the everyday seems so much sweeter
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@esteland
the everyday seems so much sweeter
schuylerpeck / instagram: hiitssky

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“I crave space. It charges my batteries. It helps me breathe. Being around people can be so exhausting, because most of them love to take and barely know how to give. Except for a rare few.”
— Katie Kacvinsky
“It is all right to be mediocre at an unimportant job: you can excuse yourself by saying you were cut out for nobler things.”
— Baltasar Gracián, The Art of Worldly Wisdom
jenny holzer, 1983
Happy D

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(via the author, at the Ex Bird place)
“African spirituality is a lifestyle….Humanity living in awareness, consciousness, constantly being aware that they are not alone as human beings.”
— Joshua Maponga
Source: theealphahouse via YouTube
To be truly revolutionary, Christianity would have to dissolve itself. It would have to dissolve its male-dominated and celibate hierarchies, and the social class systems from which it derives its worldly power. It would have to renounce and dissolve totally the world-hatred, the flesh-hatred, the ontological misogyny which has so long provided it with fanatic energy. It would have to renounce most of the Old Testament, most of the New Testament, and all of Revelation, which dooms us to a grotesque apocalypse. It would have to throw out Genesis to return us radically to an image of God based on the pre-Biblical universal perception of a Great Mother—a bisexual being, both female and male in spirit and function— who wants us to enjoy ecstasy and to eat of the fruit of immortality. It must totally renounce and dissolve spiritual chauvinism, spiritual hypocrisy, spiritual paranoia, and spiritual tyranny, and all world systems built in the secular image of these spiritual distortions. It would have to wholly renounce and dissolve all perceptions, systems, and functions deriving from the false historical idea that some people have a "divine mandate" to co-opt, convert, genocidally destroy, or otherwise imperialize others. It would have to crucify itself, in its own terms, as expiation for all this guilt. But, as we said, if the Christian church ever changed itself this radically, it would become pagan.
— The Great Cosmic Mother, by Monica Sjöö & Barbara Mor
Langston Hughes, Kids Who Die (1938)
This is for the kids who die,
Black and white,
For kids will die certainly.
The old and rich will live on awhile,
As always,
Eating blood and gold,
Letting kids die.
Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi
Organizing sharecroppers.
Kids will die in the streets of Chicago
Organizing workers.
Kids will die in the orange groves of California
Telling others to get together.
Whites and Filipinos,
Negroes and Mexicans,
All kinds of kids will die
Who don't believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment
And a lousy peace.
Of course, the wise and the learned
Who pen editorials in the papers,
And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their names.
White and black,
Who make surveys and write books.
Will live on weaving words to smother the kids who die,
And the sleazy courts,
And the bribe-reaching police,
And the blood-loving generals,
And the money-loving preachers
Will all raise their hands against the kids who die,
Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bullets
To frighten the people—
For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people—
And the old and rich don't want the people
To taste the iron of the kids who die,
Don't want the people to get wise to their own power,
To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get together.
Listen, kids who die—
Maybe, now, there will be no monument for you
Except in our hearts
Maybe your bodies'll be lost in a swamp.
Or a prison grave, or the potter's field,
Or the rivers where you're drowned like Leibknecht.
But the day will come—
You are sure yourselves that it is coming—
When the marching feet of the masses
Will raise for you a living monument of love,
And joy, and laughter,
And black hands and white hands clasped as one,
And a song that reaches the sky—
The song of the life triumphant
Through the kids who die.

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Jean Howarth in The Province, Vancouver BC, April 28, 1947
Anthony Thomas Lombardi, from "self-portrait as murmuration"
Jeanette Winterson, Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery; “Art Objects”

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My throat is sore. It has mountains lost in it.
Hasti, from "All of the Light That Reaches Earth" (After Rachel Jones & Radiolab), pub. The White Review
Mary Oliver, from "Of Love", Red Bird
[ Text ID: Love, love, love, it was the core of my life, ]