bhurrababy

 my undying admiration, always

[soniig]

[uncommonjones-deactivated201311]

[dead-welsh-king]

due to personal reasons I have decided to sacrifice myself to a sentient forest

[fluffytherapy]

[bhurrababy]

🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

[makafushigi]

[cannonkangaroo-blog1]

[tasavvur]

“All is for you: the daily prayer, The sleepless heat at night, And of my verses, the white Flock, and of my eyes, the blue fire.”

— Anna Akhmatova, from “I Don’t Know If You’re Alive Or Dead” (via atreides)

[thecolorblockcurator]

Self-Portrait in Blue Sari, Amrita Sher-Gil

[when-injune]

All summer I had walked in lushness, caressed by light, by olive and lemon and fig trees, embraced by gently rolling hills. Because my time in France was coming to its inevitable end, it had become too beautiful there, too painfully perfect. My parting became a kind of unbearable opera of longing. But then, overnight it seemed, there I was in the Midwest, and there was nothing, and the nothingness, the weird, fierce resignation of it was somehow exhilarating. I surrendered in seconds to this void, and like all landscapes I form a permanent bond with, it, at a crucial moment, a moment of crisis, of change, happened to mirror my internal state identically. My remoteness, my desolation. Stepping off that plane, the world was devoid of everything, a clean slate of sky, a nihilism of space, empty, the end, and yet it was oddly beautiful—like my own brand of nihilism.

Carole Maso, from “Surrender,” Break Every Rule: Essays on Language, Longing, and Moments of Desire (Counterpoint, 2000)

[dozakhnama-deactivated20200830]

there’s NO feeling that comes par to the rush that is listening to 2000’s bollywood, urdu and pashto songs as a kid raised in south asia…reminds me of times that were permanently orange tinted, worn dastarkhwan on bricked verandas at lunch, mum used to wear tiny moonstone earrings and we watched dubbed tom and jerry on a boxy TV set sucking on shezan juice sitting on the floor cause it was cooler that way

[tasavvur]

“I am not interested in what Bourdieu, or Kristeva, has to say about grief. I don’t want a grid, I want arms. I don’t want a theory; I want the poem inside me. I want the poem to unfurl like a thousand monks chanting inside me. I want the poem to skewer me, to catapult me into the clouds. I want to sink into the rhythm of your weeping, I want to say, My grief is turning and I have no way to remain still. I am not interested in feeling by proxy; I go to the hollow when I want to empty, I go to theory when I want to sit with someone else’s thinking, I go to myself when I want to see you.”

— Sina Queyras, from ‘Water, Water Everywhere’ in MxT (via letters-to-nobody)

[artdetails]

Sandro Botticelli, Lamentation Over the Dead Christ (detail), 1492

[amare-habeo]

[thunderstruck9]

Manjunath Kamath (Indian, b. 1972), Time to Time, 2013. Oil and acrylic on canvas, 183 x 152 cm.

via amare-habeo

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“If I am a witch, then so be it, I said. And I took to eating black things–coffee, dark chiles, the bruised part of fruit, the darkest, blackest things to make me hard and strong.”

— Sandra Cisneros, from Woman Hollering Creek; “Eyes of Zapata,” c. 1991

[orchideennacht]

Postcards from Samoa 🇼🇸 by Arno Gasteiger

[tasavvur]

“Mi corazón, una febril granada de agrupado rubor y abierta cera, que sus tiernos collares te ofreciera con una obstinación enamorada. My heart is a feverish pomegranate of clustered crimson, its wax opened, which could offer you its tender pendants lovingly, persistently.”

— Miguel Hernández, tr. Don Share, from I Have Lots of Heart: Selected Poems.

[tasavvur]

“Crece la sangre, agranda la expansión de sus frondas en mi pecho… Blood blooms, spreads its wide foliage in my chest…”

— Miguel Hernández, tr. Don Share, from I Have Lots of Heart: Selected Poems.