How The Face Changes With Shifting A Light Source
wow. i do photography and i'm picky about my lighting but i've never seen anything juxtaposed like this. wow.
RMH
Three Goblin Art
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Today's Document
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Misplaced Lens Cap
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One Nice Bug Per Day

Kiana Khansmith
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YOU ARE THE REASON
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@aseashelltale
How The Face Changes With Shifting A Light Source
wow. i do photography and i'm picky about my lighting but i've never seen anything juxtaposed like this. wow.
II. MIDNIGHT
I've pulled over in the barren fairgrounds parking lot to write this down. If the thought had been any more urgent I may have resigned to write in flames, soaring toward the ditch in a lunge for a pen. Anyway, I was driving and thinking and this stale idea floats past. "Love evolves." I'd always say that. And it was true -- why else could we look back on our pasts, all our former loves, and dismiss them with the simple charge of naivety? If we grow, so must our love.
Then I got cynical -- but I never stopped saying it: love evolves. Only then I had stopped believing it existed and only kept spewing the line because it made it more excusable that I hurt a lot of feelings in impulsive acts of faux-passion. Those were born of a stagnant life, I think, and a desperation to escape it. It worked for a while but eventually I admitted the invalidity of that sad excuse, too. But even then in the face of ultimate defeat -- when I decided that love existed and I'd outgrown it, or that I'd had my share and wasted it -- I never stopped professing "love evolves". I always found a way to prove its truth , even though that truth existed in a constant state of flux.
Then I stopped to consider connotation. Maybe love evolved because the way we use and understand words is always changing, increasing in elaboration albeit maybe suffering a decrescendo in affect. The more I thought about words, in particular "love", that mysterious object of human fixation, the more I felt like a fly trapped in a web. The spider holding me wasn't a predator -- no, I had no fear -- but he couldn't see or hear me, and the more he lived as normally and the more I struggled, the further I became trapped. With each new day, dew drops glistened on the web like treasure, but always evaporated as I was left to bake in the midday sun, longingly gazing at that distant, floating gem. It was always changing and always beyond my insect capacity. Love. So I escaped the only way I could. I detached myself from that ineffable fixation like an exoskeleton and flew off from the web to become lost in the vastness of Earth's atmosphere.
Suddenly, as ever-changing as it always was, that mysterious gem materialized again before me in the air. Freed from my web of connotation, I could not quite call it anything; but it reminded me of what I would have first called "love" in childhood, before I decided it could change, in fact, before it ever did, therefore making strangeness of my conviction of its meaning. Terrified yet to speak for fear of that convoluted web, being caged like an insect never to be preyed upon, I have become encompassed, enraptured by a beautiful mystery: a memory of youth, memories of every glistening drop of dew I ever pined for. Yes, a thing with a purity that defies words -- love.
I.
He sat complacent with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He spoke and the corners of his mouth turned upward and outward, as if the movements were involuntary, but resigned to. Nostalgia dragged me back and forth between past and present in rapid succession. I saw innocence, youth slightly rounded, contrasted sharply with more angular skeletal structure, thin and carrying a sardonic grin. Cigarette smoldering at the ends of fingertips, laughter tumbled and fell as easily and indefinitely as the buoyant smoke rose. Talk of concrete, goatees, dances upon lips and disappears; I remember skiing, golfing, naps in the back of the church van. Dandelion seeds dance in my memory, stale adolescence settles deep in my chest. Social class contrast severed by childhood interface drags its blade through the fabric of today.
holy shit
blog post circa january 2009
I have absolutely no sense of direction. I’ve driven Jenny home so many times, but somehow when I get to Pennsylvania, I always turn right, which is the wrong way, unless I’m going straight back to my mom’s, which I never am. So anyway, I realized I was going the wrong way, but I didn’t feel like turning around yet. So I drove a few miles, and stopped in the parking lot of my old church. From the time I was in seventh grade and old enough to go, until less than a year ago, I spent every wednesday night there, with my friend John and my little brother, and sometimes, Carlene. Youth group. But it was my social life.
Every week, whether it was warm or cold or raining or just uncomfortable, John and I would go outside the church and sit on the edge of the parking lot, because there was this very large, very steep hill that, eventually, turned into soccer fields that turned into a playground that turned into yards. The space that was the hill and the ground at the bottom of it was a huge expanse before it became any of those things. We’d sit on the hill and talk. My hair was long past my waist, and the wind would mess it up beyond fixing, but I’d stay outside. In the summer, we’d roll down the hill and climb up and roll down it again and again until we made ourselves sick, laughing and unable to walk. In the summer, we rolled onto thistles. In the winter, we didn’t roll. In the spring, we climbed back up muddy and wet. And in the fall, there were dandelions. There were so many dandelions, you couldn’t even see the grass, over that huge expanse, no grass at all. You’d take one step onto that hill or the field, and thousands of tiny seeds would cloud up around you and blow away to make more dandelions, as if there was room for any more. So we’d roll down the hill and the dandelion seeds would cling to my tangled up hair, and the bill of his hat, and to our eyelashes, and to our clothes, and they’d fill our mouths and noses because we’d been laughing and we couldn’t breathe. Eventually, at some point every year, they spray all the dandelions with whatever the chemical is that kills them. And after that, the hill is bare and even the grass looks ugly. And then it starts snowing, more and more. And in the winter, we’d go skiing and sledding and we’d be covered in snow instead of seeds. And in the summer, we’d sneak off to flora pool and drink iced blended coffee, and four days later we’d be on the hill again. I never could get enough of that place. John was my best friend. I loved him. My mom, though, she didn’t want me to even speak to him, and she had very little faith in him. I especially miss him, covered in dandelions. We’d roll down the hill facing each other holding hands and laughing when we lost our grip halfway down. Our faces were close together and close to the ground, and like I said, filled with dandelion seeds. All those dandelions, reproducing because of us. You know how people say that dandelions are for making wishes? Blow off all the seeds. We wasted every single one of those wishes. Hundreds at a time, just because of gravity. But what happened when those seeds landed again? There were even more dandelions than before.
He actually just found me again. The bittersweet shock drew the breath from my lungs and the blood from my brain. To the frantic cadence of my heart, my blood surged through my body quickly enough to make me tremble, almost hot enough to make me weep. He's come and gone, and so have I, for almost half my lifetime. Memory's been fickle, fleeting - but only the present exists in our every meeting. In the face of uncertain conviction, I released the tsunami of my mind and the deluge of my heart. It was well received. Former paramours, barely shrouded in the dust of our footsteps, peer warily through this sliver of time, no doubt making judgments or curses. Transcendent I float, willing our environment to evanecse; I hope that I am as pertinent as he makes me feel. My latent affinity is flourishing, evoking in me the desire to become a planet, orbiting its complement in the vastness of the universe.
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain, For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone; I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
"What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why" by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
i'm a sucker for intelligent lyrics.
My dear, find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain from you your all. Let it cling into your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you, and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
Charles Bukowski (via mayaaapapayaaa)
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Human behavior makes no sense.
It's so unfortunate that people sacrifice their spiritual and intellectual companionships and friendships simply because they have become embarrassed about or outgrown a physical affinity or sexual relationship. The physical and the intellectual/spiritual happen on different (albeit intersecting) planes. Killing valuable relationships because of some factor objective to its other factors is so unprecedented and it's awful how easily we all just do it. What's worse is the hostility and melancholy involved almost every time, or jealousy and animosity imbued in future partners. This behavior literally does not make sense to me. It almost seems evil.
Teacher: We're going to write short stories for our unit 1 project.
Assignment: Short story of 8-10 pages.
Classmates: Eight long pages about their mild car accidents while driving to a campsite to go fishing.
Me: Seventeen pages of eloquent drama, in which a girl is disowned by her parents, addicted to coffee, gives up her baby, goes nuts in the hospital, freezes to death, and realizes that accepting peace and love transcends human experience.
Me: My teacher will kill me.
Me: Oops.
Marina Abramović, Rhythm 0, 1974
“This piece was primarily a trust exercise, in which she told viewers she would not move for six hours no matter what they did to her. She placed 72 objects one could use in pleasing or destructive ways, ranging from flowers and a feather boa to a knife and a loaded pistol, on a table near her and invited the viewers to use them on her however they wanted.
Initially, Abramović said, viewers were peaceful and timid, but it escalated to violence quickly. “The experience I learned was that … if you leave decision to the public, you can be killed… I felt really violated: they cut my clothes, stuck rose thorns in my stomach, one person aimed the gun at my head, and another took it away. It created an aggressive atmosphere. After exactly 6 hours, as planned, I stood up and started walking toward the public. Everyone ran away, escaping an actual confrontation.”
This piece revealed something terrible about humanity, similar to what Philip Zimbardo’s Stanford Prison Experiment or Stanley Milgram’s Obedience Experiment, both of which also proved how readily people will harm one another under unusual circumstances.”
This performance showed just how easy it is to dehumanize a person who doesn’t fight back, and is particularly powerful because it defies what we think we know about ourselves. I’m certain the no one reading this believes the people around him/her capable of doing such things to another human being, but this performance proves otherwise.”
I love this woman
can someone PLEASE buy me a wall-sized poster of this is it even real i mean i don't even
i need to show this to my women's studies teacher
don’t be too clingy don’t be such a ‘girl’ be a woman but be hairless like a child
don’t wear skimpy outfits don’t be such a ‘slut’ be modest but take it off when i ask don’t assert yourself don’t be such a ‘bitch’ be nice to me but don’t be a fucking doormat don’t be ignorant don’t be such a ‘bimbo’ be intelligent but don’t argue your opinion with me don’t wear make-up ever don’t be so ‘insecure’ be yourself but don’t complain if i don’t like it