Thursday, May 26th, 2022

tumblr approved

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Tuesday, May 17th, 2022


big believer in spinning yarns. i think it’s good and correct to tell a tall tale at a campfire. to get creative with your nonfiction at a party. to reel in that big fish with your friend late at night in the kitchen. our self-mythologies can be as real as we want them to be and i don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing.

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Friday, May 13th, 2022


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Thursday, May 12th, 2022

boygrrl – tears for fears – shout

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Tuesday, May 10th, 2022

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Monday, May 9th, 2022

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Wednesday, May 4th, 2022

gary numan / are friends electric?

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Wednesday, April 13th, 2022

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Sunday, April 10th, 2022

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Monday, April 4th, 2022


Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things

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Monday, March 14th, 2022


Drive My Car (Ryûsuke Hamaguchi, 2021)

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Saturday, March 5th, 2022


Mono Kubo

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Thursday, March 3rd, 2022


[image description: Meme re-draw of what I think was originally a Succession screencap. Thierry Zoreaux Is curled up on the ground, head hung between his knees looking dejected. Isaac McAdoo stands behind him, leaning on his shoulders looking something between angry and supportive. Jan Maas stands above him, head out of frame, with one hand on Zoreaux’s head and the other scrolling on his phone.]

back to meme re-draws, lads

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Wednesday, March 2nd, 2022


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Sunday, February 27th, 2022


Gentle Mother, font of mercy,
Save our sons from war, we pray.
Stay the swords and stay the arrows,
Let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women,
Help our daughters through this fray.
Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,
Teach us all a kinder way.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy,
Save our sons from war, we pray.
Stay the swords and stay the arrows,
Let them know a better day.

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lies:We hold these things to be true Like a flock of sparrows…

Friday, February 11th, 2022


We hold these things to be true
Like a flock of sparrows flying over you

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Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?

Friday, February 4th, 2022


by Mary Oliver

Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches of other lives–
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, feel like?

Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?

Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over the dark acorn of your heart!

No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!

Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?

Well, there is time left–
fields everywhere invite you into them.

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?

Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!

To put one’s foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!

To set one’s foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!

To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird’s pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened

in the night

To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?

While the soul, after all, is only a window,

and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.

Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not,
but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe

I even heard a curl or two of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.

For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!

A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what’s coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.

Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?

And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down
to think about it.

That was then, which hasn’t ended yet.

Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean’s edge.

I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.

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gang of youths – the angel of 8th ave.

Thursday, February 3rd, 2022

gang of youths – the angel of 8th ave.

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Wednesday, February 2nd, 2022


“As far as words go, ‘crying’ is louder and ‘weeping’ is wetter. When people explain the difference between the two to English-language learners they say that weeping is more formal, can sound archaic in everyday speech. You can hear this in their past tenses—the plainness of ‘cried’, the velvet cloak of ‘wept’. I remember arguing once with a teacher who insisted ‘dreamt’ was incorrect, dreamed the only proper option. She was wrong, of course, in both philological and moral ways, and ever since I’ve felt a peculiar attachment to the t’s of the past: weep, wept, sleep, slept, leave, left. There’s a finality there, a quiet completion, of which ’d’ has never dreamt.”

— Heather Christle, from The Crying Book

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Tuesday, February 1st, 2022


Andrew Garfield on losing his mother, The Believer

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