do you like milfs so much because you have mommy issues
can’t a dyke wanna fuck an older woman without freud showing up in their ask box
Show & Tell
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Keni
will byers stan first human second
taylor price
art blog(derogatory)
trying on a metaphor

pixel skylines
Cosmic Funnies
No title available

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Not today Justin
i don't do bad sauce passes
h
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
DEAR READER
noise dept.
dirt enthusiast

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Kiana Khansmith

seen from Türkiye
seen from Panama
seen from United States
seen from Panama
seen from Türkiye

seen from Finland

seen from Malaysia
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 Germany

seen from United States
seen from Canada

seen from Malaysia
@pergaias
do you like milfs so much because you have mommy issues
can’t a dyke wanna fuck an older woman without freud showing up in their ask box
the thing about phone in bed is that it's so awesome. almost makes you feel like betraying & destroying yourself for nothing isn't all so bad
Ahhhh i needed to hear this
Thriving means turning raw shame into pure audacity.
even before googling the source, i knew it was askpolly
Not This by Olena Kalytiak Davis
happy Mother’s Day to these two queens
Emily Brontë’s emphasis on the material world has long been noted, of course, by Marxist critics. Patsy Stoneman’s review of the political criticism of Wuthering Heights demonstrates that materialist readings have been nearly as durable as transcendental interpretations. As early as 1947, David Wilson set the novel in the context of Yorkshire’s “West Riding social history,” presenting evidence that the Brontës were intimately aware of the deprivations that industrialism thrust upon their neighboring hand-loom weavers. Wuthering Heights is not only carefully situated in time and in locale, concerned with inheritance and property, attentive to human physical comfort and brutality, and literally crawling with animals, but it also casts the metaphysical back into physical terms. Cathy’s image of heaven is conspicuously earthly; Heathcliff by name and reputation is a piece of nature, “an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone,” and Heathcliff needs Cathy’s physical presence so much that he exhumes her corpse. Even in Lockwood’s dreams, Cathy’s ghost bleeds as if it were embodied. These undeniably spiritual or metaphysical concerns are deeply intertwined with the material elements.
As critics have with increasing eclecticism tried to manage both the novel’s mythic elements and its patent materialism, it has become almost standard to read Wuthering Heights as a disjunct novel. Certainly, on the critical level, Wuthering Heights has frustrated most recognizable ways of reading mid-century British novels, deflecting especially the categories of Gothic romance on the one hand and Victorian social realism on the other. Nancy Armstrong, for instance, argues that the novel poses questions in one genre that cannot be answered by the other. And J. Hillis Miller thinks that Wuthering Heights is constructed to lure the reader further in with false promises of a secret meaning, but finally, and repeatedly, to frustrate those readerly expectations.
Without denying the uncanny repetitions of the text, or the fruitful ambiguity of its generic borrowings, I wish to place Wuthering Heights firmly in the Romantic materialist tradition, which provides a logic for its disjunctions. The late Romantic two-book culture, in which the Brontës participated, specifically features both an intimate interrelationship and an untranslatability between the natural and supernatural worlds. An unexpected twist complicates this otherwise typical Christian dualism: the soul becomes an untrustworthy monitor while the body becomes the site of authenticity and justice. Furthermore, locating childhood as the realm of the bad soul/good body frustrates the common expectation that a nineteenth-century novel should be some approximation of a bildungsroman. Wuthering Heights is not a children’s story, but fully to understand it one must read for the child in it—that is, one must resist declaring the novel ultimately frustrating if child logic turns out to furnish a better explanation of the book than the logic of maturation.
How does one revalue the child’s body, usually considered the inferior husk from which our privileged adult psyche emerges? How do you make the surface into the core? Emily Brontë’s answer is to enshrine the child body in a book. As a Romantic materialist, Brontë doesn’t deconstruct the binary of body and soul, outside and inside, but rather inverts the traditional priority in order to reawaken the strangeness of the dualism. The result is a mythic novel that enshrines within it the healthy child body—“half-savage, and hardy and free”—as well as its material locale, the West Riding of Yorkshire, with its values of fierce loyalty and flat-footed impatience with compromise. The sense of formal unity is, I believe, more than an elaborate illusion; the concentric frames of narrative function to build desire for the core, investing it with value as the central concern of the novel. As Beth Newman writes of frame narratives: “As we pass from teller to teller, peeling back one story to discover another as though peeling an onion, we progress not only through time but also toward some goal that seems the more powerful and important for being so palpably within. What is startlingly original is that the inner experience for which this text provokes desire is not that of the psyche, nor that of transcendental mystery, but rather that of the full, ravenous physicality of childhood.
Janis McLarren Caldwell, "Wuthering Heights and Domestic Medicine: The Child's Body and the Book," in the Norton Critical Editions version of Wuthering Heights
hey girl i mean jude
please change beliefs, jenny holzer
hole-in-the-wall cafe
Quote of the day
I’m seeing a lot of people saying this post changed their brain chemistry, and as a neuroscientist I wanted to say yes!!! Yes it does!
Wanting something requires dopamine signaling, but liking something doesn’t.
If you have a mental illness/disorder that affects dopamine, you might feel that you don’t want to do the things that you like. You do still like them. You will appreciate having done them.
Let your likes guide you.
(If you want to read more, here’s one experimental paper about it. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC5171207/ This theory called the incentive-sensitization theory was originally created to explain behaviors in addiction but can be applied elsewhere as well)
Rewards are both ‘liked’ and ‘wanted’, and those two words seem almost interchangeable. However, the brain circuitry that mediates the psych
im not above eating some low hanging fruit like if theres low hanging fruit i might eat some
—Richard Siken, from “A Primer for the Small Weird Loves,” Crush
Boris Kustodiev
L. V., excerpts from the afterword
Worm Moon by Mary Oliver