#21cs

[aquanutart]

[azspot]

The twenty-first century, I predict, will confound the twentieth-century notion of the Future as something exciting, novel, unexpected, or radiant; as Progress, to use an old word. It is already clear that the large cities, thanks to the Relearning, will not even look new. Quite the opposite; the cities of 2007 will look more like the cities of 1927 than the cities of 1987. The twenty-first century will have a retrograde look and a retrograde mental atmosphere. People of the next century, snug in their Neo-Georgian apartment complexes, will gaze back with a ghastly awe upon our time. They will regard the twentieth as the century in which wars became so enormous they were known as World Wars, the century in which technology leapt forward so rapidly man developed the capacity to destroy the planet itself — but also the capacity to escape to the stars on space ships if it blew. But above all they will look back upon the twentieth as the century in which their forebears had the amazing confidence, the Promethean hubris, to defy the gods and try to push man’s power and freedom to limitless, god-like extremes. They will look back in awe … without the slightest temptation to emulate the daring of those who swept aside all rules and tried to start from zero. Instead, they will sink ever deeper into their neo-Louis bergeres, content to live in what will be known as the Somnolent Century or the Twentieth Century’s Hangover.

Tom Wolfe

[elskanellis]

Coffee

Matthew Dickman

The only precious thing I own, this little espresso cup. And in it a dark roast all the way from Honduras, Guatemala, Ethiopia where coffee was born in the 9th century getting goat herders high, spinning like dervishes, the white blooms cresting out of the evergreen plant, Ethiopia where I almost lived for a moment but then the rebels surrounded the Capital so I stayed home. I stayed home and drank coffee and listened to the radio and heard how they were getting along. I would walk down Everett Street, near the hospital where my older brother was bound to his white bed like a human mast, where he was getting his mind right and learning not to hurt himself. I would walk by and be afraid and smell the beans being roasted inside the garage of an old warehouse. It smelled like burnt toast! It was everywhere in the trees. I couldn't bear to see him. I sometimes never knew him. Sometimes he would call. He wanted us to sit across from each other, some coffee between us, sober. Coffee can taste like grapefruit or caramel, like tobacco, strawberry, cinnamon, the oils being pushed out of the grounds and floating to the top of a French Press, the expensive kind I get in the mail, the mailman with a pound of Sumatra under his arm, ringing my doorbell, waking me up from a night when all I had was tea and watched a movie about the Queen of England when Spain was hot for all her castles and all their ships, carved out of fine Spanish trees, went up in flames while back home Spaniards were growing potatoes and coffee was making its careful way along a giant whip from Africa to Europe where cafes would become famous and people would eventually sit with their cappuccinos, the baristas talking about the new war, a cup of sugar on the table, a curled piece of lemon rind. A beret on someone's head, a scarf around their neck. A bomb in a suitcase left beneath a small table. Right now I'm sitting near a hospital where psychotropics are being carried down the hall in a pink cup, where someone is lying there and he doesn't know who he is. I'm listening to the couple next to me talk about their cars. I have no idea how I got here. The world stops at the window while I take my little spoon and slowly swirl the cream around the lip of the cup. Once, I had a brother who used to sit and drink his coffee black, smoke his cigarettes and be quiet for a moment before his brain turned its Armadas against him, wanting to burn down his cities and villages, before grief became his capital with its one loyal flag and his face, perhaps only his beautiful left eye, shimmed on the surface of his Americano like a dark star.

©2008

[kunstarchiv]

Some photos I took at the Albertina in Vienna in May 2022, from the exhibition "Edvard Munch in Dialogue". These are all recent paintings by Tracey Emin

[twogriffons]

my beautiful girlies

[bright-and-burning]

feels like 40C outside ksjdksjd oh my god.

[holycowworshipper]

apparently the WARMEST it got yesterday in my town was -14 degrees C (7 degrees F) please jesus

[reiketsui]

does someone have a more petty pet peeve than me when i get unreasonably annoyed when watching a lets play of a game that has a made up currency name like golds or rupees or simoleons and the narrator constantly refers to it as DOLLARS

[wongyuseok]

tagged by @lee-minhoe @taedongz @xiaodejunz @jikyu @honeydewtual & @taengoo (I love you all 🥰💜) to post my lockscreen, homescreen, last song I listened to and first post on pinterest

tagging @sunminshine +anyone else who see this and wants to do it! I'm not tagging more bc I feel like everyone's done this 😅

[layalu]

dude it started thunderstorming and cooled off over 15(!)°C in less than an hour

[k-atsukibakugou]

i wuv u gold coast

[ardri-na-bpiteog]

I'm pretty sure this is the longest stretch of almost warm weather we will have had this entire year

[c00kietin]

ICE CREAM DELIVERY!!!!!!🍦♡ྀི give ice cream to your favourite bloggers and help them stay cool this summer. 🍧♡

right back at ya!! >:DD

delicious 😌😌

[masoncarr2244]

[kunstarchiv]

Tracey Emin