izzy's playlists!
occasionally subtle
tannertan36
Sweet Seals For You, Always
PR's Tumblrdome
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RMH
blake kathryn
Misplaced Lens Cap
Love Begins
shark vs the universe
hello vonnie
ellievsbear
Sade Olutola
d e v o n
sheepfilms
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
i don't do bad sauce passes
NASA
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
seen from Italy
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@ohrinners
braid your curly hair like fresh challah, the smell of it filling the air around you spray perfume of apples and honey on your skin to prepare for a sweet new day all around you is history, and you weave your family into each breath and step gone is a performance, this is your culture and each task is done with love
- Miriam Kamens, Jewish woman
thinkin thoughts! this one’s called “niche market”
Recently, my son said to me after seeing a ballet on television: ‘It’s beautiful, but I don’t like it.’ And I thought, Are many grown-ups capable of such a distinction? It’s beautiful, but I don’t like it. Usually, our grown-up thinking is more along the lines of: I don’t like it, so it’s not beautiful. What would it mean to separate those two impressions for art making and for art criticism?
“59. it’s beautiful, but I don’t like it” from 100 essays I don’t have time to write: on umbrellas and sword fights, parades and dogs, fire alarms, children, and theater, Sarah Ruhl. (via a-witches-brew)
I’ve been driven to action by hearing a poem. I’ve participated in direct actions that wouldn’t take place without poems being there to anchor them. Activism is a full-branching tree. I get uncomfortable when we start to entirely dismiss whole branches.
Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib, for Amy King’s
“Young Poets Bare All: What Is a Culture?”
(via
bostonpoetryslam
)
That’s the best thing about language: every time you use a word you are summoning so many other things—all the times that word has ever been used. I know this sounds a little psychedelic, but maybe I have an ancestor one hundred years ago who used this word that I choose to write now. What does it mean that everything that we are writing is recycled? Words are full of ghosts. Poetry is full of ghosts.
Morgan Parker,
LaTasha N. Nevada Diggs & Morgan Parker
.
(via
soracities
)
my mom: you don’t need to wear that much makeup we are only going to the grocery store no one is looking at u
me: well if you’ve heard of Foucault’s concept of the Panopticon u would realize that as citizens of a capitalist western society we are all surveilled and constantly viewed and judged 247 and even when we are not in a public place, privately we subconsciously monitor our own selves, our appearances, our social interactions, we discipline ourselves and conform this is how the modern day surveillance state works someone is always watching or else u are always constantly painfully aware of ur own self. also can u buy me $50 foundation
Love is profoundly political. Our deepest revolution will come when we understand this truth. Only love can give us the strength to go forward in the midst of heartbreak and misery. Only love can give us the power to reconcile, to redeem, the power to renew weary spirits and save lost souls. The transformative power of love is the foundation of all meaningful social change. Without love our lives are without meaning. Love is the heart of the matter. When all else has fallen away, love sustains.
bell hooks, Salvation: Black People and Love (via sftn)
When we choose growth over perfection, we immediately increase our shame resilience. Improvement is a far more realistic goal than perfection. Merely letting go of unattainable goals makes us less susceptible to shame. When we believe “we must be this” we ignore who or what we actually are, our capacity and our limitations. We start from the image of perfection, and of course, from perfection there is nowhere to go but down.
Brené Brown, I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn’t): Making the Journey from “What Will People Think?” to “I Am Enough” (via whyhellocynthia)
in the absence of speech we bake bread. we slow dance. we kiss with our eyes. instead: our hands kneading love into winged bellyaches. instead: our knees perfect robins’ eggs blushing into orbit. instead: our mouths with nothing left to say.
“The Softly” after Jeffrey McDaniel, Natalie Wee (via chainedtocomets)
MASHUP
Uptown Funk + Get’cha Head in the Game, High School Musical
(Tumblr Audio version)
OLD WORLD AND NEW COLLIDE OH MY
OMG jetbagscousin
PURE GENIUS
You know how every once in a while you do something and the little voice inside says ‘There. That’s it. That’s why you’re here’ … and you get a warm glow in your heart because you know it’s true? Do more of that.
Jacob Nordby (via onlinecounsellingcollege)
I do want to create art beyond rage. Rage is a place to begin, but not end. I’m not as wise as my work, but I know if I take the writing deep enough, something larger and greater than myself will flash forth and illuminate me, heal me. I do want to devour my demons—despair, grief, shame, fear—and use them to nourish my art. Otherwise they’ll devour me.
Sandra Cisneros, from “I Can Live Sola and I Love to Work,” A House of My Own: Stories From My Life (via lifeinpoetry)
I thought about the notebooks I filled up in high school, the ones that I’m still too scared to open up and revisit, not because I think my bad writing will make me cringe, but because I’m afraid my bad writing will make me yearn to write like that again—and I don’t mean writing poems that compare my loneliness to a black hole or my love to a prairie devastated by fire, but rather to write with tremendous heart and without concern for taste or craft, without concern for the entire wretched literary canon that has come before me, the literary canon that is still mostly populated by boring, uninspiring white dudes whose writing will never change my life.
Jenny Zhang, “The Importance of Angsty Art” (via elbowplants)
I told my mom I was “born this way” to assure her that she hadn’t made mistakes in the way she mothered me, and to assure myself that I wasn’t a mistake, too. But three years later, I had to question why I needed to be a born a certain way. What if my mother did have a hand in crafting my queerness? Why did she believe that contributing to my magical queer self was an evil rather than a good? Why do I need to claim that my queerness is unchanging and natural to be safe from people who will do anything to control me, to ensure that I can’t dream up new selves and determine who I will be? Because I did change. At 17, I told myself and others that I was a gay man. At 20, I don’t identify as gay, and I don’t identify as a man.
Becoming: My queerness is an ongoing project. By Alex Quan Pham. (via rookiemag)
Theatre Gothic
- You dream of the stage. The spotlight shines on you, the audience holds their breath for you to speak. Your lines, someone mouths to you. You do not know who, you did not see them, you did not hear them. You cannot remember your lines. You look down, a cold sweat forming on your brow. You notice that you are in your underwear. The audience stares. You are not dreaming.
- Backstage, you wait. Standing alone in the darkness of the wing, a black shape shifts past you. You have no proof of them other than the breeze felt by their passing and the shadow you thought you caught in the corner of your eye. Another shape moves past, behind you. Another, in front. Perhaps they aren’t passing you, perhaps they’re coming closer, together. The techies. They move.
- You wait in center stage for the light to come on. It is only dark. It has been dark for as long as you can remember. A low buzzing can be heard, and the stage lights begin to glow, softly, growing brighter, quickly. They are so bright now. You cannot see the audience. You look down, you cannot see your hands. It is so bright. You can no longer feel your body, you are no longer a physical form.
- You shower after the show, trying to wash off the stage makeup. The water runs flesh color at first, then black. There is so much makeup. Glitter falls from your hair. Why is there glitter? You think. I will never be clean, you whisper into the dark recesses beyond the drain. Eyelashes are falling now, in clumps, whether they are fake or real you do not know. Everything falls, everything is washed away. You become faceless, and yet streaks of waterproof mascara remain.
- You are only called by your character name, you can not remember the last time you were called by your real name. You can not remember your real name. You are changing.
- Red leather, yellow leather, they chant. The step closer to you, circling you. There is no escape. They chant softly at first, growing louder, walking faster. They break into a jazz run, they are screaming now. You try to chant as well, you try to keep up. You are sweating, yelling. Red leather, yellow leather. Red leather yellow leather. They are coming towards you, waiting for you to fail, to fall. Red yellow, leather pleather, you finally slip. They close in. You have lost.
In a world dense with understanding, oppressive with explanation and insight and love, the members of the silent sisterhood long to evade definition, to remain mysterious and ungraspable. Tell us! we cry, our voices shrill with love. Tell us everything! Then we will forgive you. But the girls do not wish to tell us anything, they don’t wish to be heard at all. They wish, in effect, to become invisible. Precisely for this reason they cannot engage in any act that might reveal them. Hence their silence, their love of night solitude, their ritual celebration of the dark. They plunge into secrecy as into black smoke: in order to disappear
The Sisterhood of Night by Steven Millhauser (via tu-sera-toujours-belle)
"My goofiest-sounding secret is that I also believe in magic. Sometimes I call it God and sometimes I call it light, and I believe in it because every now and then I read a really good book or hear a really good song or have a really good conversation with a friend and they seem to have some kind of shine to them. The list I keep of these moments in the back of my journal is comprised less of times when I was laughing or smiling and more of times when I felt like I could feel the colors in my eyes deepening from the display before me. Times in which I felt I was witnessing an all-encompassing representation of life driven by an understanding that, coincidence or not, our existence is a peculiar thing, and perhaps the greatest way to honor it is to just be human. To be happy AND sad, and everything else. And yeah, living is a pain, and I say I hate everyone and everything, and I don’t exude much enthusiasm when sandwiched between fluorescent lighting and vinyl flooring for six hours straight, and I will probably mumble a bunch about how much I wish I could sleep forever the next time I have to wake up at 6 AM. But make no mistake about it: I really do like living. I really, truly do."
Tavi Gevinson (via pillowtock)
