B for Beatrice

Various and sundry | Queer, disabled, chronically ill, and Tumblr-old

[jbfletcher]

Eric Enstrom, Grace, 1918

(A color painting of this photograph hung over my grandparents' dining room table for as long as I can remember -- still does -- and it remains something that moves me immeasurably to this day.)

[stamp-it-to-me]

[jbfletcher]

At SpaceX, worker injuries soar in Elon Musk’s rush to Mars

Reuters documented more than 600 workplace injuries at SpaceX. Employees say they’re paying the price for Elon Musk’s push to reach Mars at

Imagine, Elon Musk fucking kills you and gets off with a $7,000 fine.

What even are we doing here?

[sweetoothgirl]

APPLE PECAN FRITTERS WITH BROWN BUTTER GLAZE

[alexei-savrasov-paintings]

-Elk Island in Sokolniki-

[jbfletcher]

December, 1919

Last words I heard your voice, mother, The words you sang to me When I, a little barefoot boy, Knelt down against your knee. And tears gushed from my heart, mother, And passed beyond its wall, But though the fountain reached my throat The drops refused to fall. 'Tis ten years since you died, mother, Just ten dark years of pain, And oh, I only wish that I Could weep just once again.

-- Claude McKay

[lionofchaeronea]

Ruins of the Eldena Monastery at Greifswald, Caspar David Friedrich, ca. 1825

[fragrantblossoms]

Rosario Mazzeo, American, 1911–1997.  Untitled (Vultures, Bahia di Los Angeles). 

[roomsbythesee]

The Sea of Ice - Caspar David Friedrich

[nossa-mandala]

[jareckiworld]

Yves Laloy (1920-1999)—Geometric Composition (B9) [oil on canvas, 1960]

[majorbaby]

[seabeck]

Mossy creek

[fripperiesandfobs]

Robe à l’anglaise ca. 1785

From the Museum of Vancouver

[jbfletcher]

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And toward our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

-- Wilfred Owen

[irishmansdaughter]

[theglitchywriterboi]

I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you’re able to write loads & make lots of progress <3