sadness can be eaten.

throw over your man, and we'll go to hampton court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and i'll tell you all the things i have in my head, millions, myriads — they won't stir by day, only by dark on the river.

[nuitdenovembre]

a brief update.

hi, all.

this past year & a half, i’ve been on a serious fandom- (& life-, really) hiatus due to a) a medical condition that went from mild to serious to actively life-threatening in, like, two months, & b) furious, uncontrollable, landed-me-in-the-psych-ward depression.

it. wasn’t a happy time. to say the least.

and then i started to get better. it happened very slowly. i reached out again. i wrote a lot of origfic, none of which will see the sun for, uh, a while. i secretly made a different tumblr account, on the assumption that a new start was needed.

then infinity war happened, and landed me right back into fandom. i wrote thirty thousand words’ worth of fic in three weeks. i have no idea what happened in my brain, but it pretty much wired itself the fuck up, which i’m grateful for. steve rogers’ beard did something, i dunno.

still, it’s time to leave this account behind. you may now find me at sombres-gods, if you’re so inclined.

(& if you’re interested in the fic, you may find them here & here.)

[danielodowd-deactivated20170124]

[radstudies]

[thunderstruck9]

Ferdinand Hart Nibbrig (Dutch, 1866-1915), Engelenkruid (Fluitenkruid) [Angels Herb (Queen Anne’s Lace)], 1897. Oil on canvas.

via radstudies

[nevver]

The Jazz Age, Henry Patrick Raleigh

[metadefumaca]

That one was taken just outside of Madrid. They were one of the last to surrender in ‘39. She was running away from her house, leaving everything. A row of men were being executed just behind that door. Amongst them her husband. She… she didn’t look back.

[antigonick]

Cy Twombly, The Fire The Consumes All Before It (1978)

[explore-blog]

Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than have syntax. Or semicolons. I use a whole lot of half-assed semicolons; there was one of them just now; that was a semicolon after “semicolons,” and another one after “now.” And another thing. Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than get old. And he did. He shot himself. A short sentence. Anything rather than a long sentence, a life sentence. Death sentences are short and very, very manly. Life sentences aren’t. They go on and on, all full of syntax and qualifying clauses and confusing references and getting old. And that brings up the real proof of what a mess I have made of being a man.

Ursula K. Le Guin on being a man – the finest, sharpest thing I’ve read in ages 

(via explore-blog)

[weissewiese-deactivated20181206]

ALTERNATE ENDINGS

There are times when they gather at the edge of your life, Shadows slipping over the far hills, daffodils blooming too early, the dark matter of the universe that threads its way through the few thousand blackbirds that have invaded the trees out back. Every ending

sloughs off our dreams like snakeskin. This is the kind of black ice the mind skids across. The candlelight burning down into the sand. The night leaving its ashes in our eyes.

There are times when your voice turns over in my sleep. It is no longer blind. The sky is no longer deaf.

There are times when it seems the stars practice all night just to become fireflies, when it seems there is no end to what our hearts scribble on corridor walls. Only when we look at each other do we cease to be ourselves. Only at a certain height does the smoke blend into air. There are times when your words seem welded to that sky.

There are times when love is so complicated it circles like chimney swifts unable to decide where to land. There are endings so sad their shadows scuff the dirt. Their sky is as inconsolable as the two year old, Zahra, torn from her mother and beaten to death in the Sudan.

There are endings so sad I want the morning light to scourge the fields. Endings that are only what the river dreams when it dries up. Endings that are constant echoes.

There are times when I think we are satellites collecting dust from one of the earlier births of the universe Don’t give up.

Each ending is an hourglass filled with doors. There are times when I feel you might be searching for me, when I can read what is written on the far sides of stars. I’m nearly out of time. My heart is a dragonfly. I’ll have to settle for this, standing under a waterfall of words you never said. There are times like this when no ending appears, times when I am so inconsolably happy.

RICHARD JACKSON

via fluttering-slips

[dailyphrack]

[dandyism22]

DANDYISM………..Plate 1264.

[loish]

My newest digital painting.

[ambientwitch]

john singer sargent just knew

[shirazade]

Lucy Liu photographed by Henry Leutwyler for LA Times Magazine

[mrcheyl]

[beauvelvet]

Marilyn Monroe during hair, makeup and costume tests for Something’s Gotta Give, 1962.

[catonhottinroof-deactivated2023]

Ivan Fedorovich Choultse     Nuit de Mars, Russie

[briennesjaime]

Spirited Away (2001) dir. Hayao Miyazaki