Auguste Clesinger, 1849, “Woman Bitten by a Serpent”. Marble sculpture.
trying on a metaphor

blake kathryn
DEAR READER
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Three Goblin Art
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if i look back, i am lost

@theartofmadeline
todays bird
noise dept.
wallacepolsom
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

#extradirty

shark vs the universe
d e v o n

Janaina Medeiros
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
taylor price
almost home
Xuebing Du
seen from Bangladesh

seen from Pakistan

seen from Brazil
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Argentina

seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
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@paraganek
Auguste Clesinger, 1849, “Woman Bitten by a Serpent”. Marble sculpture.
'Borrowing the Tiger's Majesty' by Yuzu Kato
on survival
-// @aridante // @orivu // @buzzkillgirls // ? // ? // richard siken// @cemeterything // moomin, tove jansson// @disenchanted-killjoy // isn't that enough, shawn mendes// @ prettytheyswag on twitter// @ coletyumuch on twitter// ? // ? // bird by bird, anne lamott// undertale// @strawberrycircuits
there’s an urban legend you have to ask for help in order to receive it
Jayne Mansfield grocery shopping in Las Vegas, 1959 (unpublished photos printed from the original negatives from my personal collection—best viewed large).
Carrie Fountain, from Burn Lake; “Late Spring in the Mesilla Valley”
All Bark, Colored Pencil and Acrylic Paint, 2026 by Kamryn Tulare
When my son was about to turn two, strangers would offer condolences. There’s a collective cultural dread of toddlers, who get described more like animals than people. Kids in their "terrible twos," I was warned, are illogical, unregulated, and feral. "Good luck," people would say. "He'll grow out of it."
I'm lucky: My son is a very easygoing kid. But I remember the first tantrum he threw for me. He was standing by our front door and asked to go outside. So I opened the door and grabbed his shoes. But as soon as he stepped onto the porch, he pointed back into the house.
"Inside," he said.
"Okay," I said. I picked him up and brought him inside.
But as soon as I shut the front door, he pointed outside.
"Outside!" he said.
You know where this is going. We went back and forth, inside and outside, again and again. He got more frustrated. And I got more frustrated. Eventually he wound up straddling the threshold of our house, sobbing. When I tried to comfort him, he screamed at me. "You go wherever you want!" I said. He just got madder. I felt trapped, convinced he’d concocted the whole episode as a pretext to unleash his rage at me. It was ridiculous. I consoled myself with the thought that he was just being a toddler.
But later I kept thinking about him wailing at our front door, one foot inside, one foot outside. His misery wasn't unreasonable, or trivial, or silly. My son was experiencing the agony of wanting two things that were impossible to have at the same time. What a fundamentally human sorrow! My son wasn't being a toddler; he was being a person. Adults may not walk around howling, but that same pain rages within us. In that moment, as a father, I was powerless to solve my son's problem. I told him he could go wherever he wanted, but of course I was wrong. To be where he wanted was impossible.
Make Believe: On Telling Stories to Children by Mac Barnett
Alysa Liu, Winter Olympics 2026