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Sweet Seals For You, Always
noise dept.

oozey mess
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Three Goblin Art
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
todays bird

Product Placement

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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

JVL
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

@theartofmadeline
Misplaced Lens Cap

JBB: An Artblog!
wallacepolsom
Xuebing Du
One Nice Bug Per Day

tannertan36

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@kyrahmilko
I need that car to have my books always with me
i want to run away…but like in ghibli movie. like i take a block of cheese a loaf of bread and some apples and wander through the flower-specked mountains wrapped up in a shawl and i happen to wander into a moving castle and fall in love with a cute wizard
me (deep in the woods, dragging dufflebag of Kraft Singles™ and hopelessly lost): where’s totoro
Robert Mapplethorpe
Basquiat Portrait of Andy Warhol as a banana
Norbert Servos, “Pina Bausch: Dance and emancipation” (from The Routledge Dance Studies Reader, 1998)
“Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed. It leads to each other. We become ourselves.”
Patti Smith.
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage—— My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.
Sylvia Plath, “Tulips” from Collected Poems.
I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
Jack Kerouac
Amedeo Modigliani. Lunia Czechowska 1919. Oil on canvas
Pls
The Jimi Hendrix Experience backstage in Copenhagen, 1969.
The Great Figure
Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.
William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963
Janis Joplin at The Fillmore, San Francisco, 1968, by Paul Fusco. ‘Photographing Janis Joplin in concert was so intense that it stayed with me. I felt connected to her. Her voice shocks the listener with its power – and I try to shock my audience into feeling what I do when I take a photo.’