james baldwin was so right when he said “the children are always ours, every single one of them, all over the globe; and I am beginning to suspect that whoever is incapable of recognizing this may be incapable of morality.”
taylor price
d e v o n

tannertan36
we're not kids anymore.

Product Placement
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
sheepfilms
Jules of Nature
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Game of Thrones Daily

Love Begins

⁂
Acquired Stardust
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
almost home

@theartofmadeline

roma★

Andulka
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@tellherium
james baldwin was so right when he said “the children are always ours, every single one of them, all over the globe; and I am beginning to suspect that whoever is incapable of recognizing this may be incapable of morality.”
i'm reading a book for class, and uh. i'm getting a little emotional at points
if anyone is interested, the book is I Am Woman: A Native Perspective on Sociology and Feminism (1996[1988]) by Lee Maracle, and it's really really good so far!
Oh! The intimacy of adopting each other’s vocabulary.
Oh! the violence of unlearning it!
Cynicism is an art
I have memorized the geometry of shadows cast by a stack of unread giants, waiting for a spine to crack and bleed a gospel I can actually use. But the ink is dry. The paper, just dead wood mottled with the ego of men long buried. Cynicism is an art, and I am its naive expert, practicing the habit of preempting the bruise, sharpening my tongue into a scalpel to peel back my own chest and laugh at the wet, thumping mess of it. “Look,” I tell the dark, “how pathetic to want." "How embarrassing to be made of glass in a room full of stones.” Craving the honest as winter something to strip the skin and leave the bone, because truth is softer than I admit, a suffocating thing. I am a failure of a cynic because I still have the nerve to be haunted. I am a poet only because I don’t know how to bleed without checking the light, to see if the red looks pretty on the floor.
this is a poem
i couldn’t not draw this
ok…!
babe are you okay, your reblogging the subway rat poem again
It’s been a long week
Middle age by Jason Shinder
I love having a beautiful interaction with a stranger and being like yeah I may be forever changed bc of this one simple and sweet moment
theres definitely a line of thought ive noticed in liberal circles and in media and stuff where they think that bad stuff works and is true but is just bad for some moral reason.
but the thing is that this stuff is just factually wrong. eugenics doesnt work. race science isnt true. theyre morally wrong, yes, but theyre also factually incorrect, ideas that are deployed in service of monstrous ideology despite the fact that they simply arent true.
and its a major impediment to effectively combating these ideas, because if you concede their premises, you have already given ground to your enemies.
I think it fundamentally stems from the fact that the hegemony of capitalism relies on constant concessions to "lesser evilism" (this of course serves to maintain the necessity of capitalism as the ultimate lesser evil), making people default to assuming that bad things work and good things are naive and useless
ok real
“The wet dog of desire jumps into my bed and I let it.
I’ll sleep next to anything if it means I won’t be alone.”
- The Surrender Theory, Caitlin Conlon
“A poem begins with a lump in the throat.”
— Robert Frost
writing isn’t hard it’s just emotionally devastating and time-consuming and requires full body possession by an idea
spinning sugar in the hot leaf water and it turns into the soft image of my skin. you me we us the energy circles like planets, vultures, isn't it all just a gravity? a brevity? the flap of a butterfly eyelash blossom, come back for me in the spring, i grow towards a different sun, a different stage, you watch from where you seated yourself. enjoy the show, or don't, you can't bear to watch, you can't bear to not. the way i studied i created, not playing to win, i went insane for the game. the beauty i dug to came with dirts you don't know, the underground brownness hums in worlds they don't show, snap back to (this) reality, oh, the gravity of brevity, the brevity of gravity i become the fantastical dreams that i dreamt, now on your screen, sometimes the birds don't sing, they scream.
Virginia Woolf, from her novel titled "The Waves," originally published in 1931
Mary Oliver, from Upstream: Selected Essays
[ID: image text reading, "Knowledge has entertained me and it has shaped me and it has failed me. Something in me still starves." /end ID]
cant stop thinking about this this was sooo crazyyyyy