“Oh, I don’t know much of anything”
Liz Climo on Tumblr.
Previoulsy: 1 - 2
❝ I met God in the
grocery store, stocking fruit.
he smelled like citrus. ❞
— Amanda Helm, Haikus (15)
❝ Anger … it’s a paralyzing emotion … you can’t get anything done. People sort of think it’s an interesting, passionate, and igniting feeling — I don’t think it’s any of that — it’s helpless … it’s absence of control — and I need all of my skills, all of the control, all of my powers … and anger doesn’t provide any of that — I have no use for it whatsoever. ❞
— Toni Morrison (via observando)
Today’s adventure find.. old film photos of the coast. I’m happy.
I carry deserts in my chest,
the hot sand of silence.
—Edmond Jabès, The Book of Questions: Volume I. Wesleyan, 1991 (translated by Rosmarie Waldrop)
'Young girl picking some kind of herb.' Gelatin silver print by Lewis Wickes Hine (1874-1940).
Source - Series of photographic documents of social conditions, 1905-1939. ( L. W. Hine. / Unit III, Women at work).
Image and text courtesy NYPL Digital Gallery
❝ When I stumbled into you I knew that it was God. ❞
— Jean Deaux (via blackqueerboi)
"Yellow butterflies today float upon the wind. Sometimes one thinks, is that a leaf, fresh from some Autumn tree? And then, veering … the creature lights upon some last fall flower. It’s funny how the world sometimes will be bathed in a sort of poem: each sight, sound, taste, smell will lead to a sort of rhythmic line of expression, and the whole will be sort of continuous, running from one thing into another, so that we see connections we have never seen or contemplated before. Now I hear the sound of a train starting up in the distance, and see the waving of yellowed leaves on a redbud tree, and a sort of repeat pattern of shadows on the screen, and it all goes together inarticulately to make the moment through which I am passing … that must be why it is so hard to catch it, to say just why we have a certain impression."
Agnes “Sissy” Grinstead Anderson, personal journal entry (5 October1938)
❝ For every moment of triumph, for every instance of beauty, many souls must be trampled. ❞
— Hunter S. Thompson (via observando)
❝ For, after all, you do grow up, you do outgrow your ideals, which turn to dust and ashes, which are shattered into fragments; and if you have no other life, you just have to build one up out of these fragments. And all the time your soul is craving and longing for something else. And in vain does the dreamer rummage about in his old dreams, raking them over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking in these cinders for some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before, all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived him! ❞
— Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights: And Other Stories (via alfsaga)
❝ I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched. ❞
— Edgar Allan Poe (via observando)