Vivian Maier, 1975.

bliss lane

No title available
we're not kids anymore.

Origami Around

oozey mess

blake kathryn
Xuebing Du
No title available
taylor price

#extradirty
Today's Document
EXPECTATIONS
Misplaced Lens Cap
Not today Justin
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Show & Tell
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Jules of Nature
The Stonewall Inn

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@agathaevangelinepalma
Vivian Maier, 1975.
Salvatore Carnevale, Sicilian socialist and antimafia activist. Killed in 1953.
Pueta e latru, Ignazio Buttitta.
The first portrait of my namesake that I’ve ever connected with. She’s usually depicted as doe-eyed and lily white. I like this better. She was notoriously rebellious and obstinate.
Sunday mood.
Gorgeous art by poodlefuzz!
birds flyin high, you know how i feel.
First Intifada,
December 12, 1987. Photo Peter Stepan.
Happy 38th, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
We should all be feminists.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie at the PEN World Voices Festival, 5/10/15
Chimamanda <3. Just finished reading Americanah and all I want is more of her.
Maria Callas e Pier Paolo Pasolini fotografati da Mario Tursi sul set di Medea, 1969
Maria Callas & Pier Paolo Pasolini. Eyecons <3
una notte
You remove your shoes and walk to the edge of the sea.
To your right: houses, and the floodgates spray painted red with calls for revolution, obscured by heavy bird shit.
The runoff has made home for the birds, and it reeks of sewer. The sea is green and dirty but you walk straight in anyway, because while the sun is barely visible over the horizon it still casts the most brilliant yellow-blues into the sky and you long to get closer to its warmth. You remark, almost aloud, that the night is divine. You will learn that in the holy lands, they often are. Here, twilight brings on crescent moons and planet-sized stars that stare down at you conceitedly and beckon you to poetry.
Many before you, possessed by these same stars, have sung of lovers whose fates were written in the heavens, amid the imaginary lines that connect one glowing orb to the other.
You plant your feet in the wet sand of the salty sea. You will remain here for nearly three years. And so you inhale deeply, adjusting to the smell of salt and sea and sadness and death.
You look up towards the heavens and ask them what they will grant you to create in the next thousand nights of your life. But they ignore your foolish inquiry. You are a spec of dust -- so minuscule and unobtrusive in the vastness of knowledge, of history, of ancient sadness, that as your voice floats away from you it is lost in the crashing of the waves.
I remember a scene in Seinfeld where Jerry is sleeping and he starts laughing. He sits up, grabs a notebook and pen that is right next to him, and scribbles something. His newest comedy bit.
I have to start doing this. I realize all my best ideas come to me in bed, when it is dark. I promise myself to remember them in the morning. I never do!
Is it Raining?
They say you should try and write when you are drunk. I am tipsy. Here goes.
I sat by my window all day, waiting for it to rain. It's because I told myself, if it rains today, Mummy will come home early from work. See though, I already knew it was going to rain because the newspaper said so. I just wanted Mummy to come home already. I always missed her when she was at work. As soon as she got back, daddy was nicer, and then there would be dinner.
That particular day, my socks didn't match. I remember because it was Friday, and Mummy never did laundry til Sunday, and by Wednesday I always ended up losing a sock and having to substitute with another for school, throwing the whole system off.
One was brown. It had specks of gray and went up high and had a hole right below my knee. The other was white and a lot shorter, because I wore it with my dress shoes to church.
Kitty crawled up and rubbed against my leg, then walked on my lap, and off, and back on, losing his balance, and finally he circled and curled up next to me. Kitty was his name, because I named him that when I was just four or five.
I was ten by then, but now I'm fourteen, and Kitty is still alive. Old, but alive. He is an orange tabby. Mummy always called him "she." I always had to remind her that Kitty is a boy. But Mummy went ahead and called him "she" anyway.
Daddy just calls him "the cat."
I sat by the window and waited. I think I was fooling around, blowing on the cold window and then drawing hearts on the fog, because I just remember daddy saying, "you cut that out, now." Daddy hates when I do that, he says it leaves marks. I still don't see what's wrong with marks.
There was a black car that was always parked in front of our flat, and then there was the striped awning of the bakery beneath us. I was just staring at them for what must have been forever. The wind was blowing and I even remember it coming through the cracks in our window.
I heard thunder from far away. I sat more attentively and waited.
More thunder. No rain. No Mummy.
Radiohead -- Codex
(song for a rainy day and for mulling over your eerie dreams).
Here, my favorite pianist (Richter) plays my favorite piece (Jeux d'eau) by my favorite composer (Ravel).
"Make me young! Make me young!"
Kilgore Trout, to the author. Gets me every time.
Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To be in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.
Oscar Wilde
The precise moment at which this little boy heard sound for the first time.