something good will come out of all things yet

addie | 28 f chicago

[dappermouth]

Lutra lutra, burning eye.

[1264doghouse]

Son House

[nemfrog]

Dates Due 1916-1930. Beginning right. 1916.

Internet Archive

[oldmoonlullaby]

Antique Prayer Cards.

[bluebeardsbride-archive]

Richard Kearney, excerpts of ‘Strangers, Gods and Monsters: Interpreting Otherness’, 2002.

[heygoowhatsnew]

Fiona Apple Performing at kamp kome festival at shoreline amphitheater in Mountain View, California, September 13, 1997

[neverfeelinplace]

Source: ig selectivefinds

[jazz-improvisation]

Astrud Gilberto and Stan Getz performing, Chicago, Illinois,

circa 1964.

[lepetitdragonvert]

A Flemish Allegorical, Unicorn and Mille-Fleurs,

Bruges or Tournai,

Late 15th / early 16th century.

Source : Sothebys.com

[datelinepentagons]

[majestativa]

“… to avoid creating new illusions while destroying the old.”

— Abdellatif Laâbi, In Praise of Defeat: Poems by Abdellatif Laabi

[minhamemoriasuja]

“Boys of Summer” photographed by Gerardo Vizmanos

[barefoot-gothic]

Taxi Driver (1976)

[lunchboxpoems]

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

[photografya-deactivated20230917]

[iratetreasure-deactivated202310]

LIGHTNIN HOPKINS

[valealunii]

Icons I've collected from a calendar