writer, poet, exploring my aesthetic

curating art, philosophy, language, poetry, and anything I come across that draws me in. read my poetry on Poetizer @ jnk or on my blog @ jnseemore.wordpress.com

[simena]

Henri Lehmann - Ophelia (detail)

[euridicae-deactivated20210823]

[breathtakingdestinations]

Sheepbanks Bridge - Ireland (by Rob Hurson) 

[paintingses]

Bouguereau + Fruits, flowers, foliage, etc…

[fuckyeahchinesegarden]

summer in chinese parks

[yourbittercoffeeandsneezeweed]

from Watched Walker on Youtube, click for link

[yourbittercoffeeandsneezeweed]

how my grandpa survived a tornado

I am writing my grandpa's biography. What follows is a portion on the time my grandpa survived a tornado in 2013.

_____

When I finally got to my grandparent’s house and saw his street littered with everything that used to be inside his neighbor’s house, it took a moment to find him. I got busy with the task of cleaning up anything I could to keep myself from feeling the weight of the damage. I stood in his kitchen, dustier than I had ever seen it before, and looked out the window. The windows at the front of the house were still windows, miraculously. In the back of the house, they were glass on the floor. That’s when I saw grandpa for the first time since I got the news that his home was hit. It was the day after the storm. He was standing in the street with his neighbor, listening to her as she cried and comforting her through her tears, nodding patiently. I couldn’t keep myself together after that. Behind them, piles of lumber that used to be the roof of the house stuck out in every direction.

When he talks about the tornado, he’ll say, “Oh, it was louder than anything. I got grandma in the hallway with the mattress around us. Grandma sang the hymns and I prayed. It was terrible, terrible.” And then he’ll be silent for a few minutes.

Living in Moore, it wasn’t a surprise to any of us that the tornado happened. It wasn’t as if we hadn’t seen plenty before. It’s difficult to ask the question, “why did this happen?” because from a very young age, we learned what a tornado was. It was the warm air and the cold air getting mixed up in the sky, passing each other on the plain. We watched the clouds form tornadoes many times like it was entertainment, to take a break from the meteorologists talking frantically and rapidly. The solemn, metaphysical questions that come to mind when you see the homes of families you love collapsed into heaps never escape from the mouths of people from Moore. We get a close enough look at the clouds to know how deeply impersonal they are.

[yourbittercoffeeandsneezeweed]

from a wonderful day with excellent company

[yourbittercoffeeandsneezeweed]

utah valley in June

[yourbittercoffeeandsneezeweed]

from my first apartment with my husband

[huariqueje]

Later that Night  -   Mattias Härenstam, 2014.

Swedish, b. 1971-

Woodcut ,   41.7 × 28 in   106 × 71 cm

[deathandmysticism]

Life and death, 1873

[yourbittercoffeeandsneezeweed]

my grandfather grew these peonies

[ripe]

motherthemountain on ig

[trixclibrarian]

I would like to know a friendly goat with a handsome collar 🤍🖤🤎💚

[catherinedefrance]

@catherinedefrance

[threeriversforge]

The end result of a thousand years of learning and always trying to better your people.  This is European Culture at it’s zenith, I say.  Some will argue against that, but I’ll hold firm.

Today, the stonemason’s capable of this level of work are few in number, but even fewer are the customers who will support this level of work.  We have turned our backs to greatness because it’s cheaper to produce mediocrity.

Watch as people step into one of the Cathedrals of Europe and you’ll see their eyes light up.  They’ll stop in their tracks and simply stare ahead, trying desperately to take in all the majesty and detail.

Watch those same people as they step into any of a thousand stores or malls in the world, and you see nothing of the sort.  No awe.  No amazement.  No sense of deep solemnity or appreciation for the age of the building.

One is a temple to the ability of man.  The other is, well, disposable, and the subconscious recognizes that.

[agelessphotography]

Mable House, Newport, RI, Len Jenshel, 1981