Meg Murray's Wrinkle

Book-bosomed. Nostalgic lingering. A sense of beauty. A wink and a nod.

[wild-cabins]

Zack Melhus

[travellinganachronism]

Cape. 1912, French. 

House of Worth.

Source: Met Museum.

[desinteresse]

I know this is gonna piss off nerds but paperbacks are superior to hardbacks

[desinteresse]

Moodboard

[nobodysperfect2133-deactivated2]

Doorway to the past - Angkor Thom, Cambodia

[dankmemeuniversity]

[megmurrayswrinkle]

Safe morning

[deforest]

Cary Grant by Mark Shaw, c. 1955

[probablyasocialecologist]

“People are always telling you that “we have always done thus,” and then you find that their “always” means a generation or two, or a century or two, at most a millennium or two. Cultural ways and habits are blips, compared to the ways and habits of the body, of the race. There really is very little that human beings on our plane have “always” done, except find food and drink, sleep, sing, talk, procreate, nurture the children, and probably band together to some extent. Indeed it can be seen as our human essence, how few behavioral imperatives we follow. How flexible we are in finding new things to do, new ways to go. How ingeniously, inventively, desperately we seek the right way, the true way, the Way we believe we lost long ago among the thickets of novelty and opportunity and choice…”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Seasons of the Ansarac

[fleur-aesthetic]

instagram | johnny_crows_garden

[m-interior-m]

Source

[megmurrayswrinkle]

A poem slightly inspired by Tamora Pierce.

Wild Magic

“Immortals and gods aren’t the same. They just live in the same place.” - Tamora Pierce

The mudroom’s humidity,

Legos laid out for later play, and

Lunch felt bountiful, even if spare,

Bountiful in that moment, bountiful

Like the work before the harvest -

Heavy and clean with time and dry heat.

A perpetually rising grass, itchy with stamens,

Exoskeletons clicking,

Moving forward, moving up

While the cicada screams.

The business of it all.

Here, a battlefield of birth and death

Compressed

Into a matter of minutes.

The hawk cries too,

A wolf in the sky and the hose,

It makes mud on children’s feet.

On my palm, a fine layer of dirt

Leavened with air.

Even in the wavering neighborhood’s howl

Meters of asphalt sing quietly

So we can stew in our own sweat,

The sheen verdant and constantly throbbing

The dance

And hum

And mushroom’s telepathy fragrant.

Patio shadows creep toward

The rubber of her tire.

The breath catches in my chest. Sudden.

It is swept away,

Atavistic suffering echoing through synapse offering wisdom

And the cheap ability to withstand.

The morning is spiced in grapefruit.

Songbirds praying to the sentience of rocks.

- RPJ

[kansassire]

Worlds of Ursula K. Le Guin, 2018   #UrsulaKLeGuin

[the-eternal-moonshine]

[the1920sinpictures]

1920′s Fifth Avenue from Central Park by D.J. Ruzicka. From Liveauctioneers.

[allthingseurope]

Chateau de Najac, France (by Jannes Jacobs)

[godzilla-reads]

Circe Invidiosa by John William Waterhouse // Circe by Beatrice Offor // Circe Offering the Cup to Odysseus by John William Waterhouse // Circe and the Companions of Ulysses by Briton Riviere // Circe by Jean Jules // The Circe by Katia Varvaki // Circe by Wright Barker

[taramysweetlove]