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tim etchells (+) at kunstmuseum basel

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āMany people remember exactly where they were when that ecstatic feeling of oneness washed over them, and feel a special intimacy with that place. We return to these places, physically or in our minds, for centering, as renewal for our values, and are reminded that, far from being alone in a sick and evil world, we are beloved by a divine and beautiful one.ā
āfrom a piece I wrote about mystical or ecstatic experiences in nature. Thatās how this whole blog got started, as a collection of quotations I was storing for that article. Then I decided to add some pictures.
Marina Tsvetaeva, from Poem of the End: V (tr. by Elaine Feinstein)

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fromĀ āa hunger like no otherā || sk osborn
horse horse horse horse
good news I went back and horse cardigan was still there!
Oh you are amazing, look at that thing.
remembering the time i ate an entire loaf of pumpkin bread and my mom got so enraged she called me aĀ ālittle loaf eating freakā
āUnderstanding knowledge as an essential element of love is vital because we are bombarded daily with messages that tell us love is about mystery, about that which cannot be known. We see movies in which people are represented as being in love who never talk with one another, who fall into bed without ever discussing their bodies, their sexual needs, their likes and dislikes. Indeed, the message is received from the mass media is that knowledge makes love less compelling; that it is ignorance that gives love its erotic and transgressive edge. These messages are brought to us by profiteering producers who have no clue about the art of loving, who substitute their mystified visions because they do not really know how to genuinely portray loving interaction.ā
bell hooks

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what if itās all black baby, all the time?
Weāve got one down here. Come on, Iāll show you. [pic] Twitter | VK | Leave a tip
A dream soul that wanders.
Sheryl Lee, Michael Horse, Kyle MacLachlan | Twin Peaks
allow me to slip into something a little more⦠comfortable *is enveloped in fog and disappears never to be seen or heard from again*

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Hey, I was wondering if you have any poetry, lyrics, and stuff about motherās and daughters? Itās a very confusing and complicated relationship and I love reading things about it.
hi, i have this compilationĀ about mothers and daughters, but you could also check out jeanette wintersonās why be happy when you could be normal, rebecca solnitās the faraway nearby,Ā anne carsonās the glass essay.Ā here a few more:
Olga Broumas, from Beginning with O; āLittle Red Riding Hoodā
Christa Wolf, Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays (tr. Jan van Heurck)
āMy mother boils seawater. It sits all afternoon simmering on the stovetop, almost two gallons in a big soup pot. The windows steam up and the house smells like a storm. In the evening, a crust of salt is all thatās left at the bottom of the pot. My mother scrapes it out with a spoon. We each lick a fingertip and dip them in the salt and itās softer than youād think, less like sand and more like snow. We lay our fingertips on our tongues, right in the middle. It tastes like salt but like something else, tooāwide, and dark. It tastes like drowning, or like falling asleep on the shore and only waking up when the tide has come up to your feet and you wonder if youād gone on sleeping, would you have sunk?ā
Carri Thurman, from The Alchemy
Noor Mallouh x Kim Kang Hee (x)
āMost nights, I dream of my motherās face, by turns harsh and tender / In a nightmare, I shouted at her: Neither you nor I are the enemy! / What do mothers ask their own daughters, everywhere in the world? / Is there a question? Ask me somethingā
Mary Jean Chan, in FlĆØcheĀ
Bethany Webster, from Mother Wound Healing: Why Itās Crucial for Women
āsometimes i open my mouth and my motherās silences come / tumbling out of meā
Rita Wong, fromĀ āvalue chainā
āI know what it means to break apart. I observed it in my mother, in myself, in many women. The process of fragmentation in a womanās body interests me very much from the narrative point of view. It means telling the story of a present-day female I that suddenly perceives itself disintegrating, it loses the sense of time, itās no longer in order, it feels like a vortex of debris, a whirlwind of thoughts-words. It stops abruptly and starts again from a new equilibrium, whichānoteāisnāt necessarily more advanced than the preceding or even more stable. It serves only to say: now Iām here and I feel like this.ā
Elena Ferrante, Frantumaglia: A Writerās Journey
Bettina Simon, from āVisit to the Homeā (tr. Kristina Herber)
āWe broke our motherās heart and became ourselves. We proceeded to breathe and therefore to leave, drunken, astonished, each of us a god.ā
Patti Smith, from The Long Road