I was compelled to make this.
Second in the series
A more appropriate hole.
No title available

Love Begins
Misplaced Lens Cap

JBB: An Artblog!
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
d e v o n

tannertan36
Cosimo Galluzzi

titsay

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Monterey Bay Aquarium

ellievsbear

roma★
occasionally subtle
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
🪼
tumblr dot com
we're not kids anymore.
Claire Keane
ojovivo
seen from United States

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seen from Algeria

seen from Malaysia

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seen from Türkiye

seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States

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seen from United States
@troisoiseaux
I was compelled to make this.
Second in the series
A more appropriate hole.
Solidarity between LGBTQ+ people and unions has saved an event denied ‘a single penny’ of council money
"What’s the point of supporting gay rights but nobody else’s rights. You know? Or - workers’ rights but not Women’s rights - it’s - I don’t know - illogical."
"There’s a lodge banner down in the welfare. We bring it out for special occasions. It’s a hundred years old. I’ll show it to you one day. It’s a symbol like this -
Two hands.
That’s what the labour movement means. Should mean. You support me and I support you. Whoever you are. Wherever you come from. Shoulder to shoulder. Hand to hand."
Flamingo Road 1949, dir. Michael Curtiz
Early Fireflies - Jeremy Miranda , 2026
American , b. 1980 -
Acrylic on panel , 11.5 × 14 in.
When my mother forgets a word, she is the queen of coming up with new words. Words that would take a third National Treasure movie to fully decipher. I was talking to her yesterday, and she said this: “You know the time for los jibbities is coming up. You must be so excited!” Oh, is it time for los jibbities already? I must have missed it on my calendar. Are we celebrating something? “Of course! We should all be celebrating, shouldn’t we?” OK, so los jibbities is a happy thing. It’s not like something is giving you the heebie-jeebies, which would have been my one and only guess. “Los heebie-jeebies? Now you’re making things up...and this is my show.” You’re right. The time for los jibbities is coming up. Is this a season? “Yes, the season for love. The season for pride.” OK, los jibbities. “Yeah, sound it out.” Los…jibbities. LGBTs! “Sí, mira cuz you’re gay!” “You couldn’t just say pride season? You couldn’t just… *laughs*
HAPPY LOS JIBBITIES EVERYBODY!!!
was in a painting mood
Hudson Williams | 2026 Canadian Screen Awards in Toronto, Ontario | May 31, 2026 | 📷 Aika Flores
but I woke up in a safe house singin honey lets get married
last weekend’s request was for hayley & g 🌸
the mcr breakup is actually pretty funny when you think about how rayrard never stopped talking and mikey is gerard's younger brother so really it was just frank they weren't hanging out with .
Justin McElroy talking about accessibility in live theatre (June 9, 2019)
“Art is happening everywhere all of the time” but an awful lot of it seems to only ever happen in New York and London, doesn’t it?
Unless your enjoyment of theatre is based in the idea that you get to do it and The Poors don’t and that’s why it’s fun for you, how does other people getting to experience recordings of it make it worse? Like why would anybody be against that. “Oh it’s better in person” yeah and concerts are often more fun than listening to CDs, so what? There’s absolutely no reason why people in other places and circumstances shouldn’t get to experience art.
“Theatre is ephemeral” Yeah, and even if it’s recorded, there will be dozens or hundreds of performances of it which aren’t. One recording doesn’t stop those other experiences being ephemeral.
Seeing theatre in person is generally better than watching a recording, but watching a recording is infinitely never getting to see something at all.
dear campanella
The 16th Avenue Tiled Steps project is an amazing community-led project in San Francisco. Friends and neighbors got together to cover the 16
Image credits according to the post: @yellofish
Image credits
Image credits
Ellen Ochoa plays a 15-minute flute set on the aft deck of the Space Shuttle Discovery, April 1993
Telling My Father
by James Crews
I found him on the porch that morning, sipping cold coffee, watching a crow dip down from the power line into the pile of black bags stuffed in the dumpster where he pecked and snagged a can tab, then carried it off, clamped in his beak like the key to a room only he knew about. My father turned to me then, taking in the reek of my smoke, traces of last night’s eyeliner I decided not to wipe off this time. Out late was all he said. And then smiled, rubbing the small of my back through the robe for a while, before heading inside, letting the storm door click shut behind him. Later, when I stepped into the kitchen, I saw it waiting there on the table—a glass of orange juice he had poured for me and left sweating in a patch of sunlight so bright I couldn’t touch it at first.