rihaaish

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Mira Schendel (Brazilian, 1919-1988), Sem título, 1961. Oil on canvas, 35.5 x 47.5 in

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Before you get excited about this cuddly rebrand, take a moment to learn about Aaron Swartz.

📢 Introducing The JSTOR Collective!

We’re thrilled to announce our new Tumblr community: The JSTOR Collective! 🎉

This is a space where faculty, librarians, students, researchers, and lifelong learners can come together to share ideas, spark conversations, and, yes, even post academic memes. 😉

Whether you’re deep in research, looking for study tips, or just want to connect with others passionate about knowledge, this is the place for you.

✨ What you’ll find:

Meaningful discussions and resources

A welcoming, inclusive space for all

Humor, curiosity, and plenty of memes

Join The JSTOR Collective and help us build a vibrant, self-sustaining community that celebrates the joy of learning.

Let’s connect, collaborate, and grow—together. 🌱

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in her willows

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mature middle-aged men btw

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On my local weather channel theres this small 20 somethings guy who does the minor weather and my family is so enchanted by him. He wears the most egregious suits and ties that make my grandparents go off the rails. Sometimes he blends in with the green screen and my grandparents go farther off the rails. My entire family calls him "sheldon" because any skinny white geeky guy is Sheldon Cooper to them. There is currently a huge tornado on the way and they sent Sheldon to go check it out. Sheldon sounds like he's crying in the middle of this horrible rain and my grandparents are so upset about it. Sheldon could die out there. Why did they have to sacrifice him? Sacrificing their young. My grandmother has started a grudge against the main weather man for abusing poor poor Sheldon. I will update if Sheldon survives.

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I've been thinking this. It completely erodes creativity. If you put together a junk journal with what you found, your journal would look unique and entirely you. When you use the premade kit it looks exactly like everyone else's - boring, generic, stale.

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The Peahen by A.E. Stallings

The parched peahen approaches, beak agape, To drink out of the cat bowl. Let her drink.Let us consider her who seems to shrink Beside his dazzle, though she shares his shape. Who is the artist? Who the imitator? Look now—the oily sheen about her throat Of green on brown, her sensible brown coat. But on her head, that fusty fascinator!

Who knows what makes a partnership? Do we? Her understatement, his hyperbole. Is his bedizened gimcrack just for her, Who seems to us so dowdy and demure? She must have something else, that is not his, Beholder in whose eye his beauty is.

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Sappho, translated by Anne Carson

Deathless Aphrodite of the spangled mind, child of Zeus, who twists lures, I beg you do not break with hard pains, O lady, my heart

but come here if ever before you caught my voice far off and listening left your father's golden house and came,

yoking your car. And fine birds brought you, quick sparrows over the black earth whipping their wings down the sky through midair--

they arrived. But you, O blessed one, smiled in your deathless face and asked what (now again) I have suffered and why (now again) I am calling out

and what I want to happen most of all in my crazy heart. Whom shall I persuade (now again) to lead you back into her love? Who, O Sappho, is wronging you?

For if she flees, soon she will pursue. If she refuses gifts, rather will she give them. If she does not love, soon she will love even unwilling.

Come to me now: loose me from hard care and all my heart longs to accomplish, accomplish. You be my ally.

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An Offer Received in This Morning's Mail:

(On misreading an ad for a set of CDs entitled "Beethoven's Complete Symphonies.")

by Amy Gerstler

The Musical Heritage Society invites you to accept Beethoven's Complete Sympathies. A full $80.00 value, yours for $49.95. The brooding composer of "Ode to Joy" now delighting audiences in paradise nightly knows your sorrows. Just look at his furrowed brow, his thin lipped grimace. Your sweaty 2 am writhings have touched his great Teutonic heart. Peering invisibly over your shoulder he reads those poems you scribble on memo pads at the office, containing lines like o lethal blossom, I am your marionette forever, and a compassionate smile trembles at the corners of his formerly stern mouth. (He'd be thrilled to set your poems to music.) This immortal master, gathered to the bosom of his ancestors over a century ago has not forgotten those left behind to endure gridlock and mind-ache, wearily crosshatching the earth's surface with our miseries, or belching complaints into grimy skies, further besmirching the firmament. But just how relevant is Beethoven these days, you may ask. Wouldn't the sympathies of a modern composer provide a more up-to-date form of solace? Well, process this info-byte, 21st century skeptic. A single lock of Beethoven's hair fetched over $7,000 last week at auction. The hairs were then divided into lots of two or three and resold at astronomical prices. That's how significant he remains today. Beethoven the great-hearted, who used to sign letters ever thine, the unhappiest of men, wants you to know how deeply sorry he is that you're having such a rough time. Prone to illness, self-criticism and squandered affections-- Ludwig (he'd like you to call him that, if you'd do him the honor,) son of a drunk and a depressive, was beaten, cheated, and eventually went stone deaf. He too had to content himself with clutching his beloved's tooth-marked yellow pencils (as the tortured scrawls in his notebooks show) to sketch our symphonies, concerti, chamber music, et cetera-- works that still brim, as does your disconsolate soul, with unquenched fire and brilliance. Give Beethoven a chance to show how much he cares. Easy financing available. And remember: a century in heaven has not calmed the maestro's celebrated temper, so act now. For god's sake don't make him wait.

[rihaaish]

Personal Helicon

by Seamus Heaney

As a child, they could not keep me from wells And old pumps with buckets and windlasses. I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top. I savoured the rich crash when a bucket Plummeted down at the end of a rope. So deep you saw no reflection in it.

A shallow one under a dry stone ditch Fructified like any aquarium. When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch A white face hovered over the bottom.

Others had echoes, gave back your own call With a clean new music in it. And one Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime, To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

[rihaaish]

Esther Mahlangu, untitled, 2020, acrylic on canvas. Esther Mahlangu is a Zimbabwean artist, and just in case you were wondering, yes, this is Esther herself:

Via ArtForum

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Soul's Raiment by Margaret Cavendish

Great Nature clothes the soul, which is but thin, With fleshly garments, which the Fates do spin, And when these garments are grown old and bare, With sickness torn, Death takes them off with care, And folds them up in peace and quiet rest, And lays them safe within an earthly chest : The scours them well and makes them sweet and clean, Fit for the soul to wear those clothes again.

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Photos of Munich's U-Bahn by Thibault Drutel, from his collection:  Symmetric Subway: Stillness in Motion (via Aesthetica magazine)

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Man leading a horse, late 16th century, India, Deccan region. Look at them stride along!

Made with opaque watercolor and gold on paper, now in the collections of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, USA.

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"If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert" By Natalie Diaz    

I will swing my lasso of headlights across your front porch,  

let it drop like a rope of knotted light at your feet.    

While I put the car in park, you will tie and tighten the loop  

of light around your waist — and I will be there with the other end  

wrapped three times around my hips horned with loneliness.  

Reel me in across the glow-throbbing sea of greenthread, bluestem prickly poppy,  

the white inflorescence of yucca bells, up the dust-lit stairs into your arms.  

If you say to me, This is not your new house but I am your new home,  

I will enter the door of your throat, hang my last lariat in the hallway,  

build my altar of best books on your bedside table, turn the lamp on and off, on and off, on and off.  

I will lie down in you. Eat my meals at the red table of your heart.  

Each steaming bowl will be, Just right. I will eat it all up,  

break all your chairs to pieces. If I try running off into the deep-purpling scrub brush,  

you will remind me, There is nowhere to go if you are already here,  

and pat your hand on your lap lighted by the topazion lux of the moon through the window,    

say, Here, Love, sit here — when I do, I will say, And here I still am.  

Until then, Where are you? What is your address? I am hurting. I am riding the night  

on a full tank of gas and my headlights are reaching out for something

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Malik Ambar (1548–1626) was originally enslaved and trafficked from what is now Ethiopia. His name was Chapu. He was trafficked to India where he was enslaved by the Peshwa (ruler), Changiz Khan, a former Habshi slave himself, of the Ahmadnagar Sultanate, who renamed him. He demonstrated great military capacity, commanding a force for the Peshwa. When the Peshwa died, he was emancipated by the Peshwa's wife, serving the regent of Bijapur before himself becoming the ruler of the Ahmadnagar Sultanate until he died.

This painting, now in the collections of the Boston Museum of Fine Art, is of Malik Ambar's son and heir, Fateh Khan, who struggled to maintain power, assassinating his own nephew and chief rival before losing to the Mughal empire.