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[homunculus-argument]

I know that I'll certainly never be someone they'd build a memorial for, but if I could get one, I'd like to get one of those park bench statues that are sitting on the bench. Specifically of me sitting casually looking towards the other seat at an angle, looking intrigued with a "surprised but not disappointed" kind of a look on my face. Kind of a "huh, won't you look at that."

I want that specifically so people can make it a meme to post pictures of themselves showing me stuff. Like memes off their phone.

Or maybe things that they are proud of but don't have anyone else to show them to. Like your school graduation papers, this cool knitting project you finally finished, your baby who's never going to see their grandparents.

And I also want a clause that they will absolutely fucking never put those anti-homeless things of any kind on my damn bench. So if there's ever someone who's got nobody else to keep them company, they can at least spend the night with me.

[liliitth]

[mangocheesecakeicecream]

“The encounter with the real is the encounter with the Other’s failure, and this encounter traumatizes the subject because it deprives the subject of support in the Other. The subject derives its symbolic identity from the Other, and as a result, the encounter with the Other’s lack leaves the subject without any sense of identity. The subject loses the security that derives from its link to the Other. But at the same time, this loss of support in the Other frees the subject from its dependence on the Other. Freedom depends on the recognition that the Other does not exist, that the Other cannot provide the subject a substantive identity.”

—

Todd McGowan

[gacougnol]

Silvia Rea

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

Il y a de la magie partout, le tout est de savoir regarder, voir et écouter en silence, telle une nuée d’oiseaux formant des vagues dans le ciel, chaque individu a sa propre identité, mais une place irremplaçable dans un tout. « Murmuration » est une chorégraphie synchronisée avec les bras par une formation de l'école de danse urbaine Studio Attitude à Bordeaux. Chorégraphe Sadeck Berrabah

There is magic everywhere, the key is knowing how to look, see and listen in silence, like a cloud of birds forming waves in the sky, each individual has his own identity, but an irreplaceable place in the whole. “Murmuration” is a choreography synchronized with the arms by a group from the urban dance school Studio Attitude in Bordeaux. Choreographer Sadeck Berrabah

January 6 2021

[maureen2musings]

A starling murmuration , Rotterdam

"If you look carefully you can see a falcon or hawk winding them up on the top right of the formation"

Claire Droppert

[alcrego]

[chrisengel]

“The emotional impact of music is so incommensurate with what people can say about it, and that seems to be very illustrative of something fundamental—that very powerful emotional effects often can’t be articulated. You know something’s happened to you but you don’t know what it is.”

—

A remarkable conversation with the great British psychoanalytical writer Adam Phillips.

Pair with these 7 essential reads on music, emotion, and the brain.

(via explore-blog)

[psychoactivelectricity]

Georgia O'Keeffe | Black Iris

[ilyalivegirl]

this essay by joan didion has completely changed my life i'm planning to print the whole thing and tape it to my work desk so i can stare at it all day

"To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home."

[engineeringdreams]

Funny how four-year-olds can be such tornadoes of randomness. One moment their favourite word is “poo,” and testing everyone’s limits of civility — including the cats’ — but come bedtime, just as they’re about to fall asleep, they hit you with existential questions like, “What does abandonment mean?

Well fuck.

[hauntedbystorytelling]

Fernand Fonssagrives :: Sand Fence, Lisa Fonssagrives, 1930’s

[hauntedbystorytelling]

more [+] by this photographer

[49wasagreatyear]

John Steinbeck once did something few writers would ever dare. He hid in a migrant camp under a fake name — just to see if America would treat him like one of its own. It didn’t.

It was 1936, the heart of the Great Depression. Steinbeck kept hearing stories — families from Oklahoma and Texas, farmers who had lost everything to dust and drought, flooding into California in broken trucks. They came chasing a dream, but what they found was hunger, hate, and fields owned by men who saw them as less than human. Newspapers called them “Okies.” Politicians called them “a problem.”

Steinbeck couldn’t just write about it from a distance. “If you want to understand a man’s pain,” he once said, “you have to walk with him in the mud.” So he borrowed an old car, put on torn clothes, and vanished into the San Joaquin Valley. For weeks, he lived among the migrant workers — sleeping under the stars, eating scraps, and sharing stories by dying campfires.

He watched mothers try to hush their crying babies with songs instead of food. He saw children digging through trash for rotten fruit. “You have no idea how terrifying hunger sounds when it cries,” he later wrote. “It changes the shape of a man’s face.”

Every night, after the others slept, Steinbeck sat by a lantern and scribbled — pieces of dialogue, sketches of faces, small moments of grace in a world built on suffering. Out of those notes came The Grapes of Wrath.

When it was published in 1939, it shook America to its core. Growers burned the book in public. Politicians called him a liar. Churches banned it from shelves. But the people who had lived those lives — the ones with blistered hands and dust in their lungs — they wept. “He told the truth,” one farmer said. “At last, someone saw us.”

The FBI opened a file on him, calling his work “dangerous” and “un-American.” He received death threats. Armed men from the Associated Farmers of California watched his home day and night. A friend once asked if he was scared. Steinbeck just smiled and said, “No. I’m ashamed it took me this long to pay attention.”

He won the Pulitzer, then the Nobel Prize, but he never forgot the camps. “I am not a writer of escape,” he said. “I am a writer of the people who cannot escape.”

John Steinbeck didn’t just write about the American Dream — he lived with the people who were denied it. And in the dust and hunger, he found not just despair, but dignity — the kind that refuses to die, even when everything else is gone.

#fblifestyle

[teajaws]

You know those wild tempest nights, so chaotic that your dog panicks and somehow disappears? Or maybe one day it was there and then it just wasn't. And just when you've forgotten about him, you find him in the backyard, a little more gray in the hairs but with a wag in his tail and a smile in his eyes.

I'm that mutt.

Come're boy, you must be tired. Let's get you a bed and something to eat 🤗

[engineeringdreams]

[movemequotes]

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

[1five1two]

[le-immorte]