2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
todays bird
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macklin celebrini has autism
art blog(derogatory)
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@whereshalliwander-blog
Reverberation #143 download 1. Pisano & Ruff - The Drifter 2. Pete Jolly - Autumn Festival 3. Sergio Mendes & Brasil 77 - After Sunrise 4. Antonio Carlos Jobim - Batidinha 5. Claudine Longet - Who Needs You 6. Chris Montez - Spooky 7. Nick De Caro - I’m Gonna Make You Love Me 8. Peter C. Johnson - Giorgio’s Dilemma 9. Michelle Phillips - Aching Kind 10. The Flying Burrito Brothers - Here Tonight 11. Fairport Convention - Tale In Hard Time 12. Letta Mbulu - There’s Music In The Air
R.
In the bedroom, the windows flood with a blue light etched with black frame. He throws open the white curtains. Look, he says. She is a bit drunk and sways a little. He is beautiful, from Madrid. He has the softest beard and the most beautiful limpid green eyes. He has the kind of mouth she could kiss and kiss and forget herself in. When she did kiss him-- at the bar with oil lamps --he had a smell she recognized. She hovered over his mouth and he breathed into her. She forgot all of her sadness- this new person had a kind of resonance --like memory but present and alive and now. if he were a color it would be the deepest most electric blue-- the kind of blue that is held in the body of oysters in the reflection of the ocean at sea. In his bedroom, he is even more beautiful. Look at me, he says demanding, look at me when I’m fucking you. She opens her eyes. He is looking down at her. Later, when asleep, she wakes and sees the snow on the branches of the tree outside his window. Is the snow outlining the tree or is the tree outlining the snow, she thinks. He clasps her hands to his chest in his sleep.
She thinks about him for days.
He never calls.
catalogue of ephemera
You give me flowers resembling Chinese lanterns. You give me hale, for yellow. You give me vex.
You give me lemons softened in brine and you give me cuttlefish ink. You give me all 463 stairs of Brunelleschi’s dome.
You give me seduction and you let me give it back to you. You give me you.
You give me an apartment full of morning smells—toasted bagel and black coffee and the freckled lilies in the vase on the windowsill. You give me 24-across.
You give me flowers resembling moths’ wings.
You give me the first bird of morning alighting on a wire. You give me the sidewalk café with plastic furniture and the boys with their feet on the chairs. You give me the swoop of homemade kites in the park on Sunday. You give me afternoon-colored beer with lemons in it.
You give me D.H. Lawrence, and he gives me pomegranates and sorb-apples.
You give me the loose tooth of California, the broken jaw of New York City. You give me the blue sky of Wyoming, and the blue wind through it.
You give me an ancient city where the language is a secret everyone is keeping.
You give me a t-shirt that says all you gave me was this t-shirt. You give me pictures with yourself cut out.
You give me lime blossoms, but not for what they symbolize.
You give me yes. You give me no.
You give me midnight apples in a car with the windows down. You give me the flashbulbs of an electrical storm. You give me thunder and the suddenly green underbellies of clouds.
You give me the careening of trains. You give me the scent of bruised mint.
You give me the smell of black hair, of blond hair.
You give me Apollo and Daphne, Pan and Syrinx. You give me Echo.
You give me hyacinths and narcissus. You give me foxgloves and soft fists of peony.
You give me the filthy carpet of an East Village apartment. You give me seeming not to notice.
You give me an unfinished argument, begun on the Manhattan-bound F train.
You give me paintings of women with their eyes closed. You give me grief, and how to grieve.
by Rebecca Lindenberg
The Meaning Of Birds
…And if occasionally a tern washes up greased and stiff, and sometimes a cardinal or a mockingbird slams against the windshield and your soul goes oh God and shivers at the quick and unexpected end to beauty, it is not news that we live in a world where beauty is unexplainable and suddenly ruined and has its own routines. We are often far from home in a dark town, and our griefs are difficult to translate into a language understood by others. We sense the down swing of time and learn, having come of age, that the reluctant concessions made in youth are not sufficient to heat the cold drawn breath of age. Perhaps temperance was not enough, foresight or even wisdom fallacious, not only in conception but in the thin acts themselves. So our lives are difficult, and perhaps unpardonable, and the fey gauds of youth have, as the old men told us they would, faded. But still, it is morning again, this day. In the flowering trees the birds take up their indifferent, elegant cries. Look around. Perhaps it isn’t too late to make a fool of yourself again. Perhaps it isn’t too late to flap your arms and cry out, to give one more cracked rendition of your singular, aspirant song.
– Charlie Smith
If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world, and we will give it walls, and we will furnish it with soft, red interiors, from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jeweller’s felt so that we should never hear it. Love me, because love doesn’t exist, and I have tried everything that does.
– Everything is Illuminated (Jonathan Safran Foer)
*
I was back at the place where hotel lobbies lined the inside of a building all velvet and green like an internal tuxedo. I was visiting my storm.
The room was very warm and I was drowsing, almost asleep. Listen, he said, listen. Do you hear that?
I woke up just enough to hear pipes, the sound of water traveling through walls. Yes, I said, not making sense of any sense. But he was holding me, his hands on my shoulders and I could feel that, so I looked out the window. It's the fountains, he said, they're about to shut off. Right now.
I woke up and saw the Williamsburg bridge in the distance. It looked like a lit up toy, a night light, a strange metal creature. The pipes went silent. The courtyard turned dark. His hands relaxed its hold on me. I fell back asleep, unaware, unthinking. I knew in a way that you know that you know that this was significant. I knew that falling asleep meant closing your eyes to the signs that the moment was both singing for you and disappearing.
Perfumes at Kristom’s.
Disclosure | Latch (Daniela Andrade cover)
goosebumps, chilling.
*
"It was a restless moment. He came closer."
- Lucia Bose
Every time I look at my bruised palm, I look at the design of the skin, its mulberry colored grafts, how even healing has a pattern– methodical, slow, multi-colored. The dark fades back into the color of invisibility– of nudeness and sun, the slow pulse of blood, pinpricks of feeling spreading across the plain.
Moisés Mahiques (b. 1976, Quatretonda, Valencia, Spain) - Churro, Mediamanga, Mangaentera, 2014 Gouache, Ink on Paper
The immersive cocoon fabric tunnels of artist/architect Sophia Chang.
via dezeen
Still Corners - The Trip Love this.
*
“There should be a word for experiencing the same people on multiple dating apps,” she said, “like– he just wrote to me on tinder, okc and happn and now I have to left swipe that bitch to anonymity.”
#thingswesay #stopstalking #dating
