yippieeee~ ahahaha~ yaaaaaaaaay~!⋆。°✩
Jules of Nature
Mike Driver
One Nice Bug Per Day
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

blake kathryn

@theartofmadeline
Cosimo Galluzzi

PR's Tumblrdome
ojovivo

⁂

No title available
we're not kids anymore.

★

oozey mess

Andulka

titsay

ellievsbear

Janaina Medeiros
art blog(derogatory)
YOU ARE THE REASON

seen from Greece

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@bonemason
yippieeee~ ahahaha~ yaaaaaaaaay~!⋆。°✩
cemeteries aren’t creepy they’re actually devoted to memory and rest and love and humanity
Some of my favorite things from when I worked landscaping at a small town cemetery:
The things that got left on graves. 6-packs of beer, little boxes of chocolates or cookies, the occasional large Tim Hortons double double. My favorite was the one grave that on a Monday would always have a 6-pack with one can missing. Someone visited regularly and had a drink while they were there.
The veterans section, and how it was almost empty. Not that there weren’t veterans buried in the cemetery; there were tons, but they were buried beside their wives in family plots. Most of these guys went away for WW2, survived, came home, and were buried decades later, with people they loved, the rank carved on their headstone less important than the names of the children and grandchildren who remember them.
The way standing headstones make you take the time to trim the weeds around them every time you cut the grass, and give you the chance to slow down and read the inscriptions. There was probably a time I knew every name there.
The small metal markers in the back rows, only labeled with numbers. They took the place of old wooden crosses when the town was a little farming village. Somewhere in the museum they probably have a record of who was buried under each, but I never saw it.
The big plastic flower wreath (the kind people decorate wedding cars with) that spelled “MOM”. She was young, and her grave was so new she didn’t have a headstone yet. She had 5 little kids, and they’d made it for her.
The stones lined up by the landscaping shed, carved with their inscriptions and waiting for their graves to settle so we could place them. The little printed or hand-decorated paper signs loved ones taped to the temporary plaques they would replace.
The guerrilla wildflowers planted around grave markers. We weren’t supposed to leave them when we cut the grass, but we tried to anyway.
Walking through the tiny local museum and putting faces and items to the names I knew from grave markers. Esme and her room full of quilts and knitting. The old veterans who lived to their 80s and 90s, fresh-faced in pressed new uniforms before they left for the war more than half a century ago. Pictures of young couples grinning in front of houses I recognised from my recycling pickup rounds, whose names I recognised from their shared plots.
The signs of life among the dead: lawn chair prints in the grass, kid’s snack wrappers that didn’t quite make it into the trash, elastic bands from bouquets, a place where someone sat cross-legged in the grass long enough to leave an imprint, a family’s worth of footprints in the muddy roadway.
Cemeteries may house the dead, but they exist for the living, and they’re a fascinating place where life and death exist side by side. There’s something really cool about a place where the dead are remembered and the living feel less alone because of it.
Art fight attack
can't stop thinking about how the "convinced to return for one last job" trope is a kind of resurrection. digging up a restless corpse that maybe should have stayed buried.
and a ghost story as well. the past coming back to haunt you, refusing to stay where you left it for dead. condemning, guiding, and pursuing you all at once.
And bodies, whether living or dead, decay continuously. Our topmost layer of skin is dead. Our hair is dead. Bacteria, fungus, and germs thrive in just about every nook and cranny they can find. The smell of body odor is, in fact, the smell of these bacteria feasting on fatty compounds secreted by our sweat glands. And yet, bodies are sexy, not in spite of the fact that we are decaying but exactly, I think, because we are.
The Loveliness of Decay: Rotting Flesh, Literary Matter, and Dead Media, Jesse Stommel
dungeon crawl
Ligier Richier: 'Cadaver Tomb of René of Chalon' (1545)
Memento mori pendant, France, 16th century
from The British Museum
Detail of skulls from the Last Judgment mosaic (XI century). Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta, Torcello, Venice, Italy.
Czesław Miłosz, “Ars Poetica?”
they need to come up with more words like necrosis and miasma and mausoleum and cadaver and morose and decrepit and stuff like that just so metal bands can expand their vocabulary
death comes to me again, a girl by Dorianne Laux
shit man tomorrow is christmas eve i swear yesterday was June 2010
As is tradition in tumblr culture the locals unearth the corpse of a long deceased figure and drag it across the streets merrily, laughing at what is preserved of the person’s words. This custom, seen as morbid in other cultures, is instead done gleefully and with an unmatched enthusiasm
Lakes and graveyards are very similar in that if you detonate a large explosion inside either one a lot of dead bodies come to the surface.
Hi, um. How is being the necromancer's apprentice going for you OP?
You want I should raise dead, I raise dead, no problem. You want banish dead, no problem, have plenty more nitro. I do this, ten minutes.
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gentle Spirit
Maria Mazziotti Gillan, from “Ghost Voices”
[text: Ghost voices trail behind me like silk scarves, all my dead still live inside me]
Stuff that people asked to have on their tombstones. Those are all real.