Pomegranate in Jerusalem
"what
massacre
happens to my son
between
him
living within my skin
drinking my cells
my water
my organs
and
his soft psyche turning cruel.
does he not remember
he
is half woman."
massacre
happens to my son
between
him
living within my skin
drinking my cells
my water
my organs
and
his soft psyche turning cruel.
does he not remember
he
is half woman."
— from, nayyirah waheed (via yasodhara)
(Source: nayyirahwaheed, via nirvasana)
I’m listening to the Arabic radio stations I can tune into in Tel Aviv…this is the best moment of my day.
(Source: carpediemanddance, via nirvasana)
”This is my favorite photo in the world - me and Linus, born to a dairy cow and ordered to be killed when the farmer saw he was a male (and thus useless in the dairy industry). A compassionate individual intervened, and he was brought to a sanctuary. I met him when he was a few days old and 60 pounds, and he would always try to sit on my lap. Today, 7 years young and 1500 pounds, he still tries to sit on my lap.”
- Colleen Patrick-Goudreau
(via loveyourchaos)
Shadi Chadirian
amazing series
"Stop thinking about art works as objects, and start thinking about them as triggers for experiences. (Roy Ascott’s phrase.) That solves a lot of problems: we don’t have to argue whether photographs are art, or whether performances are art, or whether Carl Andre’s bricks or Andrew Serranos’s piss or Little Richard’s ‘Long Tall Sally’ are art, because we say, ‘Art is something that happens, a process, not a quality, and all sorts of things can make it happen.’ … [W]hat makes a work of art ‘good’ for you is not something that is already ‘inside’ it, but something that happens inside you — so the value of the work lies in the degree to which it can help you have the kind of experience that you call art."
— Brian Eno (via holzers)
(Source: jessiethatcher, via thedevaluationofspermdump)
(via loveyourchaos)
(Source: femalemodels, via theclassyissue)
My new theme song:
Purity Ring - Cartographist
And I laughed in the light of the moon
Was so close from the stem of the bloom
And I laughed in the light of the moon
Was so close from the stem of the bloom
Oh, my sweet fairy
The past has stopped, stopped, stopped
Touch not my bosom for I’ll not get far
Color your cartography and your dreams of me
Maps will not lie, will not lie, will not lie in me
Grow ancient gardens, the paths that you found in me
Peel off the weight that you’ve held from the start of me
Oh, my sweet fairy
Our hearts did us wrong
But rudders of bodies don’t carry us on, on
And more moons than our eyes can recount and store
Yet they bet that we see the same things
Sweet, they bet that we swim in the sea
Well then, the unborn woods are calling
Lie down to keep our heads from falling
Kill them then bury seeds beneath me
Measure thy deeds in due time harvest
