The immense amount off evil radiating off of this article ruined my day.
dirt enthusiast

@theartofmadeline
d e v o n
art blog(derogatory)

⁂
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
RMH
One Nice Bug Per Day
DEAR READER
almost home

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Not today Justin
YOU ARE THE REASON

No title available

Kaledo Art
Stranger Things
ojovivo
No title available
taylor price

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@dorothearising
The immense amount off evil radiating off of this article ruined my day.
want the $190 Celia Paul monograph so bad… lusting
Under the Tuscan Sun (2003) by Audrey Wells
Book title: Collected Poems (1991) by Czeslaw Milosz
Making our book club read Middlemarch and my sister made the very astute observation that Charlotte Flax from Mermaids is Dorothea….
Mozart in the Jungle, season 2 episode 06 ‘How To Make God Laugh’
Bill Knott
The pushback against ICE exposed a series of mistaken assumptions.
I will never forgive the people who are doing this to my beautiful city
in my happy place (on the Amtrak to Chicago)
I’m glad I don’t write anything on the internet anymore. I wrote one goodreads review (embarrassing) that got popular and noticed that when people get angry and disagree with you now they just accuse you of using chatgpt because you used “conflicting verbs” or whatever. Idk why but I find that so depressing. Id rather just be called a bitch
Josh Billings wonders about Helen DeWitt and Ilya Gridneff’s new novel “Your Name Here.”
Heart
by Dorianne Laux
The heart shifts shape of its own accord— from bird to ax, from pinwheel to budded branch. It rolls over in the chest, a brown bear groggy with winter, skips like a child at the fair, stopping in the shade of the fireworks booth, the fat lady's tent, the corn dog stand. Or the heart is an empty room where the ghosts of the dead wait, paging through magazines, licking their skinless thumbs. One gets up, walks through a door into a maze of hallways. Behind one door a roomful of orchids, behind another, the smell of burned toast. The rooms go on and on: sewing room with its squeaky treadle, its bright needles, room full of file cabinets and torn curtains, room buzzing with a thousand black flies. Or the heart closes its doors, becomes smoke, a wispy lie, curls like a worm and forgets its life, burrows into the fleshy dirt. Heart makes a wrong turn. Heart locked in its gate of thorns. Heart with its hands folded in its lap. Heart a blue skiff parting the silk of the lake. It does what it wants, takes what it needs, eats when it's hungry, sleeps when the soul shuts down. Bored, it watches movies deep into the night, stands by the window counting the streetlamps squinting out one by one. Heart with its hundred mouths open. Heart with its hundred eyes closed. Harmonica heart, heart of tinsel, heart of cement, broken teeth, redwood fence. Heart of bricks and boards, books stacked in devoted rows, their dusty spines unreadable. Heart with its hands full. Hieroglyph heart, etched deep with history's lists, things to do. Near-sighted heart. Club-footed heart. Hard-headed heart. Heart of gold, coal. Bad juju heart, singing the low down blues. Choir boy heart. Heart in a frumpy robe. Heart with its feet up reading the scores. Homeless heart, dozing, its back against the Dumpster. Cop-on-the-beat heart with its black billy club, banging on the lid.
new miriam toews published today
Sorry, Baby (2025) by Eva Victor
Book title: Against Interpretation (1966) by Susan Sontag
Anyone have any thoughts on this (or read it?)
RIP Fanny Howe.. her writing has meant so much to me.