fall mood board 1
NASA
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

#extradirty
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
noise dept.
Mike Driver
I'd rather be in outer space šø
ojovivo
Cosimo Galluzzi
Monterey Bay Aquarium

Janaina Medeiros
$LAYYYTER
Cosmic Funnies

ē„ę„ / Permanent Vacation

Andulka
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

No title available
almost home

Product Placement
todays bird
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia
seen from Latvia

seen from Germany

seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Argentina

seen from Russia

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States

seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United States
@always-halfstrange
fall mood board 1
Don DeLillo, ca. 2011. Photograph by Thousandrobots A man whoās been called āthe chief shaman of the paranoid school of American fictionā can be expected to act a little nervous. I met Don DeLillo for the first time in an Irish restaurant in Manhattan, for a conversation...
āA writer takes earnest measures to secure his solitude and then finds endless ways to squander it. ā
Juliana Spahr
Charles Olson
whoās blood
whose hands
annalise laughs from her perch a gold field in an empty room
a loom in the corner of the attic hanna learned to weave, forgot
iāve returned to many places
searched for many words and worlds i write to make myself throw up
adrift somewhere beyond the passenger seat tim drives as i clutch my stomach
moaning, breathing heavily in a rite aid checkout line while
my dad paid for my prescription and iām leaving again and iām leaving again
and iām leaving again and i donāt want to move to california
in the parking lot a womanās necklace swings against her sternum
the etching of her sonās face hangs just above her breast my vincent, she cries to my father
as he bends to hug her fragile frame my breathing evens
hand on my shoulder, closing car door waiting in the dark for a tow truck while
elanaās neighbors fight then fuck i welcome either
a hundred vacant years stretched in silent space between our bodies bent bare in bed
roaming and wounded, wet with wanting, a short goodbye
road, the only place my mind can stand and barely. it sings to distract itself and i
bite my own arm, focus on the stretch of street where a slick rainbow sits waiting
then gone: a mirage caused by refraction
Harmony Korine & Chloƫ Sevigny
mmmmm. listening to him sad in texas, happy in texas, in an attic in seattle with my best friends, crying and lovely. thank you, l. cohen.
āI always thought that Sheryl Sandbergās ālean inā idea was ironic; it is only possible for her readership to envision leaning in at the corporate boardroom in so far as they can lean on the low-paid care workers. . . .ā
WHY THE THRASHER LOGO SENDS ME INTO A RAGE BLACKOUT
Iāll wear the sweatshirt he let me borrow and remember the time we had sex in a strangerās shower on New Years, the second time we ever met. Weāll talk for months and heāll promise to visit. He wonāt. Weāll facetime while Iām in bed with Hanna and heāll say he likes my haircut and that he wants to bury his face in my neck and Hanna will say guys come on and Iāll smile.
Weāll make a list of things we want to do together and only do a handful. Heāll promise me a helicopter ride. Heāll say I hope youāre ready to spend every day together. We wonāt.
But on my first day back heāll wrap his arms around my waist and say heās so happy Iām here. Iāll sit beside him on a curb that night outside of a punk show and weāll be drunk and Iāll rub my hands through his hair and heāll groan. Weāll eat endless appetizers at TGI Fridays and laugh.
And he will spell everything wrong all the time. And weāll slow dance to I Canāt Help Falling in Love With You and Iāll wonder how true the lyrics will prove to be. Weāll walk through the arboretum at night and sit on a bench and Iāll think it would be nice to kiss in the light of the skyline, but instead weāll walk back to his house in silence. We wonāt hold hands. And on another night weāll get into a fight and heāll hang up on me and then heāll apologize and Iāll cry and it wonāt be the last time.
Heāll tell me he canāt love me because Iām leaving and Iāll spend the summer trying to decide if he would if I wasnāt.
Before he leaves for work weāll have sex and heāll say I want to 69 with you! And Iāll laugh and say next time. He wonāt introduce me to his friends. Heāll use the wrong your.
And Iāll feel guilty that everything I write ends up about love and why I canāt seem to find it. Iāll struggle to answer why, in a world of terrors, I only want to write about the space between our shoulders when we watch a movie on the couch and the nights I spend in his bed when we donāt touch or even kiss and isnāt it too soon for that?
Why I compulsively check his social media to see where he is and why heās not with me and why he doesnāt care and why it makes me feel so crazy. And why I try to play it cool and not remind myself of what I think I deserve.
Iāll try not to wonder what happened since the time I sent him my writing, when he said he wanted to kiss me after each sentence or the time we stayed at a Super 8 and he rubbed my back and met my parents and they said he was a nice boy. Or when he apologized a different time and we went home and had sex and he said baby baby you fuck me so good, and Iāll try not to remember that this was the only time he ever called me that.
Instead Iāll drive home slightly drunk the night before I leave town after he didnāt even kiss me goodbye and Iāll gasp through my sobs and punch the dashboard and curse us both for being such fools. Iāll tell him how much he has hurt me, tell him to fuck himself.
The next day Iāll apologize. Heāll say I hope we can still be cool. Iāll say yes. Of course.
Run, Hide, Fight
A training video for my new job at an art museum begins with a string of statisticsā numbers that translate to bodies.
21 killed, 19 wounded eatingĀ at a fast food restaurant 32 killed, 24 wounded while attending class 13 killed, 29 wounded while at work
People in bright cardigans and collared shirts make photocopies, wait for the elevator, answer the phone.
A white man with a buzz cut wearing all black pulls out a gun and shoots and shoots. Bodies fall, people scream.
The narrator of the video cuts in with three options: Run, Hide, Fight.
A woman cowers beneath her desk as two coworkers pull her out and make their escape. They call to a man wearing headphones whoās about to go inside; pull him to safety too.
Alone in a copy room, a woman with blond hair and glasses turns off the lights, locks the door and barricades it with the copy machine. She silences her phone, shuts her eyes tight, crouching. The shooter tries the door but continues on to an easier target.
The last group huddles in the break roomā one of the women sobs, hysterical. Another comforts her while the men grab weapons: a chair, a fire extinguisher, a coffee pot. The shooter walks in and the frame freezes
with some tips: Attempt to incapacitate the shooter Act with physical aggression Improvise weapons Commit to your actions
The narrator explains that responders are highly trained. They donāt tend to the injured When they arrive On screen Men in camo fatigues rush past A woman lying dead On the bathroom floor
In Greek epics, Women tell the stories of warriors Because they are the ones who are left
But who will tell their stories? Or do they remain untold As Rukeyser said If only to keep the world from splitting open
My mother told me her Story in pieces, as she deemed I was Old enough to understandā Though Iāve never suffered men As she has
Be careful met with eye roll, met with I know Met with impatience Met with disgust
Now met with guilt Met with Iām sorry
Trauma creates instinct, says run Says be glad you had a daughter first so Sheāll never have to lock her door As you did When your brother moved home From college
Says teach her to fear Says be careful
Iām old enough to understand
I think itās fine to have misgivings about what you do. I remember saying to a guy I was dating in college once, āI would never date myself.ā And he was like, āWell, you donāt have to!ā It was very relieving. You donāt have to date yourself, you know?
Hannah Black,Ā http://hazlitt.net/feature/i-feel-everything-shouldnt-exist-interview-hannah-black
not only am i a shameless meme im also a shameless joanna stan
tag urself iām divers & ys
have one on me 4 sure
I don't know how the mind works, but isn't there a part of it that deals specifically with reason and sense? The brainy asshole of the mind? The nerd on the dance floor in a tweed jacket, drinking sherry, constantly parsing and analyzing and judging and shaking his head, making faces? That asshole is my intellect. He's a really shitty writer, as you might imagine. I don't rely on him when I'm composing. He goes to bed and has a little wet dream about how smart everyone will think he is when the story's published. What a douche bag!
Ottessa Moshfegh,Ā http://bombmagazine.org/article/1000261/ottessa-moshfegh
list poem
my subjectivity
their safety
my guessing
my death
my dadās job
my momās story
my dismissal
my misunderstanding
her fear
her frivolity
his power
her hurt
my guilt
his distance
our secrets
their eyes
our lineage
his withholding
my hypocrisyĀ
my reconciliation
my failed recognition
his innocence
his work
my scale
my desire
my lack
his refusal
the space
his shoulder
his bed
my tears
my confusion
our love
her love
our choices
our failure
2 1/2 haiku
Kati drives us home From the bar while James tells her Right now left, left, right
Walmart parking lot And James laughs.Ā āI just wondered If you would realize.ā
Kati doesnāt smile. āIād do anything you said.ā