at the time of the filming; the focus is on neighborhood pre-teens and teenagers playing football in the street. Visually, the piece is largely obscured; the viewer is situated as a hidden observer and can see only bits and pieces of what's going on out in the street

Even Syria itself, a once quiet country that seemed not to take up any space at all before the revolution, is now a regional crisis, clogging newspaper headlines, international political discussions, and social media forums with millions of words and images. Things take on new, unimaginable forms when they are destroyed.

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Concrete floors fold into overlapping vertical sheets along the walls of buildings. Charred bodies become smaller, forever frozen in their tortured positions.

Metal doors of shops crumple like tin, separating from their frames. When things are destroyed, you realize, too late, how fragile it all once was: bones, stones, walls, buildings, cities. Comprehension of destruction and the change it brings comes in waves - like grasping that your family is in exile or understanding that places from your childhood have disappeared forever.

The dark spaces of the city begin to match the dark places in your mind. Who would ever take pictures in Aleppo?

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They increased in number over the years, when I became a visitor myself. Now we excavate what we can find, using our photographs as references for the city that we mistakenly treated as an unchanging background in the composition.

Who would ever have thought that we would stay and she would burn?

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The people of Aleppo have been divided about the revolution since its birth. Unlike other cities like Daraa, Homs, and Hama, they did not join it willingly. Some resent the armed opposition fighters who they claim entered the city upicodent.coepared to fight the regime. They blame the destruction and devastation of Aleppo on the opposition fighters and conveniently forget the violence the Assad regime inflicted on their city for over four decades. The entire neighborhood of Bab al-Jneen in the Old City was razed and replaced with a series of concrete government eyesores that obnoxiously towered over the historical urban fabric.

The lot in front of the area remained empty for two decades. We used to study the map of the Old City and visually connect the narrow streets across the large gaping hole, imagining what had been erased from our history. Rudolf Nureyev and Princess Lee Radziwill at the London club, The Tokyo club, which opened in From Corbis.

LeRoy Neiman paints the Bunny of the Year, Gina Byrams. Not enough Bunny pictures, you say? A Bunny gets her tail adjusted. An early Bunny recruitment ad. Hefner with friend and clubs co-founder Victor Lownes, London, The San Francisco club interior.

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Bunnies relaxing on the roof of the London club, By Ron Galella. Kathryn Leigh Scott, New York,

Photos: Vintage Playboy Bunnies! Hugh Hefner's Playboy Clubs-in existence from the early s to the mids-were perhaps the best manifestation of his singular, swinging-bachelor-pad The Glee alum isn't shy when it comes to showing off some skinEstimated Reading Time: 3 mins Feb 18, The New Paper. An explicit video of a young girl in a secondary school uniform was circulated online last week. The three-minute video, which appears to have been taken at a staircase landing, shows her performing various sex acts with an unidentified man. The girl, whose face can be seen, appears to be a minor
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