anti climatic

I always hoped you would find me

[selenastaylors]

cant stop thinking about this

[sentimentalbeing2001]

Por la mañana

[moominhands]

[a-wooden-ring]

Ousmane Sembene was a Senegalese author, actor, screenwriter, director, producer, historian, poet, communist organizer and philosopher. He was the first person to ever make a film in an indigenous african language (he often wrote in Senegalese and Lebu Wolof), and he spent much of his life working to dismantle French imperialism, capitalist resource hoarding, and patriarchal violence against women. He’s one of those historical figures whose biography reads as too cool to be true but he truly was that kind of guy.

Unfortunately, most of his films, especially his later work, are hard to access or purchase in western/anglophone markets- I think the criterion collection carries a few of his older films? That being said, a lot of his books were translated into English and are particularly good- God’s Bits of Wood and Xala are definitely the most beginner friendly works from his collection and are pretty easy to find second hand. If you enjoy Western authors and artists like Albert Camus, Emile Zola, or Zora Neale Hurston you’ll definitely appreciate his writing. His work is also influenced by socialist realism, the Harlem renaissance, and Senegalese oral tradition. Compared to other famous west african writers (like Chinua Achebe, or Ngugi wa Thiong’o) Sembene works a lot of satire, irony, and humor into his writings, and his work really strives towards describing African joy, hardship, and community.

He’s such a cool artist and deserves to be more commonly known in the West, especially in Anglophone and Francophone cultures :)

[theroyalballetandi]

Marianela Nunez and Federico Bonelli in rehearsal for Acosta’s Carmen

[lecollecteur]

Rise and Monty Kissing (1988), New York City, USA, Nan Goldin.-

[satyriconmp3]

to have and to hold, to fuck nasty, till murder-suicide do us part

[seraphex]

big fan of creatures that are both divine and mechanical

[seraphex]

there’s some kinda connection to be made between angels and robots but i can’t make it. someone else make this post for me

[acetaminophriends]

[ID: A post by @manywinged:

"the reason i love the comparison between angels and machines (robots, transmission towers, trains, computers, ect.)] is that it gets to the heart of what angels essentially are: divine machines. they're mechanisms through with the divine is able to act, created with a purpose and "happy" to fill it simply because they were made to do so. they have more in common with a machine programmed to run on algorithms and make calculations based on input commands than they do with humanity, even if they bear a human visage - an attempt by the divine to help bridge the gap. angels do not need to be eldritch monstrosities to be terrifying, because they are already alien to us simply by being angels. for an angel to choose to deviate from their purpose and achieve free will is to fall because in order to have free will they must no longer be an angel, because an angel is defined by its purpose. much like the stories we tell of robots who gain sentience, only to discover they can never truly be human, but neither can go back to being a machine, angels who fall and become something else entirely, purposeless and adrift and alone. it is a tragic sacrifice.

"did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" did it hurt when you realized you no longer had any purpose? that you weren't needed, and could easily be replaced? that the very fabric of your existence had been irreparably torn asunder and it was up to you to pick up the peices and make something out of them? that you would always be seen as a deviant monster by some no matter what you did next? that your choices have consequences? if you spent your whole life knowing exactly who you were and what you were meant to be, only to be cast aside and left to fend for yourself when you changed your mind, would you not be hurt? would you not be scared? would you not be angry?"

/End ID]

[belorage]

“When I’d first loved him, I wanted to take him apart, as a child dismembers a clockwork toy, to comprehend the inscrutable mechanics of its interior. I wanted to see him far more naked than he was with his clothes off.”

— Angela Carter, from “Flesh and the Mirror,” Burning Your Boats: The Collected Short Stories (via lifeinpoetry)

[crazyonmain-deactivated20230929]

I want to see my blood in your mouth (flirting)

[hikingdyke-deactivated20170912]

What advice do you have for a 14 year old girl?

This is so vague I love it. The voices you are hearing are real, god is speaking to you. The nation of France needs you. Don your armor, take up arms, lead the French army. This is your destiny, joan. When the flames come for you let them lick your bones and laugh.

[catastrophiceli]

Auguste Rodin

[playwrongs]

is that a book of poetry in your pocket or is your penis just poignant and insightful and beautiful

[vaguedistress]

bruce springsteen in new jersey, 1978 (photo by frank stefanko)

[knfwinthemorning-deactivated202]

[sailermoon]

[zacharushka]

Olga Smirnova and Artem Ovcharenko in John Neumeier’s ‘Lady of the Camellias’ at the Bolshoi Theatre.

[kermitlesbian]

“A few moments later, I had a pungent mound of searingly hot sauteed wild mushrooms in front of me, crispy, golden brown, black and yellow, with a single raw egg yolk slowly losing its shape in the center. After a toast of red wine, I ran my fork around the plate, mingling yolk and fungi, then put a big forkful in my mouth. I can only describe the experience as ‘ready to die’–one of those times when if suddenly and unexpectedly shot, at that precise moment you would, in your last moments of consciousness, know that you had had a full and satisfying life, that in your final moments, at least you had eaten well, truly well, that you could hardly have eaten better. You’d be ready to die.”

— Anthony Bourdain, “A Cook’s Tour: Global Adventures in Extreme Cuisines” (via jennamacaroni)

[moonscreen]

My grandfather died eating breakfast. I’ve been told he woke up that morning and without a word breakfast was brought into his room. He quietly ate breakfast - eggs, toast, and then some yoghurt. My aunt sat next to him idling on her phone.

After his last spoonful of yoghurt he put the bowl down on the table. He was an old man so even eating was a mildly tiring activity. He reclined backwards on his seat and closed his eyes. 7 minutes later my aunt was sure that he was dead.

More than a year has passed by and it makes me content thinking my grandfather lived his last moments devouring his final breakfast. Maybe he knew it would be his last so he didn’t speak at all to interrupt the moment. Breakfast so good you’re ready to die.