he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
roma★
d e v o n
art blog(derogatory)
JVL
sheepfilms
YOU ARE THE REASON
NASA
🪼
Stranger Things
@theartofmadeline
h
The Bowery Presents
taylor price
Game of Thrones Daily
KIROKAZE
trying on a metaphor
will byers stan first human second
shark vs the universe
noise dept.
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Suriname
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from T1
seen from Japan
seen from Malaysia
seen from T1
seen from China
seen from France
seen from Canada
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Colombia
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
@avz-dean
An error? Is this even legal??
35 YEARS FOR A NON VIOLENT DRUG OFFENSE
Fuck you, America’s criminal justice system
This is heartbreaking 💔
his name is Matthew Charles
Ways you can help:
Donate to the GoFundMe raising money for Matthew’s legal costs.
Sign the Change.org petition asking for clemency (though the efficacy of this is sorely debated)
Some closure on Matthew Charles but certainly there are many more injustices exactly like it still happening throughout the country.
Truly, this was the most sincere words l have ever seen from an African American(celebrity) visiting any African country
This was beautiful, he hit the nail on the head. Especially when he pointed out that African people have been shamed away from their heritage. Loved this.
Так видит себя мой кот, когда я с утра не дал ему поесть
“this is how my cat sees himself in the morning before I give him food”
you right russian blogger, you right
ceramic hand beads
For more than forty years, Pulitzer Prize winning poet Mary Oliver lived on Cape Cod with the love of her life, the remarkable photographer Molly Malone Cook.
When Cook died in 2005 at the age of eighty, Oliver looked for a light, however faint, to shine through the thickness of bereavement. She spent a year making her way through thousands of her spouse’s photographs and unprinted negatives, which Oliver then enveloped in her own reflections to bring to life Our World - part memoir, part deeply moving eulogy to a departed soulmate, part celebration of their love for one another through their individual creative loves. Embraced in Oliver’s poetry and prose, Cook’s photographs reveal the intimate thread that brought these two extraordinary women together — a shared sense of deep aliveness and attention to the world, a devotion to making life’s invisibles visible, and above all a profound kindness to everything that exists, within and without.
Oliver ends Our World with The Whistler, a poem on never fully knowing even those nearest to us — a beautiful testament to what another wise woman once wrote: “You can never know anyone as completely as you want. But that’s okay, love is better.”
THE WHISTLER
All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden I mean that for more than thirty years she had not whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sounds war- bled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.
Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled through the house, whistling.
I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and an- kle. Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too. And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin to know each other? Who is this I’ve been living with for thirty years?
This clear, dark, lovely whistler?
From Mary’s FB:
To Mary’s beloved readers, we’re very sorry to share this sad news:
Mary Oliver, beloved poet and bard of the natural world, died on January 17 at home in Hobe Sound, Florida. She was 83.
Oliver published her first book, No Voyage, in London in 1963, at the age of twenty-eight. The author of more than 20 collections, she was cherished by readers, and was the recipient of numerous awards, including the 1984 Pulitzer Prize for American Primitive, and the 1992 National Book Award for New and Selected Poems, Volume One. She led workshops and held residencies at various colleges and universities, including Bennington College, where she held the Catharine Osgood Foster Chair for Distinguished Teaching until 2001. It was her work as an educator that encouraged her to write the guide to verse, A Poetry Handbook (1994), and she went on to publish many works of prose, including the New York Times bestselling essay collection, Upstream (2016). For her final work, Oliver created a personal lifetime collection, selecting poems from throughout her more than fifty-year career. Devotions was published by Penguin Press in 2017.
Her poetry developed in close communion with the landscapes she knew best, the rivers and creeks of her native Ohio, and, after 1964, the ponds, beech forests, and coastline of her chosen hometown, Provincetown. She spent her final years in Florida, a relocation that brought with it the appearance of mangroves. “I could not be a poet without the natural world,” she wrote. “Someone else could. But not me. For me the door to the woods is the door to the temple.” In the words of the late Lucille Clifton, “She uses the natural world to illuminate the whole world.”
In her attention to the smallest of creatures, and the most fleeting of moments, Oliver’s work reveals the human experience at its most expansive and eternal. She lived poetry as a faith and her singular, clear-eyed understanding of verse’s vitality of purpose began in childhood, and continued all her life. “For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
not to flex but i never saw la la land
Countless studies: hot showers are bad for you!! They dry out and damage your skin!
Me: I Will Boil Myself Like A Lobster If I So Choose
ANNIE HSIAO-CHING WANG
ARTIST
“if there are no cops at pride who will protect us” bears and butches next question
“We grow. It hurts at first.”
— Sylvia Plath, from The Collected Poems; “Witch Burning,” c. October 1961 (via macadameia)
More commissioned bees! (C.B)(8.16.18)
In cities, dollar stores are targeting African American neighborhoods and they are opening at a density that makes it impossible for new grocers and other local business to take root and grow.
these motherfuckers. i had no idea these motherfuckers are doing this to our communities. fuck!!
the story
this makes stories like this sooooo much more amazing and important:
