the hermit.

the cover and a selection of pages from the fabric book I just finished, This summer I spent a lot of time sleeping with my head in a pool of moonlight.

the pink triangles: the story of the gay holocaust

nawal el saadawi on feminism, fiction and the illusion of democracy

life beyond: alien life, deep time, and our place in cosmic history 

life beyond II: the museum of alien life

stephen axford: how fungi changed my view of the world

man spends 30 years turning degraded land into massive forest 

the prisoner of azkaban - why john williams’ score is the best in the series

video essay: the world of wong kar wai

vozes da floresta | ailton krenak

the beauty of wong kar-wai

a japanese ufo? - the utsuro-bune incident in 1803

the ghosts of hokusai

“confidence” is a cult

why are wong kar-wai films so dreamy?

the stages of whale decompostion

what happens when you put your head in a particle accelerator?

how brazil’s music hid protest inside harmony?

hayao miyazaki: a importância do vazio

how nope tricks your ears

serj tankian eats his last meal

birds do not sing in caves

understanding snufkin: a moomins essay

the appalachian rainforest

in search of the greenman

two alaska towns: one survived. one disappeared

when a director understands sound

the life of an old school japanese cafe owner

the cotswolds most haunted stately homes

when the audience is tricked by the director

"I used to feel extra special because of a pile of white rocks on the front porch of my childhood home. I remember thinking we had the best house in the block because of this pile of rocks, not because it was beautiful but because it was distinct and anything distinct felt extraordinary to me then. When I look at pictures, it’s clear to me now that it was just a garden bed without a garden. The rocks were a placeholder for two tired parents renting the house with no extra time or energy to get to a garden. From an adults perspective it’s actually quite ugly. I look back on the girl that thought something so ugly made her so special and I love her ardently. When strangers told her she had the best Halloween costume they’ve seen all night, she believed them. When her music teacher went out of her way to ask her why she hadn’t joined after school choir yet, she took that to mean she had the most beautiful voice in the world. When her grandparents got her cardboard cut out of Zac Efron for Christmas, she thought her entire family was full of comedic geniuses. When her first crush kept the sock doll, she made him at the bottom of his backpack until the last day of school, it was assumed to be cherished not forgotten. The pile of white rocks was special because they were hers. The compliments were special because they were assumed to be true. The gifts were special because they were given by people that were paying attention. The small embarrassment of infatuation didn’t register as embarrassments at all because she imagined reciprocation was inevitable. She found details that made her feel special effortlessly and she did this without trying every every single day. She had an ego and her attention was finally tuned to her own significance. Anything that violated the feeling that she was one of a kind garnered and intense reaction of indignation. Her family called her firestarter, not because she actually liked to start fires, but because she had a strong sense of justice towards herself. This wasn’t always helpful. In fact, it was often problematic. But I guess the question is, when did I go from special as an assumed state of being to special as an endowment that I should act coy about or special as a notification I need to keep refreshing the feed to find or special as a state of being that a man has any power to take away."