feathers at last at last

///

[velvetcloak]

Firefly Path, Saint Avangeline (ph: Elizabeth Elder)

[bugdotpng]

i took these back in 2013 and to this day they're some of my favorite photos i've ever taken ;w;

[persianmom-deactivated20260602]

grateful for the experience regardless of the outcome

[vitoriabas]

Some wacky illustrations for a short dissertation I wrote for my Masters, exploring the relationship between medieval illuminations, marginalia, and online ads.

Markers on cartridge paper.

[gobloggirl]

[sashayed]

Coyote

In the dreams, I look down at my arms and they are legs. I do not wear clothing, but I am not naked. My mouth opens nearly from ear to ear and contains no words. In the dreams, I don’t need words in my mouth —my teeth are sharp enough to speak for themselves, to take what they want without asking. In a den somewhere a creature sleeps and dreams her body bald. She howls in terror and strange sounds come from her throat— they sound like my god why have you forsaken me? She rises to join her people but they back away snarling and then turn and run. She tries to run with them but they disappear into the trees and she can not catch their scent. Her nose is deaf. In the dreams, I leave my bedroom through the claw-torn screen. I follow an anguished cry I can hear with my nose. It leads me to a den where a naked woman rocks on her haunches and howls her aloneness. Her eyes are wild but her body is not. It is a trap she will die in. The dream always ends the same way—I wake just as a bullet opens the body I was wearing a moment ago. Always, it takes a long moment before I can move my limbs, which are numb and stiff, as though they belonged to someone else. Always, I am unable to make a sound until I do, and then it is never the sound I expected.

Suzanne Langlois in Rattle, April 2017

[thehappysorceress]

Elspeth Beard, shortly after becoming the first Englishwoman to circumnavigate the world by motorcycle. Her journey took 3 years and covered 48,000 miles.

[thecringeandwincefactory-deacti]

Uh, just as a warning to anyone out there attracted to women: the other photos of her that exist are at least equally as hot, which is fucking terrifying.

[waiteverybodyhide]

This woman could ride up to me, take of the helmet and dramatically shake out her hair, and ask me to leave my life behind to run away adventuring with her

[deliriumcrow]

She is also an architect who lives in a Victorian water tower, and a more recent photo (still with a bike!) shows that at about 60 years old she is *still* just as beautiful.

[ooksaidthelibrarian]

Here’s an interview with her and some more photos of her, with bikes and in her water tower

[jewelry-by-irene]

cave waters

[llovinghome]

[thomasmartinnutt]

Marsha Cottrell. Spectral Sun (11), 2014

[geopsych]

“This morning as I walked along the lakeshore, I fell in love with a wren and later in the day with a mouse the cat had dropped under the dining room table. In the shadows of an autumn evening, I fell for a seamstress still at her machine in the tailor’s window, and later for a bowl of broth, steam rising like smoke from a naval battle. This is the best kind of love, I thought, without recompense, without gifts, or unkind words, without suspicion, or silence on the telephone. the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel. No lust, no slam of the door— the love of the miniature orange tree, the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower, the highway that cuts across Florida. No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor— just a twinge every now and then for the wren who had built her nest on a low branch overhanging the water and for the dead mouse, still dressed in its light brown suit. But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow. After I carried the mouse by the tail to a pile of leaves in the woods, I found myself standing at the bathroom sink gazing down affectionately at the soap, so patient and soluble, so at home in its pale green soap dish. I could feel myself falling again as I felt its turning in my wet hands and caught the scent of lavender and stone.”

—

Aimless Love, by Billy Collins.

My favorite Valentine’s Day poem. Posting it a day early because I’ll be traveling tomorrow.

“my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod  ready for the next arrow.” 

same

[geopsych]

And a love poem from Billy Collins

[soracities]

Naomi Shihab Nye, from "Valentine for Ernest Mann" [ID'd]

[egelantier]

[cojode]

the new year

[sierraeast-deactivated20151218]

[dappermouth]

Strange roadside buildings where you shouldn’t ever go.

[thunderstruck9]

Barry McGlashan (British, 1974), The Ferryman, 2025. Oil, paper and varnish on panel, 40 × 30 cm.