Tessa Thompson photographed for BUNCH Magazine

Love Begins

Kaledo Art
dirt enthusiast
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
cherry valley forever
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Andulka
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titsay
styofa doing anything
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

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@panomphaeus
Tessa Thompson photographed for BUNCH Magazine
been feeling some kind of way latelyÂ
BILL WATTERSON - âA Cartoonistâs Adviceâ
âDonât you see? Iâm⊠Iâm trying to sort it out. And Iâve come all this way up here, on a coach and everything. And I want you to come back. With me. And I want us to be together. I donât want to be a fuck-up anymore.â
Godâs Own Country (2017) dir. Francis Lee
Films seen in 2018
In sixth grade Mrs. Walker slapped the back of my head and made me stand in the corner for not knowing the difference between persimmon and precision. How to choose persimmons. This is precision. Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted. Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one will be fragrant. How to eat: put the knife away, lay down newspaper. Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat. Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow. Now, eat the meat of the fruit, so sweet, all of it, to the heart. Donna undresses, her stomach is white. In the yard, dewy and shivering with crickets, we lie naked, face-up, face-down. I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: Iâve forgotten. Naked: Â Iâve forgotten. Ni, wo: Â you and me. I part her legs, remember to tell her she is beautiful as the moon. Other words that got me into trouble were fight and fright, wren and yarn. Fight was what I did when I was frightened, Fright was what I felt when I was fighting. Wrens are small, plain birds, yarn is what one knits with. Wrens are soft as yarn. My mother made birds out of yarn. I loved to watch her tie the stuff; a bird, a rabbit, a wee man. Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class and cut it up so everyone could taste a Chinese apple. Knowing it wasnât ripe or sweet, I didnât eat but watched the other faces. My mother said every persimmon has a sun inside, something golden, glowing, warm as my face. Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper, forgotten and not yet ripe. I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill, where each morning a cardinal sang, The sun, the sun. Finally understanding he was going blind, my father sat up all one night waiting for a song, a ghost. I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness, and sweet as love. This year, in the muddy lighting of my parentsâ cellar, I rummage, looking for something I lost. My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs, black cane between his knees, hand over hand, gripping the handle. Heâs so happy that Iâve come home. I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question. All gone, he answers. Under some blankets, I find a box. Inside the box I find three scrolls. I sit beside him and untie three paintings by my father: Hibiscus leaf and a white flower. Two cats preening. Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth. He raises both hands to touch the cloth, asks, Which is this? This is persimmons, Father. Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk, the strength, the tense precision in the wrist. I painted them hundreds of times eyes closed. These I painted blind. Some things never leave a person: scent of the hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons, in your palm, the ripe weight.
Persimmons by Li Young Lee
day 17 of @semiskimmedminâs challenge: screenshot
i chose moonlight because of its breathtaking imagery and colour. and iâm very happy im getting my artistic inspiration back; it started simply as a screenshot redraw but i made it mine with a few tweaks <3Â
I impressed myself with this one đ
Instagram.com/kiddbeatz
Frida seated in her garden, 1943. Photo by Florence Arquin.
What does it mean to both of you to see African culture celebrated in this way?
Love
In the middle of 1950s Tove was very, very lonely. Her letters of that time are melancholy, as she desperately yearned for true love. By this time she was very interested in dating women (as to her, Atos Wirtanen was in a way the last man she wanted to love). But circles were small in a small town, where homosexual acts were both a disease and illegal.
It was 1955, when Tove met Tuulikki PietilĂ€. They knew each other vaguely by looks. They had attended Ateneumâs art school at the same time but Tuulikki was few years younger and usually students spent time with their own language group (Tove spoke Swedish, Tuulikki Finnish).
The love story which lasted until their deaths, almost half a century began at Pikkujoulu party (âLittle Christmasâ in Finnish, a party traditionally held in anticipation on Christmas, usually among coworkers or friends) arranged by Finnish art society. Tove asked Tuulikki to dance, but she declined - probably out of propriety. But later Tuulikki sent Tove a card picturing a striped cat and asked her to visit her atelier.
Next summer Tuulikki visited Tove at an island. Love was born. Tove wrote; âI have finally come home to that one person whom I want to be withâ. The picture of a striped cat was always and still is on the wall of Toveâs atelier. The couple spent their summers together on an island and winters working in their ateliers, which were right next door from each other.
It can be said that Tuulikki saved Moominvalley. By the time they began their relationship, Tove was absolutely tired of Moomins. Tuulikkiâs support restored Toveâs belief in Moomins and they became an important hobby to them both.
Moomin book Moominland Midwinter (1957) is a book about loving and falling in love with Tuulikki. And it really shows. In the book, Moomintroll (who is an avatar of Tove Jansson) wakes up in the middle of unfamiliar and eerie winter, facing loneliness and death for the first time. In the middle of all cold and silence Moomintroll finds Too-Ticky, whoâs calmly watching a snow lantern. Too-Ticky is robust and strong with blonde hair and a knife at her hip; everything Tuulikki was.
Too-Ticky becomes Moomintrollâs calm and supportive mentor. She never gives ready answers and instead gently guides Moomintroll as he grows and learns. It is Too-Ticky who says the phrase which Tove repeated often in her interviews and which was seemingly one of her most important philophies: âEverything is insecure and that makes me calmâ.
After Tuulikkiâs first visit Tove wrote; âI love you both enchanted and very calm at the same time, and I donât fear anything that might await usâ. After finding Tuulikki, Tove described how much calmer and safer she felt. Whole living felt easier.
âCome Get It Baeâ by Pharrell | Choreography by Koharu Sugawara
ft. dancer:Â Yuki Shibuya
Childrenâs ideas.
You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw -- but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of -- something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clap-clap of water against the boat's side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it -- tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest -- if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself -- you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say "Here at last is the thing I was made for". We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.
C S Lewis
How many times in the reboots did I ask Chidi for help, he refused to help me and then I had to get better on my own? Never. He always helped you. God. Really? Yep. No matter how I set it up, you found him, confessed you didnât belong, asked him for help, and he said yes.