herb-and-word

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Submitted by neapolitanswirl

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Celebrating the American Library Association’s Banned and Challenged Books Week: September 27 - October 3, 2015.

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Hey!! I officially have all the Harry Potter prints up on my InPrint! Here’s the link if you’d like to check ‘em out. 

Also I’ll be at NYCC next weekend (Oct. 8th-11th) at my Alma Mater Ringling College’s booth selling Lemon & Ket, ERIS, lots of prints and something new!!! :oooo hope to see you there ^-^

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absolution will consider for a kiss

everything slept undressed, red lights on the bedroom ceiling. he never managed when he looked - wet, black necromancy of an ancient envy.

antilogy hangs by her foot within me, horizon run off from sympathy lovemaking - some piece of metal taking orbit thought of nothing in the act.

to see yourself like sheet music, turn your hips.

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| Escape Reality |

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Reading a poem & then the world expands. Like you see What your world can be When you finally Have words For your experience.

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Following our dreams to do what we love makes us do crazy things like: forget snacks or work out rides and maybe even not have groceries for guests till right before dinner. But we girls got this.

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Working out your passion

Dear Girl,

Passion. Latin roots meaning “to suffer, to endure.” And this is what the artist does. Endures the process. Suffers under the burden of creation and when it fails. My mother, an artist, taught me the signs of a good potter. She showed me kilns, types of clay, and how pieces explode. 

The girl I know has passion. She follows her calling even when it’s difficult and it shows in her work. She knows her worth. 

More than ever, I know what I want from my time. And I’m confronted with social facts. That you sell your time for money; you don’t go giving it away unless you stashed some serious cash. 

But Friday I get to give it away - about two hours worth - to some amazing ladies who want to read and write their way out of life and into life. 

The session came at just the right moment, when I was hoping for a sign. 

I’m going to tell them my plans, ask for their input, see what we can create together and alone. I’m going to explain how terrified I am to spend a year on my serious writing and apply for grants. (Sorry y’all, this blog isn’t my much labored over published stuff. Think of it as an experiment in advice column writing.)

 I’m going to show them their monetary worth, what a class like the one we will create might cost people. How literacy is for those who *can’t* read but creative writing is for those with the money and the time. Fuck all that. It’s for anyone with a passion and commitment. 

And I’m going to tell them that if I can write and work with them (for nothing but our own personal success and growth, which is way more awesome than money anyway) for another year, I’ll have everything that brings me happiness even if I don’t have new things or do less.  It means enduring the process, my passion for words taking me down unstable financial trails.

So plan your work and work your plan. 

Commit to your passion even if it takes a crazy year of amazing, draining, fantastic, emotionally gruelling work and then no job to finally get you there. 

Love,  Lila xo

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Just a boy and his comics...good thing he is my boy and I get to have all the comics!

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So excited to share this new book with some amazing girls!@katrina

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When your friend writes you love letter poems and sends books.

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Frido Kahlo’s life was pretty unhappy, and I’m not sure I’d wish it on a kid, but I still love this strip. 

FRIDA KAHLO: Strange Like Me

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Here is one place where tides pull deep, taking away and giving back, clarity and salt-sting, water echoes in rusted rocks. I am a child of the cleansing, seeping, dangerous Atlantic.

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Lovely

/c/

/Chapel/ I’m in the backyard building a boat and a river with scissors and half a tool kit I got for Christmas. When my parents call I’m taping on the mast, my blood lodges itself in my hands. /Cough/ When you build your own river, things don’t work as naturally as they should. Some assembly required means you need an extra set of hands you weren’t born with. Means you need a little more duet in your lungs. /Coruscate/ The only terrifying thing about being so deep underwater is the way the sun forgets to travel. /Caution/ There’s an old trick in elementary science class where two tubs are placed in a basin of water. One tub is fully submerged while the other retains an air pocket rising to the upturned base of the tub like hands pressed to the roof of a drowning car. With a quick controlled movement, the tub of air is tilted beneath the submerged tub and the air pocket breaks ghostly from one tub to the other. It’s a neat trick until you realize the air is your parents saving you from completely drowning. /Cloud/ This river is too long. Lying face-up to the sky seems like the ultimate fake surrender.

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for Charleston, my old home

One River, One Boat by Marjorie Wentworth

~In Memory of Walter Scott~

Because our history is a knot we try to unravel, while others try to tighten it, we tire easily and fray the cords that bind us.

The cord is a slow moving river, spiraling across the land in a succession of S’s, splintering near the sea.

Picture us all, crowded onto a boat at the last bend in the river: watch children stepping off the school bus, parents late for work, grandparents

fishing for favorite memories, teachers tapping their desks with red pens, firemen suiting up to save us, nurses making rounds,

baristas grinding coffee beans, dockworkers unloading apartment size containers of computers and toys from factories across the sea.

Every morning a different veteran stands at the base of the bridge holding a cardboard sign with misspelled words and an empty cup.

In fields at daybreak, rows of migrant farm workers standing on ladders, break open iced peach blossoms; their breath rising and resting above the frozen fields like clouds.

A jonboat drifts down the river. Inside, a small boy lies on his back; hand laced behind his head, he watches stars fade from the sky and dreams.

Consider the prophet John, calling us from the edge of the wilderness to name the harm that has been done, to make it plain, and enter the river and rise.

It is not about asking for forgiveness. It is not about bowing our heads in shame; because it all begins and ends here: while workers unearth trenches

at Gadsden’s Wharf, where 100,000 Africans were imprisoned within brick walls awaiting auction, death, or worse. Where the dead were thrown into the water,

and the river clogged with corpses has kept centuries of silence. It is time to gather at the edge of the sea, and toss wreaths into this watery grave.

And it is time to praise the judge who cleared George Stinney’s name, seventy years after the fact, we honor him; we pray.

Here, where the Confederate flag still flies beside the Statehouse, haunted by our past, conflicted about the future; at the heart of it, we are at war with ourselves

huddled together on this boat handed down to us – stuck at the last bend of a wide river splintering near the sea.

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I absolutely believe life is meaningless. That is why our arguments against such a fact are absurd - grace, love, sacrifice - and should be clung to with all the tenacity of one with a conspiracy theory.

Me