h
Kiana Khansmith
AnasAbdin
we're not kids anymore.
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
d e v o n
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
@theartofmadeline
Keni
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
wallacepolsom
ojovivo
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Claire Keane
RMH
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Spain
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from Italy
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Switzerland
seen from Pakistan
seen from United States
seen from Israel
seen from Sweden
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Ireland
seen from Indonesia
seen from China
seen from Spain
seen from United States
@thirdity
The wounded body is sacred in some deep level of its existence; it is a body specialized and formed by experience; in its new way of being present to the world, the wounded body gains something not possessed before. The wound is a gift; it may be a witness to a god or a goddess working in the wound.
Dennis Patrick Slattery, The Wounded Body: Remembering the Markings of Flesh
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Someone who takes love away from us devastates the cultural structure we’ve worked on all our lives, deprives us of that sort of Eden that until that moment had made us appear innocent and lovable. Human beings give the worst of themselves when their cultural clothes are torn off, and they find themselves facing the nakedness of their bodies, they feel the shame of them. In a certain sense the loss of love is the common experience closest to the myth of the expulsion from the earthly paradise: it’s the violent end of the illusion of having a heavenly body, it’s the discovery of one’s own dispensability and perishability.
Elena Ferrante, Frantumaglia
Jerry N. Uelsmann
“We can never put enough distance between ourselves and what we love. To think that God is, is still to think of him as present; this is a thought according to our measure, destined only to console us. It is much more fitting to think that God is not, just as we must love him purely enough that we could be indifferent to the fact that he should not be. It is for this reason that the atheist is closer to God than the believer.”
— Maurice Blanchot, The Infinite Conversation
Otto Piene
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I have never felt any antagonism for or anxiety over the anarchy represented by the prevailing forms of art; on the contrary, I have always welcomed the dissolving influences. In an age marked by dissolution, liquidation seems to me a virtue, nay a moral imperative. Not only have I never felt the least desire to conserve, bolster up or buttress anything, but I might say that I have always looked upon decay as being just as wonderful and rich an expression of life as growth.
Henry Miller, Henry Miller on Writing
two more from the back matter to Sun Ra’s “My Brother The Wind”
We measure our successes and failures in units of practical value that we call wealth or status or fame. We sometimes even see everything in terms of its practical value, to the point that we see value itself as having a practical foundation.
To instead seek out what is impractical might seem almost quaint, as though it were for someone else — a different person living in a very different world. Sometimes we sense that there might be more to our lives than the practical, but this idea gets pushed out by the chorus of voices telling us to focus always on what's practical.
A consequence of this is that it can sound like madness to insist there are moments when we must completely ignore the practical. Yet it is precisely by going beyond the realm of the practical that we become capable of discovering another kind of value, a value that does not depend on this or that, a value that cannot be quantified because it is immeasurable.
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“There is still, upon having seen, the problem of conveying and comprehending it. I think we as a species really have “fallen,” in that we are very cut off, from Ma'at, from justice and order (and the voice of conscience telling us what is justice, what promotes order, what is truth); as Heraclitus said, we are stumbling around asleep, unable to see the logos (that which Ma'at through Ptah has built).”
— Philip K. Dick, The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick
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In reading a novel, any novel, we have to know perfectly well that the whole thing is nonsense, and then, while reading, believe every word of it. Finally, when we’re done with it, we may find — if it’s a good novel — that we’re a bit different from what we were before we read it, that we have been changed a little, as if by having met a new face, crossed a street we never crossed before. But it’s very hard to say just what we learned, how we were changed.
Ursula K. Le Guin, The Language of the Night
* jeanette winterson, oranges are not the only fruit
“All the resources of our almost miraculous technology have been thrown into the current assault against silence. That most popular and influential of all recent inventions, the radio, is nothing but a conduit through which pre-fabricated din can flow into our homes. And this din goes far deeper, of course, than the ear-drums. It penetrates the mind, filling it with a babel of distractions — news items, mutually irrelevant bits of information, blasts of corybantic or sentimental music, continually repeated doses of drama that bring no catharsis, but merely create a craving for daily or even hourly emotional enemas.”
— Aldous Huxley, The Perennial Philosophy
the loft from stray (2022)
It is no longer a question of imitation, nor duplication, nor even parody. It is a question of substituting the signs of the real for the real, that is to say of an operation of deterring every real process via its operational double, a programmatic, metastable, perfectly descriptive machine that offers all the signs of the real and shortcircuits all its vicissitudes.
Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation
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There's something bothering me that I can't understand. It's a thought, or it's a memory, or maybe it's an intuition. When I try to think about it, it seems too complex to describe, too faint to see, too indistinct to capture. The feelings that surround it are nebulous and imprecise. I want to see what it is, but I don't even know where it begins or ends, or what form it might take.
Beleaguered by my inability to reach the thing, my only hope is to express everything that surrounds it, and see what happens. Through the effort of creative action, something will appear. What that something will be, I cannot say, but this does not mean it's not worth the effort. By attempting to express myself, I create an opportunity for the thing that is currently beyond my understanding to become real.
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