Edvard Munch, The Sun, 1911

Loosely implying a cat 5

The people I love best jump into work head first without dallying in the shadows and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight. They seem to become natives of that element, the black sleek heads of seals bouncing like half-submerged balls. I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart, who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience, who strain in the mud and muck to move things forward, who do what has to be done, again and again. I want to be with people who submerge in the task, who go into the fields to harvest and work in a row and pass the bags along, who are not parlor generals and field deserters but move in a common rhythm when the food must come in or the fire be put out. The work of the world is common as mud. Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust. But the thing worth doing well done has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident. Greek amphoras for wine or oil, Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums but you know they were made to be used. The pitcher cries for water to carry and a person for work that is real.

Look at him: this is absolutely the least amount of weasel you can have

To really put it in perspective

romants

please keep talking about how Becky from Maryland doesn't like the rising gas prices. It's clearly the more pressing issue.

Raise India (Project Tapan)

Daughter (2026), oil on linen by Filip Mirazovic

Tempera , 1979 ~ Andrew Wyeth.

No one cares but look at this thing I carved. The photo is so bad but I don’t know what to put in it.

By Andreas Weith