I love getting "prev"ed, it's like getting a good grade on tumblr dot com, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve
Sade Olutola
art blog(derogatory)

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$LAYYYTER
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Product Placement
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

shark vs the universe
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

Love Begins
taylor price
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i don't do bad sauce passes

roma★

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@onomatopriya
I love getting "prev"ed, it's like getting a good grade on tumblr dot com, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve
amir khusrow (1253–1325 CE)
This is back on my dash! And listen, I love to see Amir Khusrau getting appreciation, but this translation ignores a lot. The original rhymes! And scans! And does playful things with register! And conveys a tone of affectionate banter between the two speakers, not least because it has them both addressing each other as sakhi (translated above as “girl”) in the last two lines. I think taking some liberties with line order is worth it to preserve more of the rest—and I think there’s a better translation of sakhi. And so:
He only visits once a year, I splurge big on him when he’s here, His kisses make my tastebuds tango. Who, bitch, your man? Nah, bitch, a mango.
In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”
reading the mirror and the light is like watching a guy paddle full tilt towards a waterfall. but sometimes you forget about the waterfall and you're like. look at him go. he's so fast. nobody in his league. he made those rapids look easy. wait. no. stopppppp.
-- Ted Chiang, from "Why A.I. Isn't Going to Make Art"
I'm so glad they got Ted Chiang -- a wonderful writer of science fiction and thinker about technology, in my opinion -- to write this essay. My favorite line was this:
Generative A.I. appeals to people who think they can express themselves in a medium without actually working in that medium.
oh i'll go NUTS
Ingrid Geerken, "'The Dead Are Not Annihilated': Mortal Regret in Wuthering Heights"
Albert Square, Manchester (1910) by Adolphe Valette | Contemporary Art (2015) by Emily Allchurch
The Madonna through the eyes of Goanese artist Angelo da Fonseca.
THOMAS CROMWELL AFFIRMATIONS:
NOW GET UP
THE BLACKSMITH MAKES HIS OWN TOOLS
STALL FOR TIME, BRIBE PEOPLE, AND IF NEED BE MAKE A STRATEGIC RETREAT
DON'T ASK DON'T GET
THERE IS NO TALENT THAT I POSSESS THAT ENGLAND CANNOT USE.
IT'S TIME I SAID MY PRAYERS
PUT AN EDGE ON IT
“If you are not the free person you want to be you must find a place to tell the truth about that. To tell how things go for you. Candor is like a skein being produced inside the belly day after day, it has to get itself woven out somewhere. You could whisper down a well. You could write a letter and keep it in a drawer. You could inscribe a curse on a ribbon of lead and bury it in the ground to lie unread for thousands of years. The point is not to find a reader, the point is the telling itself. Consider a person standing alone in a room. The house is silent. She is looking down at a piece of paper. Nothing else exists. All her veins go down into this paper. She takes her pen and writes on it some marks no one else will ever see, she bestows on it a kind of surplus, she tops it off with a gesture as private and accurate as her own name.”
— Anne Carson, “Could 1,” from Candor
You good ?
In The Mood For Love (2001)
today i am thinking about the eight bullets that kill enjolras, and how i always see people saying they represent his eight friends to die at the barricade, but when i first read his death what came to my mind was the eight men to escape the barricade alive: valjean, marius, javert, and the five men who are given the national guard uniforms. i think of those eight bullets being meant for those eight men, and enjolras taking them all. he did not change the world in the way he meant, but he changed the world for eight men, and that has to be enough.
this sucks so bad i need to [remembers suicide jokes only worsen my mental health] go join my friends on the barricade
happy pride month to whatever enjolras and mabeuf had goin on
the significance of the miniature/unremarkable: george eliot, middlemarch (1871), margaret cavendish, 'of many worlds in this world' in poems and fancies (1653), william makepeace thackeray, vanity fair (1847/48)
god, love, and people: victor hugo, les miserables (1862) ; vincent van gogh, letter to theo van gogh, cuesmes (july 1880) ; george eliot, middlemarch (1871), 1 john 4:7 (esv)