FLEABAG: S02E01 SAM SAX: HYDROPHOBIA
Cosimo Galluzzi
Acquired Stardust

Love Begins
KIROKAZE

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Andulka

#extradirty
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
dirt enthusiast

Product Placement
Game of Thrones Daily

titsay
hello vonnie

Kaledo Art
Xuebing Du

tannertan36
Sweet Seals For You, Always

pixel skylines
styofa doing anything
Jules of Nature

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@pyroclasticglow
FLEABAG: S02E01 SAM SAX: HYDROPHOBIA

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joseba eskubi paintings that make me feel crazy!!
Bits of botanical horror
During the new moon, the well gives us blood. It’s the only thing the roots in Grandmother’s garden will eat anymore. It clots in the irrigators, even at full spray. I used to only have to clean them every week or two, now I do it daily.
- Grandmother’s Garden, Kitty Horrorshow
But as the arms tightened, there was the sound of sharp splintering and the birch into which the axe had bitten toppled. It struck the ground directly behind the wrestling men. Its branches seemed to reach out and clutch at the feet of Polleau’s son. (…) –and over its tumult he heard the roar of the great forest:
“Kill! Kill!”
- The Women of The Wood, Abraham Merritt
He was lying, face upward, at the foot of the strange orchid. The tentacle-like aerial rootlets no longer swayed freely in the air, but were crowded together, a tangle of grey ropes, and stretched tight, with their ends closely applied to his chin and neck and hands. She did not understand. Then, she saw from one of the exultant tentacles upon his cheek there trickled a little thread of blood.
- The Flowering of the Strange Orchid, H.G. Wells
The wolf told the woodcutter how the Wood hated him, for slashing and mangling its branches, day after day, year after year, cutting, chopping, and hacking at the flesh of the trees with his axe. And so as punishment, the Wood had taken his daughter.
- Unwell, a Midwestern Gothic Mystery, Jim McDoniel, Jessica Best, Jessica Wright Buha & Bilal Dardai
So, with grim determination and with the skill that years of experiment have given me, I grafted a stem of this carnivorous plant to my upper left arm. (…)The original flower resembled a lily somewhat, so I was not surprised at the new lily that finally materialized. But I did wince when I discovered that the opening of the lily was a perfect replica of a boneless human mouth.
- The Moaning Lily, Emma Vane
She was out in the garden when I found her. Out in the rose garden, in her long nightgown. Lying on her stomach. I thought she was dead. She looked dead. Her lips were blue. I touched her hand, it was cold. There were rose-vines growing over her ankles. In loops, thick, covered in thorns. Her ankles were bleeding down onto the ground.
- Mabel, Becca De La Rosa & Mabel Martin
Apollo e Dafne (Detail), 2020 - Roberto Ferri
based on a true mastepriece Ellen Terry (”Choosing”) (1864) by George Frederic Watts.
I was just passing by…

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Was gonna make a post about how we should invent turning people into places but realized that's just a grave
I think ghosts are memory—memory haunts bodies, haunts places, haunts the narratives that hold our minor and miraculous lives together. Ghosts are that which return and return and return. The body has its own hauntings, too: phantom limb sensation, organ transfer memory, the traumatic self. And others.
Shastra Deo, interviewed by Sumudu Samarawickrama in Liminal Mag (via bluebeardsbride)
ice shifts by nicole dextras
“iceshifts is a series of photographs consisting of garments and botanicals frozen into large blocks of ice. heads, hands and reproductive organs are substituted with plant materials and each title relates to a women’s name derived from a plant. though it may have been a victorian conceit to name girls after pretty flowers, here the plants signify a more rooted relationship to the biological environment. this work is also inspired by a scene in july taymor’s film adaptation of titus where she portrays lavinia as a hybrid woman-tree figure. like lavinia and her greek counterparts daphne and the dryads, the iceshifts series depict a modern interpretation of a spring nymph emerging from her ice chamber.”
Frank Craig (1874–1918)
A Comforting Gaze. Illustration for unknown story, possibly Harper’s Bazaar.
The dead get blood; as I said earlier, they are assumed to be hungry and thirsty. In return, the poet gets clairvoyance, and the completion of her identity as a poet. Its an old arrangement.
Margaret Atwood, from Negotiating with the Dead. (via xshayarsha)

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thinking about florence singing “this is a gift / it comes with a price / who is the lamb and who is the knife?” in rabbit heart and when silas says “be the lamb or be the knife. try to be both and you end up slaughtering yourself” to reverend samuels in kings and josé saramago writing cain saying “it’s the same old story, it starts with a lamb and ends with the murder of the person you should love most” to abraham.
Sherman Alexie, from “Sonnet, with Pride”
Paintings by Nicola Samorì (2012-2013)
“Are not excess and madness my truth, my strength? And if this truth, this strength ultimately prevailed? But on the other hand, I tell myself: the signs of this passion run the risk of smothering the other. Then should I not, precisely because of my love, hide from the other how much I love him? I see the other with a double vision: sometimes as object, sometimes as subject; I hesitate between tyranny and oblation. Thus I doom myself to blackmail: if I love the other, I am forced to seek his happiness; but then I can only do myself harm: a trap: I am condemned to be a saint or a monster: unable to be the one, unwilling to be the other: hence I tergiversate: I show my passion a little.”
— Roland Barthes: A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (1977)
– georges bataille, story of the eye (1928)

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I believe in poems as I do haunted houses. We say, someone must have died here.
Rosa Alcalá, “Voice: An Essay,” from MyOTHER Tongue (via xshayarsha)
Not since I skinned rabbits with my grandfather in the old stained sink behind the shed have I felt my perceptions so strong. Satiny red entrails. Clear splash of blood on white porcelain. Once we found unborn young just beneath the savage heart. Ah said Nono apples in the dark. He sliced them out. I was jealous. Tenderness flooded his voice.
“XXVII.”, The Beauty of the Husband, Anne Carson