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[notdisneys]

ghibli week: day four - favourite scenery ↳ Skys are clearing up thanks to a high pressure front moving in from the mountains. Mild winds will be blowing in from the west, pushing the clouds out by this evening. There will be a beautiful full moon lighting up the sky so if you’ve been planning something special, tonight might be the night. — Kiki’s Delivery Service

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“Stitching the Standard” by Edmund Blair Leighton (1852-1922).

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Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.

W. H. Auden (1 September 1939)

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Los Angeles from Griffith Park Observatory.

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“Ripley Street Ridge” by Wayne Thiebaud (1976).

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The days come and go like muffled and veiled figures sent from a distant party: but they say nothing, and if we do not use the gifts they bring, they carry them as silently away.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

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“Homeless” by Thomas Benjamin Kennington (1890).

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Please don’t judge people. You don’t know what it took someone to get out of bed, look and feel as presentable as possible, and face the day. You never truly know the daily struggle of others.

Karen Salmansohn

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A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin. I was sitting out on the steps today, uneasy with fear and discontent. Peter, (the little boy-across-the-street) with the pointed pale face, the grave blue eyes and the slow fragile smile came bringing his adorable sister Libby of the flaxen braids and the firm, lyrically-formed child-body. They stood shyly for a little, and then Peter picked a white petunia and put it in my hair. Thus began an enchanting game, where I sat very still, while Libby ran to and fro gathering petunias, and Peter stood by my side, arranging the blossoms. I closed my eyes to feel more keenly the lovely delicate-child-hands, gently tucking flower after flower into my curls. “And now a white one,” the lisp was soft and tender. Pink, crimson, scarlet, white ... the faint pungent odor of the petunias was hushed and sweet. And all my hurts were smoothed away. Something about the frank, guileless blue eyes, the beautiful young bodies, the brief scent of the dying flowers smote me like the clean quick cut of a knife. And the blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.

Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

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Nuptial Sleep

At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart: And as the last slow sudden drops are shed From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled, So singly flagged the pulses of each heart. Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start Of married flowers to either side outspread From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red, Fawned on each other where they lay apart.

Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams, And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away. Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day; Till from some wonder of new woods and streams He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay.

– Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)

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