i feel small; but so are stars from a distance.

—ten word poem, i.  (via vedere-paul)

(Source: somniloquencee)

(Source: colorandthemuse)

50watts:


jeannepompadour:

Cléo de Mérode by Einar Nerman

Nerman on 50 Watts

50watts:

jeannepompadour:

Cléo de Mérode by Einar Nerman

Nerman on 50 Watts

man-and-camera:

Myra Trestles ➾ Luke Gram

man-and-camera:

Myra Trestles ➾ Luke Gram

(Source: sweethoney3)

honesty hour

hermionejg:

It’s weird to me (and sad) that almost all of my friends still have both of their parents. I’m so jealous. Especially as I have friends in a pretty broad spectrum of ages. I guess I go between being scared for them and feeling sorry for myself. I want a grown up relationship with my dad so badly…

This fall I went to the funeral of my friend’s father. She is in her early 30s, and in the past 6 years has lost both of her parents to breast and pancreatic cancer. Even while her father was alive, I would think of her and the slow, painful loss of her mother. I would think of their relationship, and how lucky I was to know my mother as a young adult. The death we experience in our own lives, and by proxy, should be a reminder to us that we are all so incredibly lucky for the friendships and the family we have. I have no patience for people who resent aging. My best friend died at 25. He never got to have the family he wished for, nor to experience the brink of his 30s. We are so fucking lucky to age, and even luckier to age with the people who care about us, whom we care for. It is the people like my friend who lost both her parents, and people like you who has lost her father, that we need to collectively care for and honour. It is those relationships we have seen, that have been ripped apart, that we must commemorate however we can in our own lives. Death touches each of us, and we have a duty to ensure we commemorate those who are not lucky enough to wake up tomorrow morning. 

By the Door

But your spirit is pulled apart,
Shattered into little darts,
And I can’t pick them up
Fast enough.

Splinters of eyes, a sliver of an elbow,
Sit by the door in a row. 
Regimented, ordered, in a clean
Straight line.

Pick up the phone and call me,
I say, knowing full well that you’re not free.
Shattered, and splintered,
in a row by the door.

frontierpsychiatrists:

flwrbmb:

Do Women have to be Naked to get into the Met. Museum?

Guerilla Girls. 1989, 2005, 2012.

equality moves slow in the arts. i’m just there’s a positive (although minute) trend.

(Source: lamictals)

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If you’re an aspiring/professional/hobbyist photographer (or looking for one!) seeking adventure with an eye for intimacy, sign up for my Photography Newsletter on the blog. Exclusive content, photo tips, hacks, and essays available direct to your inbox!

I like to read novels where the author seems knowledgeable; like someone you know you could walk calmly next to through a complicated situation and he or she would be alive to its meaning and ironies. And you wouldn’t even have to mention them out loud to each other. A writer who cares about the world and about the smaller but not insignificant details that can be cracked open to find humor and meaning. That’s how I like to feel when I’m reading and what I try to go for when I am writing, in the sense that I want to activate what I know but in a manner that is organic to the narrative, and not simply knowledge for its own sake.

—Rachel Kushner (via mttbll)

(Source: full-stop.net)

(Source: palesource)

(Source: wanderlusttrees)

(Source: airows)