David Hockney, Garrowby Hill, 1998

roma★
wallacepolsom
One Nice Bug Per Day

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

blake kathryn
Claire Keane
ojovivo

🪼

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Andulka

shark vs the universe
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
styofa doing anything
Show & Tell
will byers stan first human second
Stranger Things
dirt enthusiast
todays bird
YOU ARE THE REASON
seen from Tunisia
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seen from Argentina

seen from Türkiye

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@aethelyn
David Hockney, Garrowby Hill, 1998

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there is something to be said for going to zoos and aquariums on weekdays to avoid school-aged crowds but going to the aviary on a weekend is fun because going into big greenhouses and watching toddlers who just learned to walk encounter loose tropical animals taller than they are is part of the overall experience for me.
to me a three year old is just as much an entertaining and strange beast as an egret. and here they can interact directly. incredible.
listening to a macaw say “peekaboo” at a preschooler who takes it at face value that some birds must be completely fluent in English and no one has bothered to mention this before. unmatched
So my neighbor's three-year-old saw Charlie for the first time last week.
I don't see my neighbors often because they are Morning People (TM) and both our households are acting like the pandemic is still on (it is), but yesterday I happened to be taking Charlie out for a walk when they were coming home from something, and the kid "Checkers" was dumbstruck.
Charlie isn't a Big-big dog, but he is 60lbs and mostly leggy sighthound, so he is significantly taller than the average toddler. Since Checkers' extended family is largely allergic to mammals, they do not see dogs at other people's houses nor at daycare, so this was the fist time they've seen an animal larger than they are up close.
It is a beautiful thing to see a young human experience a sudden and profound shift in their worldview, and you get to witness parts of their brain being rewired in real time across their face. Confusion, then wonder as a fascinating new category of life opened before them. It is doubly wonderful that small children are rarely frightened of things unless they are taught to be, so, cautiously, Checkers approached Charlie, looking between us and making interrogative noises at me, as I was clearly his parent, and therefore responsible for introductions.
"This is Charlie!" I say. "He might or might not say hi back."
Checkers considered the evidence before them: Charlie has a name shared with their playmates, their older sibling is largely nonverbal, and Charlie wears a chest harness with leash, again like some of their playmates, and came to the extremely reasonable conclusion that Charlie is a fellow Human Child, and introduced themselves appropriately:
"Hullo." Said Checkers, stepping up to Charlie. "This is Bionicles." they continued, holding up their plush giraffe toy, the appropriate way to introduce yourself and your friends/interests to a new peer at age 3.
Charlie has a vast preference of humans to other dogs, and of adults to children within humans, often ignoring or evading small children the way he does with dogs that annoy him. It makes sense- small children are not usually the ones with treats, and typically inept petters at best. But something about Bionicles the Giraffe intrigued him and he politely sniffed and listened to Checkers talk about (I'm not sure because I have Audio Processing Problems and Checkers doesn't enunciate much) for a for about a minute, and I got to witness Checkers' parents undergo a similar world-shift as they realized Checkers was addressing Charlie as a fellow human, and how that was entirely rational of them.
The confusion on the adult humans was so interesting that I failed to notice Charlie very delicately taking Bionicles The Giraffe from Checkers until he had taken two steps to give himself room, and then started to Death-Shake the toy, because Charlie ALSO loves plushies, just in a very destructive sense.
I am horrified. The parents are Horrified. Checkers is DELIGHTED, laughing as Charlie very expertly separated Bionicles' head from the rest of the toy, and sat down in the grass to pull the fluff out.
I retrieved both pieces of the toy from Charlie, apologized profusely, took him home, and then came back to sew Bionicles' head back on.
Yesterday I saw Checkers on all fours out in the front yard, trying to re-decapitate Bionicles with their teeth while their father looked on, resigned. We have arranged a future playdate between Charlie and Checkers, with a handful of dollar-store stuffed toys for them to destroy together.
I think it is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Nova's tips for beating the heatwave:
1. Check that you have good access to shade trees, a shelter custom made to fit you and all your friends, and plenty of good airflow
2. Find the hottest, sunniest, and least windy part of you pasture and lay down
3. Make sure you look as much as possible like you have died of heatstroke
4. Get your friends in on it

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a squirrel or perhaps a cardinal posted this
How about you mind your own damn business
there really is nothing better than getting asked an innocuous question and being like
I once inadvisably shared an interesting article about a romance novel lawsuit with a co-worker. About an hour later she appeared at my cubicle and said, "You can explain to me what they mean when they say 'omegaverse', right?" and I was forced to respond, "I can, but not during office hours, I'm not getting fired for being sexually inappropriate in the workplace."
I will say, when I started to explain it, her eyes got really wide and she said, "So that's at least six genders, right?" with the kind of mental acuity I'd never even thought to bring to bear on the subject.
big news for people who are me
Archaeologists uncovered a 1,000-year-old Viking textile production center near Aarhus, revealing large-scale cloth making and trade.
The site sits near Søften in eastern Jutland, about 10 kilometers north of modern Aarhus. Excavations by the Moesgaard Museum show a planned production area instead of a normal farming village. The settlement covered at least 100,000 square meters. Most of the work focused on making textiles, though other forms of handwork also took place there.
Researchers found an area where flax was prepared before workers turned the plant into linen. They also uncovered 82 pit houses, small sunken buildings linked with Viking workshops. Many held spindle whorls and loom weights, showing cloth production took place on a large scale.
Looking back on 2020, I think it's hilarious that Wellerman of all shanties is the one that blew up online. It's not a song about life on the high seas or adventuring
It's the "Where the fuck is my delivery" song
It's spring now which means the kids in my city have started drawing hopscotches on the sidewalk and as a rule I do every hopscotch I see because 1. Use it or lose it (ability to scotch) and 2. If a child got down on the hardscrabble streets of Boston Massachusetts to draw a scotch the least I can do is use it, but in doing the hopscotches, I've learned that about 50% of them are the typical 8-10 step scotch and the other 50% are. Somewhat avant-garde. And of course I'm not vetting the entire scotch before I start it so sometimes it's like haha 8 steps woo! Childlike whimsy! And sometimes they're 20 steps or 30 or they've got a section with three squares instead of two where you have to do a little Charleston to step on all three, or, memorably, FORTY one foot squares. A full BLOCK of jumping on one foot but I'm no quitter so once I've started Jigsaw Junior's fuckin hopscotch gauntlet I'm there til the end just a daily pot smoker in her thirties jumping kasa-obake style through an affluent suburb while some little proto-kennedy watches from his bedroom window rubbing his sadistic little third grade hands together and cackling. It's amazing. I love spring.

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North by Seamus Heaney
NORTH
I returned to a long strand, the hammered shod of a bay, and found only the secular powers of the Atlantic thundering.
I faced the unmagical invitations of Iceland, the pathetic colonies of Greenland, and suddenly
those fabulous raiders, those lying in Orkney and Dublin measured against their long swords rusting,
those in the solid belly of stone ships, those hacked and glinting in the gravel of thawed streams
were ocean-deafened voices warning me, lifted again in violence and epiphany. The longship's swimming tongue
was buoyant with hindsight— it said Thor's hammer swung to geography and trade, thick-witted couplings and revenges,
the hatreds and behindbacks of the althing, lies and women, exhaustions nominated peace, memory incubating the spilled blood.
It said, 'Lie down in the word-hoard, burrow the coil and gleam of your furrowed brain.
Compose in darkness. Expect aurora borealis in the long foray but no cascade of light.
Keep your eye clear as the bleb of the icicle, trust the feel of what nubbed treasure your hands have known.'
***
THE GRAUBALLE MAN
As if he had been poured in tar, he lies on a pillow of turf and seems to weep
the black river of himself. The grain of his wrists is like bog oak, the ball of his heel
like a basalt egg. His instep has shrunk cold as a swan's foot or a wet swamp root.
His hips are the ridge and purse of a mussel, his spine an eel arrested under a glisten of mud.
The head lifts, the chin is a visor aised above the vent of his slashed throat
that has tanned and toughened. The cured wound opens inwards to a dark elderberry place.
Who will say corpse? to his vivid cast? Who will say "body' to his opaque repose?
And his rusted hair, a mat unlikely as a foetus's. I first saw his twisted face
in a photograph, a head and shoulder }out of the peat, bruised like a forceps baby,
but now he lies perfected in my memory, down to the red horn of his nails,
hung in the scales with beauty and atrocity: with the Dying Gaul too strictly compassed
on his shield, with the actual weight of each hooded victim, slashed and dumped.
***
SINGING SCHOOL
6. EXPOSURE
It is December in Wicklow: Alders dripping, birches Inheriting the last light, The ash tree cold to look at.
A comet that was lost Should be visible at sunset, Those million tons of light Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,
And I sometimes see a falling star. If I could come on meteorite! Instead I walk through damp leaves, Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,
Imagining a hero On some muddy compound, His gift like a slingstone Whirled for the desperate.
How did I end up like this? I often think of my friends Beautiful prismatic counselling And the anvil brains of some who hate me
As I sit weighing and weighing My responsible tristia. For what? For the ear? For the people? For what is said behind-backs?
Rain comes down through the alders, Its low conducive voices Mutter about let-downs and erosions And yet each drop recalls
The diamond absolutes. I am neither internee nor informer; An inner émigré, grown long-haired And thoughtful; a wood-kerne
Escaped from the massacre, Taking protective colouring From bole and bark, feeling Every wind that blows;
Who, blowing up these sparks For their meagre heat, have missed The once-in-a-lifetime portent, The comet's pulsing rose.
When #myshane retires, he doesn’t go into coaching or podcasting or whatever.
He becomes a consultant who shitty teams trying to not suck, good teams who want to last further into the playoffs, great teams who want to finally win the cup, call to Fix Them.
He is paid absolutely bonkers amounts of money to watch a team play for five minutes and immediately diagnose what’s wrong with them. He is always right.
Ok 5 minutes is probably an exaggeration. The coaches send him a bunch of tape to review in advance. They probably focus on their best players or the ones they think need the most improvement, but half the time Shane requests more, focusing on players they hadn’t paid much attention to before. Then one day at practice, the players look up into the stands and are filled with awe, terror, and wonder, because Shane Hollander is sitting there staring directly at them with a scarily thoughtful look on his face.
He meets with the coaches and gm and reports his conclusions. Who to trade and for who , how to get better results from certain players, how to run power plays and penalty kills, changes in line makeups.
Some lucky players get to meet with him. He takes about five minutes to list off or demonstrate everything they need to do to stop sucking. He has no time for chit chat or hero worship. Focus, listen, learn, and do exactly what he says and you will be good. Fail to do what he says and you will shame your entire bloodline.
I think that, if he’s not the one actually playing, this would be a dream job. It involves Knowing Things About Hockey, Judging Shitty Hockey Players, Getting Recognized As The Best at Hockey, Being Correct, and Making Hockey Better. He should get to do all these things
A cat is a machine that turns proteins into violence.
#Helios was declawed by his former owners so he doesn't just slap things he dislikes like most cats#he really only feels confident in hissing at them#Especially because a lot of the thing he doesn't like are bugs and those are sharp sometimes :(#Selene has figured this out and now when she hears him hiss she sprints over the kill the fuck out of the bug#Helios has learned she will do this so he'll hiss at stuff louder and louder until she hears him#A nervous old man and his emotional support homicidal maniac tags by @gallusrostromegalus
I couldn't reblog without the tags because the context is hilarious
A Nervous Old Man (right) and his Emotional Support Violence Machine (Left)
Yes, he is more than twice her size. Yes, he is five times her age. Yes, he cries like a big baby until she kills Unacceptable Scary Things (earwigs) for him.
I couldn't get these two and their dynamic out of my head, @gallusrostromegalus I doodled them (guessed on their collars)
OH MY GOD MY CATS HAVE FANART
I spent almost an entire work shift drawing this tooth-rotting fluff
featuring the Eridian Welcoming Committee courtesy of @justcakethanks

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“It's not fair.” The little ghost kicks impotently at the chalk lines around her feet. “I ain't done nothing.”
I nod, setting down my chalk and spellbook. “It does sound like there might have been a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“She took against me, that's what happened,” the dead girl says with a scowl. She looks about fourteen, round faced and spotty, with whisps of brown hair peaking out from under her mob-cap. Her face and her crossed arms have a tell-tale bluish tinge to them. A cholera death.
“I been here for don't know how long and never gave any trouble. Nobody ever complained about me 'till her.”
…well, that's not strictly true.
Number 12, Barclay Street has been attracting rumours of haunting since the mid nineteenth century.
Sounds of faint singing and crying in the corridors at night. Cold spots. Doors that open and close by themselves. Animals acting strangely. Harmless, mid to low-level stuff, typical for a bored teenage poltergeist.
Still, pointing that out isn't likely to achieve much, and certainly the most recent complaints of blood running down the walls, screams in the dark and paralysing night terrors seem distinctly out of character.
The ghost toes the chalk again, more tentatively this time. It stays resolutely unbroken.
She could get out if she wanted to. I'm not one of those assholes who brings out their full arsenal of wards and sigils for a first meeting with a level 2 spectre. The summoning circle will keep her in one place for as long as I need her to talk, but it wouldn't hold for a moment if she really fought against it.
I take it as a good sign that she's still here. Pouting or not, she's clearly willing to work with me.
“None of the others could do this,” she says. “None of 'em even saw me.” She looks up. “Are you here to exise me?”
“Exorcise,” I say instinctively, and curse myself when she flinches. “Sorry, no, no! I don't exorcise people from their homes without good reason, not if they're happy where they are.”
“I was happy. Till she started calling in all them ghost hunters.”
Mrs Delaney had been quite persistent in her attempts to 'fix' her haunted house. Most of the people she found were charlatans, of course, but I'd still arranged an appointment as fast as I could once word reached me. It wouldn't have been long before she happened upon somebody with Talent, and unfortunately not everybody in this field knows how to behave like a professional.
“I think we might be able to help each other,” I say, careful to keep my voice calm and level.
“Don't see how. Not unless you can exorcise Her.”
“Not quite what I had in mind.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos. “You say that you're not the cause of the most recent incidents of paranormal activity?”
A pause. The ghost gnaws on her lip. I wait, patiently, keeping my body language open and nonthreatening. “I… I knocked her coffee cup over,” she admits at last. “She was being mean and talking on her telephone, saying I done all these things when I never did! So I decided to show her what I could do if I wanted.”
“Hmm.” The ghost eyes me nervously, as if expecting me to pull out a book, bell and candle and banish her on the spot.
“I only tipped it,” she adds. “I didn't break it or nothing!”
“You shouldn't have touched it at all,” I say sternly. “But… I can appreciate that you were frustrated, so let's say no more about it.”
The ghost looks relieved.
“My point is,” I continue, “if you weren't the one making blood rain from the ceiling or tormenting people in their sleep, then what was? There's no other ghosts on the property.” I find the picture I was looking for. “You can get anywhere around the house, right? Including behind the furniture and in the backs of cupboards?”
“Yes'm.”
I hold the phone up so that she can see the picture on the screen. “I'm going to let you go free in a moment, and I need you to see if you can find anything that looks like this.”
The ghost wrinkles her forehead. “What's that when it's at home?”
“Black mould,” I say, reaching out a foot to break the binding circle. “And I'm pretty sure it's the cause of this haunting.”
Baby sphinx trying to be like mama and waylaying travelers, but all its riddles are completely non-sensical like the ones a 1st grader would tell