The Stairwell
South Bend, Indiana
So, Iâm trolling around tumblr for nature porn and this pops upâŠ
Sade Olutola

JBB: An Artblog!
Game of Thrones Daily

if i look back, i am lost

Janaina Medeiros
No title available

oozey mess
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
macklin celebrini has autism
Not today Justin
Cosimo Galluzzi

Discoholic đȘ©
todays bird

tannertan36
styofa doing anything
we're not kids anymore.
Claire Keane
Sweet Seals For You, Always
d e v o n
NASA
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Colombia
seen from Malaysia

seen from Belgium
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seen from TĂŒrkiye

seen from United States
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seen from Mexico
seen from Mexico
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seen from United States
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@nymoglasz-blog
The Stairwell
South Bend, Indiana
So, Iâm trolling around tumblr for nature porn and this pops upâŠ
We are Sex Bob-Om.
(thank you grace millard for the amazing artwork!!)
âŒcontrol and ocean number 2 by james ganas
âŒâi am a screamo princess wearing a tiara w/ studsâ, and âevery punk rock dreamâ by austin islam
⌠the heat of summer which lies beyond the swimming pool is also the heat of solitude by natalie chin
⌠glass fortifications for the civil war that was fought a long time ago, and macro by austin kieler
âŒits like this by ryland maserang
⌠it is three a.m. and i am trying to fall asleep but instead iâm thinking about what you said the last time we talked, and the tale of loch ness by tyler langlois
⌠ya, and i have hair and it is important that you know this about me by stephanie cook
⌠powerless by beach sloth
âŒms management is out sick today; i am your substitute teacher mr universe by nymo glasz
âŒfour eyes by sarah jean alexander
âŒmacro by sam rae
âŒdeadgirl, and ghostgirl by cayla lockwood
âŒi shouldnât have sent this by chad davis
âŒtwo poems by jordan barkey
⌠maybe i should just get some social skills by katie davis
âŒkilling hamburgers, now that the apocalypse is here, and pohutakawa party by cameron churchill
âŒi am sitting on an air mattress reading lorrie moore short stories as you fall asleep by justin carter
⌠in gary, indiana by matt margo
âŒkeys, i am dying, and seabed of lies by dos mef
âŒsoon, and jumpin by julia coursey
âŒi love yough lauren palmer, loudt, and hamlet by âââ ââââââ âââ
âŒi live on a bearâs house by james root
âŒwhat an age we live in, a deep, unimaginable sadness, and help! by greg santos
âŒ@lantis, the atlantis falcons, the atlantis falcons playbook revolves around a tight running game, and the atlantis falcons are made up of a 70:30 ratio of atlantians and fish by sam russell
âŒpoem flarfed from some depressing news articles by @lazzzyandoh
âŒhappy, sad, okay by kellie hogan
âŒthe loneliness of the cinema projectionist by chris holdaway
âŒpoem vii and x from cmd-shift 3 by moon tzu
âŒyou can come shopping and watch me by hannah oâbrien
âŒuntitled presentation by russ woods and cassandra gillig
âŒdream, and crawling by d.m aderibigbe
âŒbuses should have signs that say, âlet us know when people are runningâ, and guy that loves vinegar but doesnât know how to spell it by ed haliday
âŒthe ânew age of super materials, and a ânew era 4 mankind by authur c clarke
âŒthe entity by scott lewis
âŒhiding in my room vs. going out chart by guillaume morissette
âŒtaqueira san jose, front legs, baths, and illegal by russ woods
âŒomfg, prose, and a hair is trapped in my teeth by michael oâbrien
⌠stupid by ally batchelder
âŒblak by eric boyd
âŒand i will, meditate me lady, someone on tv by nathan masserang
âŒdamansara river poem and thalidomide by joe bussiere
âŒcoca- cola by michael scarborough
âŒevery time itâs always midnight by krishnakumar sankaran
âŒcome live inside my head, dddffdfdfdfdfd: attn wrold, and my life as a non-sequitur by santino dela
âŒthings that are alive, and if i can feel dead when iâm alive i can feel alive when i am dead by sam lasko
âŒ64, and ghost animals by daniel alexander
âŒi aged yesterday and now i look eternally hungry by cean gamalinda
âŒcollege, snapshot, cotton candy tongue, dont f with me, the crystals, and tallest building by amelia gillis
âŒduck sauce by jacob steinberg
âŒthe city versus godzilla by chris dankland
âŒchris, and parties by paige gresty
âŒexperience while driving, and how we change what others think, feel, believe and do by jda winslow
âŒworld history 262 and microsoft word called this âyou are smallâ because it names the file after the first line by nathan springer
* * *
thanks so, so much to everyone thatâs been involved. so much love for all you guys right now :)
have u seen my whale??
love
joe and thom have u seen my whale
POEM: BOOM! BLACK CLOUDS DO RISE OVER THE BODY
Boom! Black clouds do rise over the body,
that heavy last submarine, burnt to a crisp,
waves porn-licking at its armsâspread they like the Word âround Mamaâs neckâ
barnacle belly-up, no voice no more, dear God.
 What is it that whirs? Rotorblades enough to startle anyone,
coming up over the cliff like that.
Be careful, carefulâbe careful.
I heard sirens the other night, cold sweat and bedsheets.
 The peace of the Lord be with you always.
And also and also and alsoâ
POEM: SOMEHOW, THE LARGE
Somehow, the large hadron collider
gives birth to a grand marquis
whose sexual preferences
have something to do with surgical saws and the tops of skulls,
removed to allow for the swelling of the brain.
 My first girl got her first taste and I, I me me mine, did too also,
the same night you stumbled into the back room
of that club you were justâoh, only justâold enough to get into,
and you saw your long-lost teddy bear
and your stuffed giraffes and your big sister
snort cocaine in obscene lines off David Bowieâs bare belly.
BBC headlines.
NON-REVIEW: FLCL, or, NO WRONG WAY TO WRITE A REECE'S
I am, as you might know, writing a novel. The original seeds of the thing, as is usually the case with me, started out in metaphor. Example: A character who feels okay and functions okay in society keeps afloat with drugs that keep him from sleeping so he can avoid dreamtime manifestations of his subconscious that force him to face a guilty past that might not even be his was intended as a metaphor of sorts for the way good natured, well meaning first world liberals deal with the fact that thereâs a lot of suffering in the world, etc.
But the thing spiraled, and I let it. I think itâs very hard (maybe impossibleâIâm trying to think of a counterexample) to create a perfect allegory that doesnât feel too rigid or dead, and that also doesnât die with the socio-historical moment that produced it (will anyone care about Animal Farm in a decade besides those interested in the history of communism or Orwell or something?). So, start with metaphor. And then let it play out to its own logical endsâthe metaphor becomes a fact in the bookâs worldâmore than a device. Focus on how these dreams (originally a simple meaning-device) affect the character. Where do they come from? Etc.
And the book basically grew out of that, with other metaphors growing into more than mere device. So.
Iâve been watching Netflix. After eight years of recommendations from various friends and acquaintances, I finally watched FLCL. Itâs an anime miniseries about this kid and the weird girl who beats him up with a guitar and runs him over with her Vespa, among other things. Itâs pretty obvious in the beginning that much of the thingâs a metaphorical exploration of puberty. But the meat of it grows when the metaphors take on a (largely incomprehensible, Iâll admit) life of their own. The robot that emerges from the phallic horn on the kidâs head (the one the weirdly sexualized Vespa girl gave him by hitting him), which, in my originally purely metaphorical viewing of the thing, I took as some kind of allegorical image of the man the kid was to grow into (he saves his town from other alien robots by becoming one with this robot) But the metaphor soon outgrows its allegorical training wheels, and this becomes more of a coming-of-age story with aliens and weird government officials and a crazy sort of non-plot.
So, thatâs one way of crafting a story, the exploding metaphor.
Also, I mentioned that the showâs plot was sort of incomprehensible, and thatâs true. Itâs also true that it (self-consciously, I might add) answers almost none of the questions it raises. Which is okay. I bugs me how peopleâs standards for judging the quality of a story include both ârealismâ and a âtying up of loose ends/revelation.â So much of life is confusion and unanswered questions. But if you donât want to go insane, you grab what sense you can and just enjoy the rest of the ride.Â
I didnât mean for this to end with a sort of moral. So. Okay.
Seriously. I am every demographicâexcept female, I guess. No lady-aimed ads. Not yet.
Who does Facebook think I am?
moar novel-in-progress screenshots
I keep referring to a character in my novel as "our dear Inspector" in the narration. I ain't bovvered, though. I ain't.
IT FINALLY
comes to the point where you've worn all your pants too many times and they're sweaty and you just have to give in and do laundry, ok.
I WISH
I had some ice cream right now.
PROSE: KNOWING THAT YOU COULD
One year gone and the earth gone round the sun, the cosmos round the earth.
He takes the money heâs made and rents a tiny cabin on a cliff overlooking a place where two seas meet. The water crashes violent.
Thereâs dirt under his nails from both sides of the world. He wanted a life, heâd told her, and thatâs what he got â the angst and exhilaration of the cliffside, the possible drop.
At night he lies alone and misses the scent between her breasts and her head on his chest. Sleeping alone seems quite new.Â
He walks to the cliffâs edge and watches two seas collide and tear at each other and he realizes there was only one sea to begin with and this battle is its dance with itself.
Rocks trickle down to the foam at the cliffâs bottom and the waves wash them away. The sea is eroding the rock, he thinks, but isnât the sea also shaped by the shore?
She was big on âcommon sense.â Life, she said, makes you hard. Life is a struggle. The world is alien. I have no common sense, he thinks. The longer I live, the lighter I become. The more fluid. The less I feel my toes. I see a leaf on the river and I think, I am the leaf and the leaf is moving. But what is the leaf, then, without the river to move it?
I must, he thinks, be a madman.
This is okay, he thinks.
Yes, there is murder in the world. There are also kittens.
He goes to the village and sees the vines that cover the stone walls of the church. The flowers in its garden. Those plants will die with a light frost, he thinks; cover them up. I need a star that can weather harsh winters.
GUESS WHAT
I feel really good today. Wow!
POEM: "WHAT A LUCKY PONY, EH?"
I have heard it said that ladies prefer gentlemen who prefer blonds.
These old photographs, then â I found them in your drawer â are they, what, an aberration?
The way the girl on top stares into the lens. It seems she enjoys her reflection in the glass, the curve of it.
Maybe not, though. Maybe it's really the void she's enjoying. The darkness.
The forever-darkness beyond everything. You know, like the backs of your eyelids.