Mohja Kahf, from E-mails from Scheherazad

Kiana Khansmith
Cosmic Funnies
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

Origami Around
YOU ARE THE REASON
RMH
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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EXPECTATIONS

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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

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@brightdeadthing
Mohja Kahf, from E-mails from Scheherazad

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Brendan Constantine
really one of my favorite types of characters in the world it seems is. well i dont know how else to describe it but "losing the idgaf war" but theres at least 2 genres of this that ive noticed I Gotta Make an Image hold on
its like this. even better when a character has the range to be both
aroace murderbot! will have these as stickers in the near future
in my roughs post someone pointed out people might wanna use as icons, so I made some of the other versions nicer too:

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Czeslaw Milosz
“I want you to do this with me for one month. One month. Write 10 observations a week and by the end of four weeks, you will have an answer. Because when someone writes about the rustic gutter and the water pouring through it onto the muddy grass, the real pours into the room. And it’s thrilling. We’re all enlivened by it. We don’t have to find more than the rustic gutter and the muddy grass and the pouring cold water.”
— Marie Howe, Boston University’s 2016 Theopoetics Conference (via mothersofmyheart)
Marie Howe:
I ask my students every week to write 10 observations of the actual world. It’s very hard for them.
Ms. Tippett:
Really?
Ms. Howe:
They really find it hard.
Ms. Tippett:
What do you mean? What is the assignment? 10 observations of their actual world?
Ms. Howe:
Just tell me what you saw this morning like in two lines. I saw a water glass on a brown tablecloth, and the light came through it in three places. No metaphor. And to resist metaphor is very difficult because you have to actually endure the thing itself, which hurts us for some reason.
Ms. Tippett:
It does.
Ms. Howe:
It hurts us.
Ms. Tippett:
You naming something.
Ms. Howe:
We want to say, “It was like this; it was like that.” We want to look away. And to be with a glass of water or to be with anything — and then they say, “Well, there’s nothing important enough.” And that’s whole thing. It’s the point.
Ms. Howe:
It’s the this, right?
Ms. Howe:
Right, the this, whatever. And then they say, “Oh, I saw a lot of people who really want” — and, “No, no, no. No abstractions, no interpretations.” But then this amazing thing happens, Krista. The fourth week or so, they come in and clinkety, clank, clank, clank, onto the table pours all this stuff. And it so thrilling. I mean, it is thrilling. Everybody can feel it. Everyone is just like, “Wow.” The slice of apple, and then that gleam of the knife, and the sound of the trashcan closing, and the maple tree outside, and the blue jay. I mean, it almost comes clanking into the room. And it’s just amazing.
Ms. Tippett:
In some basic level, what they’ve done is just engage with their senses.
Ms. Howe:
Yeah, and have been present out of their minds and just noticing what’s around them, which is — we don’t do. And again, not to compare it to anything. They’re not allowed. And that’s very hard for them. And then on the fifth or sixth week, I say, “OK, use metaphors.” And they don’t want to. They don’t know how. They’re like, “Why would I? Why would I compare that to anything when it’s itself?” Exactly. Good question.
So then you think, why the necessity of a metaphor? Why do you have to use a metaphor now? Not just to do it to avoid it, but to do it to make it more there. And it’s very interesting.
The words and silences we live by. The rituals that sustain us. The poetry of ordinary time.
Unreliable narrators are one hell of an idea. You can just write whatever, and if a reader points out "hey the way this scene happened should not be physically possible if it's done the way this character described it", you can just be like "yeah I don't trust that fucker either."
'this poem,' introduction to 'taken somehow by surprise,' david clewell, pub. 2011.
the genre of like. horrifying christmas literature is so crazy. sir gawain and the green knight where an undying being demands a match in his game where the object of the game is beheading. a christmas carol where ghosts of the past and death in the future haunt a man until he turns his life on its head because what he saw was too horrible. arguably hamlet too if you interpret that line at the beginning in a certain way. idk it’s the idea of there’s something special about this time, there is something is inexplicable, something wonderful and something frightening is happening but do not be afraid

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i had a dream that time travel was invented and too many people choose to travel back in time to save the titanic from sinking (the question of whether unsinking of the titanic deserved so much attention in the face of human history was the subject of both heavy academic and online discourse), which caused a rift in the space-time-continuum that led to the titanic showing up indiscriminately all over the world’s oceans and sea in various states of sinking.
this caused a lot of issues both in terms of fixing said space-time-continuum and in terms of nautical navigation, and after a long and heavy battle in the international maritime organization it was decided that the bureaucratic burden of dealing with this was to be upon Ireland, much to their dismay. the Irish Government then released an app for all sailors and seafarers so they could report titanic sightings during their journeys, even though they heavily dissuaded you from reporting them given the paperwork it caused.
anyway i woke up with a clear image of the app in my head and needed to recreate it for all of you:
no you don't understand. i do international regulation of emerging technologies for a living. this WAS me stress dreaming about work
adam parrish never had a bad track. i will be your hands, i will be your eyes. lonesome. thanks for the straight teeth. a place made for leaving. i am unknowable. to feel awake when my eyes are open. with a dreamer. i was here, i exist, i'm alive because i bleed. there were two gods in this church. i am such a damaged thing. i'm awake. these eyes and hands are mine.
Eliza Griswold, Wideawake Field
the urge to write is like a cat meowing for dear life for someone to open the goddamn door, who then shows utter disinterest in said open door

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Buttercream Joy Sullivan