Cosmic Funnies
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ojovivo
Product Placement
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
ellievsbear
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
if i look back, i am lost
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
macklin celebrini has autism
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The Stonewall Inn
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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RMH
Kiana Khansmith
almost home
blake kathryn
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from Spain
seen from South Africa
seen from Brazil
seen from Malaysia
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Sweden
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Greece
seen from Germany
seen from Sweden
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Canada
seen from Indonesia
@hand-to-blog
She is like a horse grazing a hill pasture that someone makes smaller by coming every night to pull the fences in and in. She has stopped running wide loops, stopped even the tight circles. She drops her head to feed; grass is dust, and the creekbed’s dry. Master, come with your light halter. Come and bring her in.
Jane Kenyon, “In the Nursing Home”
portait of a woman just tryna caffeinate and hide in her bed for an entire day
In which I start reading again.
Portrait of a Texan who has never lived without AC, but now lives in a house built in 1966. In August.
When Cooper first goes outside, he is erratic.
He runs bewildered, whipping his head from side to side like every millisecond he is noticing something new, something now worthy of his attention. He cannot figure out what is important, what he should focus on, wriggling and contorting his body as he dodges and jerks across the lawn in unpredictable stops and starts. He cannot regulate his emotions, sometimes yelping in a strange way that seems only partly mammalian.
…
I see myself in Cooper these days.
[To be fair… I have always seen myself in sleepy, gentle, bumbling Cooper.]
Since we have moved, I have slipped into the ritual of disarray.
Each day I wake, and spend my days in a vortex of unpacking boxes, cleaning out dusty drawers, measuring all angles of a piece of furniture even though I know it will not fit in my tiny car, buying things, returning things, asking too many questions at the hardware store, pinning pictures of our dream kitchen, calling utility companies and banks and HR departments, researching contractors and landscapers and painters, making lists that never seem to get shorter, and searching for things, always searching for things I know we must have somewhere. In the morning, before the sweat sets in, I pause in the living room (the room berated by the sun, also the only room I have partial cell phone service in) and look for jobs.
Like Cooper, I am zigzagging through life. Every project is half finished. I bought the shelves, but forgot the brackets. I reupholstered the chairs, but need to drill holes for the screws. I picked out the perfect dehumidifier after hours of research, but now it is sold out.
I hope this does not sound plaintive. More reflective. I am living a life in motion.
P often tells me that he wishes to see me more excited about things. I have always been even-keeled. A shy baby turned mild-mannered child turned sensitive and sometimes brooding adult. I am more prone to quiet and contemplative melancholy than any sort of disruption. So this new flurry of projects and wishlists and to-dos is finally ruffling my feathers.
I love our new home.
And I am incited by the feeling, finally, that this is home. 9 months into marriage, it truly feels like we are building a life. In a way different from the more turbulent and feeble days of our early relationship, different from the consciously temporary days of our stint in Colorado. Now, I wonder if the office will suffice as a bedroom after three children. I read up all afternoon on spider deterrents so that our screened porch will be more inviting. I make a mental note to set aside time to pack P’s lunch in the evenings - a tiny kindness that I don’t want to lose sight of. I am wheeling around in the vortex because I am excited for the first time in a long time. Melancholy seems, at least for now, so far away.
…
Once he comes inside, Cooper settles down. He sails onto the couch and presses his chin into my lap. With searching eyes, he pleads for attention, demanding emphatically to be loved.
After dinner, when the table is cleared and dishes are left to dry, I sink into the couch. I pull my feet to the side and tuck them under my legs. I lean into P, and sigh deeply when he rubs my arm and scratches the back of my neck. We absentmindedly watch House Hunters, and I bathe in the warmth of feelings in this moment.
Like Cooper, I am bewildered. and I don’t really mind.
Blog refresh on deck.
I miss writing. Is anyone still around here? (Hi, Hanul. Hi, YoonHoo?)
I find that in the flurry of life, I lost or forgot a small part of me. The part that created, and thought, and sunk deep inside of herself to weep and feel...and write.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Since my last post (almost 2 years ago!) I got engaged, got married, moved to Colorado, joined Teach for America, left Teach for America, adopted another dog. At the end of this week, we’re moving to New Hampshire. I’ll be living approximately 75 minutes from two of my closest friends. I’ll be a wife. A homeowner. An unemployed person (again! -_-)
This is all to say I want to make a real effort to put words onto page again. But I wonder if it will be the same. I spent so much time writing about my feelings, about self-doubt, restlessness, love and the lack thereof. Can I truly only produce that which is woeful and hurting? Is writing my lonely act of solace?
...And if it is, should I dig up my melancholy just to smear on this page? Or is indifference to misery just another trapping of “adulthood?”
There are some thoughts I have about marriage somewhere underneath this too. Something about eternal promises and protecting the dignity of those you love. I think.
But for now, findings TBD. More to say after our multi-day roadtrip concludes.
Blog refresh actually on deck this time.
Writing is lonely, it’s an intimate talk with the dead, with the unborn, with the absent, with strangers, with the readers who may never come to be and who even if they read you will do so weeks, years, decades later...you are answering something or questioning something that may have fallen silent long ago, and the response to your words may come long after you’re gone and never reach yours ears, if anyone hears you in the first place.
Hope in the Dark, Rebecca Solnit (via thankyoursoul)
Blog refresh on deck.
The best way to get approval is not to need it. This is equally true in art and business. And love. And sex. And just about everything else worth having.
Hugh MacLeod (via waxenneat)
"Pbbbthhhh." (photo via florafaunadinnerl)
Feeling it
The most difficult performance in the world is acting naturally, isn’t it? Everything else is artful.
Angela Carter, from “Flesh and the Mirror,” Burning Your Boats: The Collected Short Stories (via lifeinpoetry)
“Because, once alone, it is impossible to believe that one could ever have been otherwise. Loneliness is an absolute discovery.” ― Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping
