Blue Polka Dot Notebook

Just a place to organize my Tumblr likes, for now. Extreme randomness may ensue. (Yes, I know the notebook in the header doesn't actually have polka dots on it. The name comes from a favorite childhood diary of mine.) (Who am I even explaining to?! 🙄)

[bled]

Billions by Ward Roberts

‘how small and insufficient people can be made to feel’

[noturfknbaby]

[fantodsdhrit]

clouds in kashmir valley

when we prose after million years, you say, “sometimes snow falls, sometimes darkness”

i keep my hands folded on winter morning, tempted to inhale fog, escaping your mouth—

you talk to december, i can’t, it too, shall pass like clouds in kashmir valley; the evenings are

amber, for stealing your earrings, your secrets, potions and constellations, and your devotion;

how things come together, then fall apart, how memories flood in, when you reach precipice—

[beka-tiddalik]

It’s fun how quarantine is introducing a lot of people to the concept that the entire social structure only holds up at any given point because of how many people are collectively lying in the same direction.

Days of the week? Lies.

You have to eat particular kinds of food at particular times of the day? Lies.

Checkout workers and shelfstackers do unimportant jobs and deserve a low rate of pay? Lies.

It’s impossible to change the status quo in a week? Lies.

Capitalism is a fair and sustainable system? Damned lies.

[thereaderpsy17-deactivated20200]

"The strength of a person's spirit would then be measured by how much 'truth' he could tolerate, or more precisely, to what extent he needs to have it diluted, disguised, sweetened, muted, falsified."

— Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

[Bookstore in London ruined by and air-raid 1940]

[ambitchiousss]

Day 4.

At six, we started to sing. People opened their windows, waved at their neighbours, and sang their hearts out. First the national anthem, then many other popular songs. Some clapped their hands, others used their pans. We filled the streets with music and noises, because that's how we are, we can't stand the silence. We have to keep our spirits high. And what better way to do it than music.

Stay strong, my people. We will get through this.

[ramoneblog]

Relax.

Follow me on Instagram –> Mr_Ramone

[chris-evans]

[pyotra]

aaj ki chai is accompanied by history lessons and nostalgia for simpler days where a meeting over a cup of tea meant something in m.f. hussain’s last and most well-known feature film, meenaxi: tale of 3 cities (2004). peep m.f. hussain himself sitting at the same irani cafe tabu & raghubir yadav are at (where tabu’s booming voice frightens him just as he takes a sip).  

[everythingfox]

Hummingbird nest with rain protection

(via)

[roach-works]

this lady’s got a brain the size of a chocolate chip and she’s smarter than i am

[curiousobsession101]

So pretty!!!

[verylostpenguin]

Pigeons in big cities have no fears and also no morals

[bluepolkadotnotebook]

[luisonte]

Hola artemaníacos, hoy dibujamos Bambú

[letsreema]

रात अंधेरी के आंचल से,

देखो वो झाँक रहा …

【शरद पूर्णिमा】

[jadbalja]

Something raw. Generational, even

The terrible weight of objects in emotional space-time: curving the geometry of our lives with their presence. Immovable fonts of memory, gravitationally rooting us to place, time, awash with inertia. Festooned with all we accumulate, we sit unable to be free. Marie Kondo says we must shed everything that no longer brings us joy. But what if we bought these out of sadness, that is, the void sucked these objects in, past the event horizon of the doorstep. The terrible blackness at the heart of it all, or somewhere in the bedroom, which pays for what we no longer need, yet must buy. Each thing calling out its provenance, dripping with symbolic meaning. Of the places we were. The people we used to be, and what we meant to each other. Now we must read into what we signify in reference to these objects. And their screaming stillness. Shake off the dust, relics! Speak, memory. Or at least whisper.

[bakaity-poetry]

[bakaity-poetry]

Dungarpur, Rajasthan

February, 2020