how disgusting

[blinkeasy]

Good Bones, by Maggie Smith / Witch Hat Atelier, by Kamome Shirahama

[greeds]

i am still here btw. if anyone cares

[arknights-archive]

EP illustrations - Unmask

[theambitiouswoman]

[iamwhatismissing]

made me think of this

[id: x/twitter qrt from user styloshka that says "I read a forum post about art once, that it's a product of the dialectic between the effort of the artist and the friction of the medium. You push on the thing and the thing pushes back on you, it has its own voice. The weight of a piano key, the tension of a guitar string." original post from user colleen_daves says "Don't you want to skip over the mindless drudgery that is making art?" I do six stand embroidery and break like 10 needles a day, would I prefer that activity didn't hurt my hands and make me angry? Sure. But that's what makes having the finished piece after so worth it to me."]

link

[gwydionmisha]

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely loved when I got assigned a solo and would dance it over and over as much for pleasure as for the quest for perfection, but I loved the rest of it too.

I loved the slow methodical mediation of the stretches before class. I loved the quiet discipline of the barre exercises, the endless repetition, the feel of me shaping my body into the same forms, closer ever closer to correct.

Most of the others didn't rush onto the floor the moment it cleared to stretch alone.

Most of the others complained endlessly about barre. For me it was part of it. All of it was dancing and I loved dancing in every fiber of my being, pushing ever pushing at the boundaries of what my body can do.

It was never boring to me, not even the most mundane, repetitious parts. I gave no fucks for those few performances in front of the audience; I was dancing for me and that included doing feet positions over and over at the barre. It was doing the thing that mattered and I loved every second of it.

I was the same way with the assorted marital arts styles I studied over the years until my body gave out. The spars are the glamourous bits, but I loved the drills too, repeating, repeating, repeating.

I was the same way with candle wicking and needlepoint, my fingers reading canvas. My fingers mindlessly going in and out or doing the knots over and over.

It is possible to love every part of the thing, the colours unrealing on canvas, the patterns on linen, the repetition of form of drill of motion. Effort and beauty and sweat forever tangled together.

[elodieunderglass]

This is what Annie Dilliard said

A well-known writer got collared by a university student who asked, ”Do you think I could be a writer?”

”Well,” the writer said, ”I don’t know. . . . Do you like sentences?”

The writer could see the student’s amazement. Sentences? Do I like sentences? I am 20 years old and do I like sentences? If he had liked sentences, of course, he could begin, like a joyful painter I knew. I asked him how he came to be a painter. He said, ”I liked the smell of the paint.”

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

NeZha 2: Mo Tong Nao Hai （Nezha 2: The Demon Child's Havoc in the Sea）(cr 丝鸣.东城张三爷）

[bebx]

[ladyananas]

so im hearing @astolat is god??? what's your 10 commendments my liege

[astolat]

You shall seek out and enjoy art (which fanfic is) that gives you pleasure

You shall not feel guilty for spending time on art

You shall comment when you can with joy

You shall share the art you find that makes you happy

You shall not envy the size of your neighbor's fandom or pairing

You shall support your fellow fans in making art that makes them happy even if it is not to your own taste

You shall make art of your own to your own taste

You shall love your art however imperfect because it is yours

You shall share your art in whatever way you can with joy

You shall not covet your neighbor's hits or comments or kudos

My best stab! lol

[apoemaday]

Want

by Joan Larkin

She wants a house full of cups and the ghosts of last century’s lesbians; I want a spotless apartment, a fast computer. She wants a woodstove, three cords of ash, an axe; I want a clean gas flame. She wants a row of jars: oats, coriander, thick green oil; I want nothing to store. She wants pomanders, linens, baby quilts, scrapbooks. She wants Wellesley reunions. I want gleaming floorboards, the river’s reflection. She wants shrimp and sweat and salt; she wants chocolate. I want a raku bowl, steam rising from rice. She wants goats, chickens, children. Feeding and weeping. I want wind from the river freshening cleared rooms. She wants birthdays, theaters, flags, peonies. I want words like lasers. She wants a mother’s tenderness. Touch ancient as the river. I want a woman’s wit swift as a fox. She’s in her city, meeting her deadline; I’m in my mill village out late with the dog, listening to the pinging wind bells, thinking of the twelve years of wanting, apart and together. We’ve kissed all weekend; we want to drive the hundred miles and try it again.

[apoemaday]

Against Still Life

by Margaret Atwood

Orange in the middle of a table: It isn’t enough to walk around it at a distance, saying it’s an orange: nothing to do with us, nothing else: leave it alone I want to pick it up in my hand I want to peel the skin off; I want more to be said to me than just Orange: want to be told everything it has to say And you, sitting across the table, at a distance, with your smile contained, and like the orange in the sun: silent:

Your silence isn’t enough for me now, no matter with what contentment you fold your hands together; I want anything you can say in the sunlight: stories of your various childhoods, aimless journeyings, your loves; your articulate skeleton; your posturings; your lies. These orange silences (sunlight and hidden smile) make me want to wrench you into saying; now I’d crack your skull like a walnut, split it like a pumpkin to make you talk, or get a look inside But quietly: if I take the orange with care enough and hold it gently I may find an egg a sun an orange moon perhaps a skull; center of all energy resting in my hand can change it to whatever I desire it to be and you, man, orange afternoon lover, wherever you sit across from me (tables, trains, buses) if I watch quietly enough and long enough at last, you will say (maybe without speaking) (there are mountains inside your skull garden and chaos, ocean and hurricane; certain corners of rooms, portraits of great grandmothers, curtains of a particular shade; your deserts; your private dinosaurs; the first woman) all I need to know tell me everything just as it was from the beginning.

[phagodyke]

ALSO HELLOOOO????? can't believe they had gay sex right in front of me..... I was blushing and sweating reading this at work 😵‍💫

[yaoist]

"you have a responsibility to consider how your writing would affect other people" literally 50% of writing is manipulating the audience by setting tone and mood and drawing them in to fuck with their emotions. writers do NOTHING but consider how our writing is affecting other people and this is implying that our moral imperative is to make them feel warm and fuzzy which it is not

[tiramochi]

an open letter to my future love

i want to watch a show with you

and hold your hand

[tiramochi]

I’ve been given so much grace I don’t deserve

[tiramochi]

something in me broke and i feel so lost

i somehow accomplished a lot last year and yet none of it made me feel any less hollow. though there's still a certain irony in how things turned out

what i want, now, isn't something that can be attained by working hard. what i thought i wanted, before, was at least measurable. this lack of control is excruciating. everything i have to consider is overwhelming.

i still couldn't bear to touch a pen for months. now, i think, what was the point? you take the pieces and you jam them together as best you can. you hold your guts in place before they unravel.

life goes on. you have to fight to make something of yourself.

[licncourt]

Louis de Pointe du Lac & Lestat de Lioncourt (The Vampire Chronicles, 1976-2018)

[thecollectibles]

Art by Antonio Reinhard

[soracities]

i think a maybe underrated aspect of being alive in the world and not becoming subsumed by the quiet horror of being alive in THIS world is sometimes to just.......go off the deep end a teeny bit & acquire a plethora of interesting facts about the countless things around you

[soracities]

i'm not saying knowing the mating rituals of snapping turtles cures everything or that you'll be less addled by your persistent sense of grief or loneliness after a 2 am wikipedia dive into the history of the pencil sharpener but like.....i think it does alter your relation to the world around you a little bit. there's a new dimension to it now which exists because you have insight into some facet of it that isn't your immediate, day-to-day life, along with all the hurts, anxieties and frustrations that might contain. i don't know it's just....i think it means something important to know the world exists differently to how it exists for you right now: everything exists within this framework that holds so many many many things, you included. and if the world as you've always known it can be interrupted by the knowledge that it exists completely differently somewhere else (the sex lives of turtles, say) then it becomes less of an isolated echo chamber for you, and more this thing that's wide enough to contain far more than you can possibly envision right now. and when you've gained some of this knowledge and built your own little nest w random nuggets of information you become wider and bigger, too. and i think that's so neat.

[tiramochi]

truly still a writer because the first instinct is to vomit the pain out in words