Hey welcome to my blog
lower your expectations immediately
One Nice Bug Per Day
AnasAbdin

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Andulka
Mike Driver
RMH
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

shark vs the universe

Kaledo Art
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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Not today Justin
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

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Discoholic 🪩
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art blog(derogatory)

Product Placement

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@notyourdaisybuchanan
Hey welcome to my blog
lower your expectations immediately
A poem for you
In Chains, by William Carlos Williams
preoccupied poet by Maude Phelps Hutchins
FROM DUSK TILL DAWN S3E04 | Fanglorious
the council will now decide your fate
My dad is watching this historical drama and he’s like “there’s too much kissing. I thought there would be more politics” and I said “well for every person like you there’s someone else watching a political drama saying ‘there’s too much politics I thought there would be more kissing’” and for some reason that made him laugh so hard he almost crashed the car
Moonbows
A moonbow, also known as a lunar rainbow or white rainbow, is a rainbow created by moonlight rather than sunlight. It's formed when light from the moon refracts and reflects off water droplets, like those in rain or mist, creating a visible arc of light in the sky. Moonbows are generally fainter and less colorful than regular rainbows, and they are much rarer due to the need for specific conditions like a full or near-full moon, clear skies, and dark skies.
Van Gogh in blue
Other Drivers HATE ME For Doing This:
Not running over pedestrians and cyclists
How Samuel Beckett Sought Salvation in the Midst of Suffering, by Andy Wimbush, pub. Aeon [ID'd]
Hello!
A beautiful post of yours includes lines from the poem 'on the fate of tulip sultan' by katrina vandenberg - I was wondering whether you would mind sharing the full poem if you have access to it!! I can't find the full poem online anywhere 😭
Thank u so much
Yes certainly! It’s from her book titled Atlas.
[alt text]
ON THE FATE OF THE TULIP SULTAN
Tom Fahey is dead in Boston tonight, the last
of the guys with hemophilia. Tim, I took down but kept the list we made one night of our friends
who died. Little icons crayoned by their names,
sienna shoes, a midnight truck, a lemon puppy, for Matt a cherry guitar. Names
that kept coming until we ran out of room.
Tonight Tom's dead. Three hundred years away, the sultan the Ottomans exiled but let live
embroiders a memory of his tulips
on a tapestry in bright silks. The white stone of the first full moon in April, the jugglers
who strolled the garden with crayon-colored balls.
Real gold for the flames of candles on the backs of the tortoises that plodded through the bowers.
A week-long celebration each spring
for the thousand kinds of tulips that he bred. He doesn't know that as he stitches them
his tulips are beginning to be forgotten.
And three hundred years away only a catalog of them survives. Does it matter
that already no one else alive remembers
the day you, Greg, and I walked arm in arm through Central Square; or the New Year's Eve
on the harbor watching fireworks, when the kids
crouching in the trees flung champagne bottles that hit the street like green exploding stars?
Milton was wrong. It's not just sin we need to see
in order to know it later on, but joy. One day, when the sultan was old and carving a ring
from jade, he said, This green is sun through leaves
on an afternoon in my garden before it bloomed. My moves with faith are slow; I'm a tortoise
with a candle on its back. Tim, the list
of what I've loved numbers in the thousands. Surely I'll recognize a thing worth loving
when I see it for the rest of my life.
Three young barn owls standing in the stone quatrefoil of Christ Church, Fulmodeston.
“The President, while riding a bicycle on his vacation in Jackson Hole came to a sudden arboreal stop.”
1x01 "Pilot" (sep. 22th, 1999)
The West Wing was first aired 25 years ago and history was made.