LANG, Candid: Kofferraum der Welt, 1971.
Cosmic Funnies
The Stonewall Inn

if i look back, i am lost
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
RMH
noise dept.
Mike Driver

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

bliss lane

Game Changer & Make Some Noise
Sweet Seals For You, Always

roma★
sheepfilms

No title available
Misplaced Lens Cap
One Nice Bug Per Day
Xuebing Du

izzy's playlists!
The Bowery Presents
Noah Kahan
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Ireland

seen from Spain
seen from Lithuania
seen from Bangladesh

seen from Russia

seen from Malaysia

seen from South Korea

seen from Zambia

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Costa Rica
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from China

seen from United States
seen from Philippines
seen from Türkiye
@horrorroh
LANG, Candid: Kofferraum der Welt, 1971.
Chemical Keratitits.
Luise Kaish - The Angel of Joshua, Bronze, 1957
Alexander Hackenschmied - Maya Deren (1930)
At first glance I thought this was Maya Deren
1940s
(via our heat is gospel: Image)
SPIRAL
By David Wojnarowicz
SOMETIMES I COME TO hate people because they can’t see where I am. I’ve gone empty, completely empty and all they see is the visual form; my arms and legs, my face, my height and posture, the sounds that come from my throat. But I’m fucking empty. The person I was just one year ago no longer exists; drifts spinning slowly into the ether somewhere way back there. I’m a xerox of my former self. I can’t abstract my own dying any longer. I am a stranger to others and to myself and I refuse to pretend that I am familiar or that I have history attached to my heels. I am glass, clear empty glass. I see the world spinning behind and through me. I see casualness and mundane effects of gesture made by constant populations. I look familiar but I am a complete stranger being mistaken for my former selves. I am a stranger and I am moving. I am moving on two legs soon to be on all fours. I am no longer animal vegetable or mineral. I am no longer made of circuits or disks. I am no longer coded and deciphered. I am all emptiness and futility. I am an empty stranger, a carbon copy of my form. I can no longer find what I’m looking for outside of myself. It doesn’t exist out there. Maybe it’s only in here, inside my head. But my head is glass and my eyes have stopped being cameras, the tape has run out and nobody’s words can touch me. No gesture can touch me. I’ve been dropped into all this from another world and I can’t speak your language any longer. See the signs I try to make with my hands and fingers. See the vague movements of my lips among the sheets. I’m a blank spot in a hectic civilization. I’m a dark smudge in the air that dissipates without notice. I feel like a window, maybe a broken window. I am a glass human. I am a glass human disappearing in rain. I am standing among all of you waving my invisible arms and hands. I am shouting my invisible words. I am getting so weary. I am growing tired. I am waving to you from here. I am crawling and looking for the aperture of complete and final emptiness. I am vibrating in isolation among you. I am screaming but it comes out like pieces of clear ice. I am signalling that the volume of all this is too high. I am waving. I am waving my hands. I am disappearing. I am disappearing but not fast enough.
(via our heat is gospel: Image)
The beach is boring and everybody knows it, Masahisa Fukase
Paul Klee
Willem de Kooning