i bring an “excluded since childhood” vibe to the function
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Sade Olutola
No title available

@theartofmadeline
Jules of Nature
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

JBB: An Artblog!
art blog(derogatory)
ojovivo
d e v o n

tannertan36

No title available
Cosimo Galluzzi

Janaina Medeiros
will byers stan first human second
hello vonnie
noise dept.
Not today Justin
occasionally subtle
NASA

seen from United States

seen from Singapore
seen from T1
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from Peru

seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Germany
seen from United States

seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Switzerland
seen from India
seen from United States

seen from France

seen from United States
@d-lygrt
i bring an “excluded since childhood” vibe to the function
Stephanie Foo, What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma
In myth, woman’s boundaries are pliant, porous, mutable. Her power to control them is inadequate, her concern for them unreliable. Deformation attends her. She swells, she shrinks, she leaks, she is penetrated, she suffers metamorphoses. The women of mythology regularly lose their form in monstrosity. Io turns into a heifer, Kallisto becomes a bear, Medusa sprouts snakes from her head and Skylla yelping dogs from her waist, the Sirens and the Sphinx accumulate unmatching bestial parts, while Daphne passes into leaf and Pasiphaë into a mechanical cow. The Graiai are three old women who make themselves repellent by sharing one human form amongst them, passing an eye and a tooth back and forth as needed. Salmakis is a nymph who merges her form with that of her lover to produce a bisexual monster named after him, Hermaphroditos. The Hydra generates heads as fast as they can be chopped off. The Amazons (lacking a breast) owe their fearsomeness to the zeal with which they adapt personal form—their own. At the same time, the women of myth are notorious adaptors of the forms and boundaries of others. They repeatedly open containers which they are told not to open (e.g., Pandora, the daughters of Kekrops, Danaë) or destroy something placed in a container in their keeping (as Althaia does the psyche of Meleagros). They prove unreliable as containers themselves: both Zeus and Apollo find it necessary to snatch offspring out of a mother’s womb and internalize it for safekeeping (as Zeus takes Dionysos from Semele, Apollo rescues Asklepios from Koronis), while Kronos swallows his children alive as soon as they emerge from Rhea. Even more distressing are the numerous women of myth who submit masculine form to direct and violent reform. Skylla clips a vital lock from her father’s head, Agave beheads her son with her bare hands, Medea pulls the plug on Talos, Kybele unmans Attis with an axe. Mythical women frequently violate masculinity by enveloping male form in a fatal formlessness, as Euripides’ Klytemnestra encloses Agamemnon in a “garment that has no boundaries”; as Sophokles’ Deianira covers Herakles in a “vapor of death” that eats the form of his flesh; as Pindar’s Nephele entraps Ixion in the delusion of her own body: He lay with a cloud—sweet lie! Love is the principal motivation in these stories for women’s flight from form or tampering with boundaries. Indeed, the goddess of love, Aphrodite herself, is said to have been born from the earliest recorded revision contrived for manly form by any mythical Greek woman, the castration of Ouranos. […] There is, then, a mythological groundwork of assumptions, also operative in the arguments of philosophers like Plato and Aristotle and which can be related to historical behavior, that regards women as formless creatures who cannot or do not or will not maintain their own boundaries and who are awfully adept at confounding the boundaries of others. When we begin to look for the etiology of this conception, we encounter, I believe, a deep and abiding mistrust of “the wet” in virtue of its ability to transform and deform.
Anne Carson, excerpt of “Dirt and Desire: Essay on the Phenomenology of Female Pollution in Antiquity”, in Men in the Off Hours (via antigonick)
Let him go in peace, though a world unaware of him; Respect his noble griefs, this grand and wretched man Whom his own soul devours! Flee, O vain pleasures, his austere existence; His growing palm, jealous and solitary, Cannot thrive among your flowers.
Victor Hugo, from “Le Poète,” Odes et Ballades (Hector Bossange, 1828)
Sometimes when I write, when Chopin or Schubert twirls from a disc, when a line of poetry is perfectly good, the Mystery is inside me again. I lie down in the silence of my mind and touch the world all over. Clouds fly through me. Trees break the sky above a frozen lake, and a footprint startles its crust of snow.
Kate Daniels, from “Self-Portrait with Religion and Poetry,” A Walk in Victoria’s Secret (Louisana State University Press, 2010)
I don’t know when I knew. Was it after she drank me the first time, or the nights that followed? Who is to say? I do know I came to fully understand Narcissus. Imagine sitting by that pond only to find you are the water and you were very, very thirsty.
— Airea D. Matthews, from “Letters to My Would-Be Lover on Geometry and Ponds,” Simulacra (via lifeinpoetry)
The shortness of life, the years quicker and quicker, not remembering whether it happened in this or that autumn.
Czeslaw Milosz, from City Without a Name
(via
watchoutforintellect
)
"Maybe there is a beast… maybe it's only us."
-William Golding; Lord of the Flies
gallery wall 📜 🖋 🏛
This marble was loved enough to make mortals shiver when they brush the cold hands with their warm ones, hesitating an instant to call it alive and subject. •
that the guest is the only objective observer who is a guest in my mouth who will visit me when I am gone (no one, no one) whose customs can I call my own, can I crawl through to traverse the other side I have lost my objectivity, lost my object
— Caroline Mei-Lin Mar, from “Guest: Third Translation,” published in Vida Review
Silly me. I thought love was real & the body imaginary.
Ocean Vuong, excerpt of “Eurydice”, in Night Sky with Exit Wounds (via antigonick)
Mary Shelley, from a letter to Marienne Hunt c. April 1827:
“I will instantly retire to some solitude; I will see no one, not even you, and there I will live until the horrible disgust I feel at all that is human be somewhat removed by quiet and retirement. My heart is too full of hatred.”
—in a love sometimes sure of itself, sometimes shaken by bewilderment and change, but always committed to the charge of ever-deepening understanding—
Maggie Nelson, The Argonauts (via antigonick)
"Bütün sevdiklerim beni karanlıkta unuttu."
Fernando Pessoa, huzursuzluğun kitabı.
"Kalp düşünebilseydi, atmaktan vazgeçerdi."
Fernando Pessoa, huzursuzluğun kitabı.
"There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is not painful."
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
Artwork: Loribelle Spirovski