Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

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@3targ1rl

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It turns out that you can become the person you’ve always envisioned but you’ll still have the person you were before inside of you and you have to treat them with as much forgiveness and love as possible
i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point
you get it. you get the themes. i dont have time to do it justice. just look at it its on the ceiling
Songs that remind me of you
Good friend/Caroline Carter
The frost/Mitski
Casual/Chappell Roan
Ole to conversation/del water gasp
White Ferrari/Frank Ocean
Pluto Projector/ Rex Orange county
Kissing your friends/Caroline Carter

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"Beautiful Losers", Leonard Cohen
early homo sapiens b like help i cant stop making bowls . help i cant stop domesticating plants and animals. help i cant stop developing language and architecture and religion
ok im obsessed w this tag
once in grade 6 I saw a 'pottery making club' in a ditch on the schoolyard- I assume at some point someone realized there was actually good quality clay in the ditch and when I walked up there were about a dozen 12 year olds sitting around the few girls who had brought their water bottles out to mix the clay, and a designated spot to put the finished bowls and tablets, and people going off and collecting sticks to make designs with and i really think that's the natural state of the human race
In elementary school I learned that you can make paint out of certain sedimentary rocks on the playground if you crushed them and mixed with water and at one point I had up to 25 kindergarten through third graders making cave paintings on the underside of the slides
I found one of those things you call a mermaid on the pier the other night. All tied up and thrashing its poor body around like a fish caught in a net.
That image repulsed me. You know I've never been one for fishing. Even catch and release puts me off. I don't like to watch the poor thing slowly suffocating as it waits to be thrown back in, its gills heaving and sputtering for water.
That creature tied up on the pier, the gash of gills on its neck was heaving and sputtering just in that way, dark ocean water flowing out with every failed breath, it really made me sick.
I pulled out my pocket dagger and its attention was on me. Its eyes bulged wide and I wondered if, like a fish, it couldn't blink. The sight of my dagger set it off into another thrashing fit and I tried to calm it down. Poor thing didn't seem to understand a word. It kept opening and closing its faded lips, but nothing came out. Must've spoke some kinda fish language.
I held it firmly in place and slowly brought the dagger to the knots binding its wrists. It calmed down after seeing that I wasn't here to cut its flesh. Or maybe it had just lost all energy from being out of the water too long. Either way, it stayed still as I cut the ropes around its legs.
When it was freed, it just lay there on the pier. So still it might've been dead, other than the weak flapping of the gill at its throat. I needed to get it into the water, and fast.
I lifted it up, one arm under its neck, the other under its knees. Its skin was slightly warm, unlike any fish I'd ever briefly held. But the same clamminess. Warmer than its skin was the water spurting from its gills.
I stepped closer to the edge of the pier and the thrashing returned. It must've known it was going back home, and was getting excited. I took a step back to gather momentum, and pushed forward with all my might, throwing the creature in kicking and flailing.
It hit the water with a splash, and stayed at the surface for a moment. Almost like it was treading water. Must've wanted to say thanks. After a few seconds it slowly sunk down. Back to its home.
I imagined the slit in its neck filling up with ocean water and I could finally breathe easy again. I couldn't get that sick taste out of my mouth for awhile, though. Same sick taste of my first fishing trip.
"Who cut its neck?" I remember asking my mama as the fish struggled in my hand, tail thrashing, scales cold. She told me those were its gills, that's how it breathed. Through the slits in its throat.
"So it's breathing through its neck?"
"No, sweetie. Not now."
I took one last look over the pier into the dark water below, getting darker. That fish is breathing now. It's gotta be.
love my bed so much .. she’s literally just shades of orange
don't ever look up what your childhood friends are up to now!!!!!!!!!! like girl you're a nuclear safety engineer. i put on matching socks today. we played tag a thousand years ago.

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Do you have any advice for young women?
In general? Sure. Read whatever you can get your hands on, but especially work written by women. Put your hands in sticky things at least once a week (clay, paint, dough, soil), don’t date anyone for a few years, travel when you can where you can, learn the skill of listening to your body— rest when you are tired, eat when you are hungry, drink when you are thirsty, and move when you are anxious. Swim as often as you can. Try to live alone at least once. If you can’t live alone, make time to be alone often. Carry pepperspray and do not learn to hold your tongue. Learn to sew, or weave, or knit. Unlearn the impulse to apologize for things that are not your fault. Pleasure yourself. Every once in a while, remind yourself of how loudly you can yell, how quickly you can run, and wildly you can dance. Allow yourself to cry for your mother. Spend as much time as you can in female-only spaces. Spend even more time with older women. Listen to their stories. Memorize their gray hair and lined faces, their swollen joints and sagging breasts. Cherish the gradual appearance of these things in yourself as an inheritance. Hold hands with other women. Spend some time naked in your home. Adopt a cat, or a fish, or grow some caterpillars into butterflies on your window. Eat heartily and drink to enjoy it. Go hiking and scream from a peak somewhere. Sometimes, allow yourself to act like a child again— climb a tree, scrape up your knees, and lick cake batter from the spoon. When you clean your home, open all the windows and beat the dust from all the curtains. Laugh loudly. Do not become self-deprecating to encourage others to laugh with you.
“Leisure, Hannah, Does Not Agree With You,” Hannah Gamble
I want to tell a story to the artists and would-be artists out there.
When I was 19, I made a large oil painting of the nerd I would eventually marry. I poured all my attention and care into this painting. It's the only art I have from back then that still holds up as a work I'm proud of today.
I entered it into a judged show at the local art center. It got an honorable mention. I went to see the show with my beloved model. One of the judges came up to talk to me, and highlighted that all the judges really liked the painting. It would have placed, except, you see, the feet were incorrect. They were too wide and short, and if I just studied a bit more anatomy-
I called over my future wife, and asked her to take off her shoe. Being already very used to humoring me, she did. The judge looked at her very short, very wide little foot. Exactly as I'd lovingly rendered it. I would never edit her appearance in any way.
The judge looked me in the eye, and to his credit, he really looked like he meant it when he said "Oh I'm so sorry."
Anyways the moral of the story is that all of those anatomy books that teach you proportions are either showing you averages, or a very specific idea of an idealized body. Actual bodies are much more varied than that.
So don't forget to draw from observation, and remember that humans aren't mass produced mannequins. Delight in our variation. Because it's supposed to be there.
ugh why must I be always so repulsed by my own vulnerability but I find it very moving and impressive if other people are vulnerable with me????
Brené Brown, Daring Greatly

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this is what i’m dealing with
on the road, jack kerouac