Lutra lutra, burning eye.
RMH
todays bird

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
occasionally subtle

⁂

@theartofmadeline
will byers stan first human second

izzy's playlists!
One Nice Bug Per Day
hello vonnie
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

Product Placement
Monterey Bay Aquarium

Discoholic 🪩

Andulka
macklin celebrini has autism
almost home

if i look back, i am lost
dirt enthusiast

Love Begins
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from South Korea

seen from China

seen from Singapore
seen from India
seen from United States

seen from Canada
seen from Portugal
seen from Mexico
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 United States
@softspringnights
Lutra lutra, burning eye.
Son House
Dates Due 1916-1930. Beginning right. 1916.
Internet Archive
Antique Prayer Cards.
Richard Kearney, excerpts of ‘Strangers, Gods and Monsters: Interpreting Otherness’, 2002.
Fiona Apple Performing at kamp kome festival at shoreline amphitheater in Mountain View, California, September 13, 1997
Source: ig selectivefinds
Astrud Gilberto and Stan Getz performing, Chicago, Illinois,
circa 1964.
A Flemish Allegorical, Unicorn and Mille-Fleurs,
Bruges or Tournai,
Late 15th / early 16th century.
Source : Sothebys.com
“… to avoid creating new illusions while destroying the old.”
— Abdellatif Laâbi, In Praise of Defeat: Poems by Abdellatif Laabi
“Boys of Summer” photographed by Gerardo Vizmanos
Taxi Driver (1976)
AS IT IS
The man I love hates technology, hates that he’s forced to use it: telephones and microfilm, air conditioning, car radios and the occasional fax. He wishes he lived in the old world, sitting on a stump carving a clothespin or a spoon. He wants to go back, slip like lint into his great-great-grandfather’s pocket, reborn as a pilgrim, a peasant, a dirt farmer hoeing his uneven rows. He walks when he can, through the hills behind his house, his dogs panting beside him like small steam engines. He’s delighted by the sun’s slow and simple descent, the complicated machinery of his own body. I would have loved him in any era, in any dark age, I would take him into the twilight and unwind him, slide my fingers through his hair and pull him to his knees. As it is, this afternoon, late in the twentieth century, I sit on a chair in the kitchen with my keys in my lap, pressing the black button on the answering machine over and over, listening to his message, his voice strung along the wires outside my window where the birds balance themselves and stare off into the trees, thinking even in the farthest future, in the most distant universe, I would have recognized this voice, refracted, as it would be, like light from some small, uncharted star.
DORIANNE LAUX
LIGHTNIN HOPKINS
Icons I've collected from a calendar