take me on

Janaina Medeiros
Not today Justin

#extradirty
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blake kathryn
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

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JVL

@theartofmadeline
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@publicpools
take me on
Ich ertrinke in dem Meer meiner Erinnerungen.
Swimming in the Dark, PRIDE 2025 Olympiaturm München
Supposedly sentimentality grows with age, but that's nonsense. From the beginning, my focus was on the past.
Videoland
"You could always tell where everyone else had paused the videotape at, frozen the frame and rewound it back to; the lines beginning to jump, the colors now swimming and with it the knowing that someone's head is about to explode, that or being in for five sweet seconds of some boobies flashing past. Sometimes both."
I. Kopfkino
Mom wasn't having any of it, to her video recorders cheapened the moment, extinguished the collective campfire of seeing the same pictures beaming into all living rooms all at once, and emptied out small-town cinemas — our light castles. She said that they corrupt us.
I think she was right, only now I do.
But back then, man, I'd gladly have let a hungry VCR feed me right into the machine and to devour my soul. Yet, she was the most liberal one among her sisters. Over at Auntie's Coca Cola was of the devil's, while I was in for my daily dose o' sweet American sugar and by age twelve: the double. Still, only three channels swaying in.
I'm a child of the eighties and for a good chunk of my childhood on our roof, my sister, walkie-talkie in hand, chk chk checking in from below as we were aiming the aerial towards the mythical fourth channel. But- only ants, or in her speak snowflakes filling the tube. Girls….
We've never had the heart to buy a VCR after Mom's death.
Besides, by then I had gotten some pretty beefy bedtimes out of the situation: when there was a good flick on TV late at night, I was in to lounge along on the couch, that or Dad's full reenactment at the breakfast table. Having finally seen most of these movies, lemme tell you Dad's versions were usually a good deal better.
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Illustration: Running Time Lab
Olympia
Soccer Summer
For an early summer, 3rd grade slowly crawling to a close, the pool still flat in its first sunbeams, in which freckles were soon lillypadding our faces, the schoolyard came abuzz for one last time.
Within all cliques and corners, underneath desks and sitting on top soaky gym benches, heads began sticking together as soccer stickers doubling as trading cards, carefully weighted by both rarity and the man's mane, exchanged hands.
With the album safely tucked away in the backpack, all the real treasures were collecting up in my chest pocket.
The boys from Brazil had replaced the usual assortment of popsicle sticks, chewing gum, and a bug or two. All unburdened now from the shirt mysteriously disappearing in the washer for weeks on end.
I. Le tigre
Since Mom's funeral, everything had flown out the window and my trusty faux-french polo grown onto a second skin.
And as attempting to not only fill the void within our atomized family, Dad kept the sticker packs coming. For once, 'long now observing a full six days of TV dinners, a coping mechanism I could deal with. We'd still take the Volvo over to Burger King on Sundays.
“… and not a word to the Aunties.”
Like I’d be talking!
Toast-in-mouth, I made myself disappear in my bedroom, one by one fired my sneakers into the corner, fished the sticker album out the backpack, balanced the still naked Wonderbread on top of the ant farm-in-a-making cocoa container, to finally plop onto my bed.
Flat on my tummy, the album flipped open on England's double spread, a good layer o’ ersatz Nutella now blanketing the toast, I fumbled my last pack of stickers out of a grass-stained back pocket, where it had been patiently waiting since today's incarnation of mystery meat avec peas.
Glistering in the bedside lamp's light, the thin aluminum wrapper crackled with a small promise.
Running my fingers above its embossed trademark knight, I at last reached for the tear-off strip lingering across the top.
I closed my eyes and held onto a mouthful of air.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
"God, please not another Lothar Matthäus!"
The smell of tight sitting glue emerged, one only rivaled by the thick, carrot-like tang embodied into the pulp of a million mimeographed worksheets, that had us all grown into suburban, soon cold bunny till September, junkies.
I opened my eyes and, one by one, freed the squad out of their own casket.
It were mostly minor mullets, and fast thumbing through the album: doubles! -But! sporting green kit, reflecting a sheepish smirk and what looked like a forced haircut of his own: Jesús.
I quickly finished up the toast to tuck the sticker album under my pillow. Slightly askew, Mexico’s number 16 awaiting the rest of his teammates.
Perhaps tomorrow I could trade some in, maybe John would be back too. It was still a full week till the first World Cup matches came beaming in from across the Atlantic.
Shame my sister wasn't collecting –
or leaving her room.
After tunneling out of my shirt, leaving behind the bread's last fragments in the fabric, I, as doubling as a boyhood bible, unearthed Pippi Longstocking in the South Seas out from the depths of my nightstand drawer.
Where as mimeographed, Mom’s molecules had become embedded within the browning pages.
It still smelled of black coffee and hospital hallways.
words, mimo like waves, memo rolling, rolling, mammo- rolling. Mama gram. cresting over my head.
It had been eight weeks, the book a life raft. No land in sight.
I untangled my fingers and kept leafing on, across side notes and dogear treasures, till England’s silver-metallic Three Lions came gleaming in, still guarding our last page.
With Pippi Longstocking jacketing my chest, the lamp’s light cone collapsed into a black hole.
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June Mixtape: Soccer in Stereo
Pink Floyd - Fearless The Popguns - Red, White and Blue Pale Sunday - Dirt Pitch Superstars Red Sleeping Beauty - Dressed In Yellow And Blue The Royal Landscaping Society - 2010 Sportfreunde Stiller - ‘54, '74, '90, 2006
Summer on Balconia
I love discovering the memories people leave hiding in plain sight. There is something almost perverse about it. I think it’s something I’d probably do. I leave my problems all over the place sometimes and turn a blind eye. They sit there until they almost seem romantic and then by that point they’re just another part of me. Collecting dust and waiting for someone to tell me that they’re beautiful.
Grassland's - Carla Vize-Martin
British , b. 1970 -
Acrylic on board , 18 x 18 in.
Illustration by Elsa Beskow “Queen Water Lily”
droplets
Concerning that mid-November birthday of yours…, congrats yer parents so did it on Valentine’s Day.
In case you didn't know, I had the honor of designing Tumblr's spooky new app logo
Blaupause