#loving the world anyway

[manwalksintobar]

Things I Didn't Know I Loved // Nazim Hikmet

it’s 1962 March 28th I’m sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train night is falling I never knew I liked night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain I don’t like comparing nightfall to a tired bird

I didn’t know I loved the earth can someone who hasn’t worked the earth love it I’ve never worked the earth it must be my only Platonic love

and here I’ve loved rivers all this time whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills European hills crowned with chateaus or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see I know you can’t wash in the same river even once I know the river will bring new lights you'll never see I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow I know this has troubled people before                          and will trouble those after me I know all this has been said a thousand times before                          and will be said after me

I didn’t know I loved the sky cloudy or clear the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish I hear voices not from the blue vault but from the yard the guards are beating someone again I didn’t know I loved trees bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino they come upon me in winter noble and modest beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish “the poplars of Izmir losing their leaves. . . they call me The Knife. . .                          lover like a young tree. . . I blow stately mansions sky-high” in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief                                         to a pine bough for luck

I never knew I loved roads even the asphalt kind Vera's behind the wheel we're driving from Moscow to the Crimea                                                           Koktebele                                formerly “Goktepé ili” in Turkish the two of us inside a closed box the world flows past on both sides distant and mute I was never so close to anyone in my life bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé                                         when I was eighteen apart from my life I didn’t have anything in the wagon they could take and at eighteen our lives are what we value least I’ve written this somewhere before wading through a dark muddy street I'm going to the shadow play Ramazan night a paper lantern leading the way maybe nothing like this ever happened maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy                                        going to the shadow play Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather’s hand    his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat       with a sable collar over his robe    and there’s a lantern in the servant’s hand    and I can’t contain myself for joy flowers come to mind for some reason poppies cactuses jonquils in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika fresh almonds on her breath I was seventeen my heart on a swing touched the sky I didn’t know I loved flowers friends sent me three red carnations in prison

I just remembered the stars I love them too whether I’m floored watching them from below or whether I'm flying at their side

I have some questions for the cosmonauts were the stars much bigger did they look like huge jewels on black velvet                              or apricots on orange did you feel proud to get closer to the stars I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don’t    be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract    well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to    say they were terribly figurative and concrete my heart was in my mouth looking at them they are our endless desire to grasp things seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad I never knew I loved the cosmos

snow flashes in front of my eyes both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind I didn’t know I liked snow

I never knew I loved the sun even when setting cherry-red as now in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors but you aren’t about to paint it that way I didn’t know I loved the sea                              except the Sea of Azov or how much

I didn’t know I loved clouds whether I’m under or up above them whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts

moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois strikes me I like it

I didn’t know I liked rain whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my    heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop    and takes off for uncharted countries I didn’t know I loved    rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting    by the window on the Prague-Berlin train is it because I lit my sixth cigarette one alone could kill me is it because I’m half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

the train plunges on through the pitch-black night I never knew I liked the night pitch-black sparks fly from the engine I didn’t know I loved sparks I didn’t know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty    to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train    watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return

                                                     19 April 1962                                                      Moscow

[the-irrelevant-trumpeter]

this is possibly the funniest terf take i’ve ever seen. trans people, hate to tell you this but buying clothes is actually capitalist and you should stop /j.

[emptyjunior]

Can't stop thinking about reverse Scott Pilgrim au where Ramona has to fight all of Scott's exes, Punk drummer Kim, Megastar Envy Adams with an army of groupies, Femme fatale Lisa Miller, Jaded obsessive Knives Chau, maybe an alternate timeline version of herself.

And when she's all done it's just kinda Wallace standing there and she's like Wallace what are you doing, I'm meeting Scott's ex here and he just gives this sad shrug smile and she's like Oh and then he pulls out the baseball bat-

[critterbitter]

Blitzle getting obliterated by a flying type is peak comedy to me, sorry guys.

BONUS:

(Masterpost)

[kavaleyre]

“After 200 years, you can forget how much color there is in the world.”

[proxycrit]

(I point. Gently, in the voice of somebody who’s mind touched by the outer gods, i whisper truth in your ears:

Your honor the horses are now lesbians

(Anyways here’s the designs)

[honourablejester]

A lot of the time when I reblog jewellery on here, it’s art nouveau jewellery, because I really like art nouveau. In general, and in jewellery in particular. And most of that is the aesthetic. I like the natural forms, I like the twisty curly bits, I like the use of materials, I like how a lot of art nouveau jewellery is using metals and stones and other materials to create a specific form, an insect or a plant or a goddess or even sometimes nature scenes. I like …

I feel like a lot of the time with jewellery, it feels like ‘I’m going to use this object to show off the size and value of my pretty rock’. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Some of those rocks are indeed gorgeous. But art nouveau feels more ‘I’m going to use these pretty rocks, and several other things, to create the impact of this object’? I just love the use of materials, glass and enamel and colour, as well as precious stones and metals, to create a form or a scene.

Like, you get a diamond ring, it’s a diamond ring. But you get something like a dragonfly brooch (Louis Acoc):

Or a lilypad hair comb (Rene Lalique):

Or a wisteria branch (Georges Fouquet):

And it’s a whole creation. A little wearable piece of art.

And I don’t want to sound too dismissive. I know the craftmanship and skill and artistry that goes into any kind of jewellery making. That diamond ring took skill I will never have. I just.

I like the emphasis on form more than material that you get with art nouveau. Like normally you hear ‘glass jewellery’, ‘enamel jewellery’, and it’s cheap, it’s frowned upon, but in art nouveau it’s what that glass or enamel was used to make that’s the important part:

(Rene Lalique)

(Eugene Feuillatre)

Anyway. In summary, I really, really, really like art nouveau jewellery?

[rendevok]

step into the light

what do you see?

my sun,

my stars

shining on me

[blog-of-frontiers]

The thing about Wyll is that he Gets It. He knows the story. He knows the kind of man his father is and the kind of man he was supposed to be. He knew what Mizora was when he made the pact. He knew what it meant. And he was just a kid, and his city needed saving, so he did it, and he paid that price, and even knowing all of that he still tried to appeal to his father for understanding and forgiveness.

He sold his soul to do the right thing. And he was cast out. And he knew what character that should have made him.

He knows the story he's in, and every day he chooses who he wants to be instead.

[upon-the-snow]

early mornings after nightmares

[taikova]

:D

D8

[manwalksintobar]

Trying not to fall // Bryce Milligan

    for Joy Harjo

    There is a woman with a saxophone     blowing the blues out of time     raising tones like thunderheads     and tones like lightning,     tones like the gray mist     rising on an Oklahoma river.

    There is a woman with a saxophone,     golden horn handed down     one prophet to another     one shaman to the next     beginning as a scrannel flute     golden reed from the Chattahoochee     drawn at dawn and cured inside     a medicine bundle somewhere     in America, somewhere     in time     flint carved its first song,     the song of awakening     after long sleep, after death.

    There is a woman with a saxophone     breathing in the same air     drawn through the sacred stem     when no white hand had laid claim     or shed blood anywhere     in America.     There is a woman with a saxophone,     woman of wind and water     blowing the blues out of time     woman with hair like the raven     that hangs in the sky calling the future     as he sees it, hair blue     blue as blackbird wings in sunshine     with eyes like black holes     in time, ends and beginnings     quick as grace notes.

    There is a woman with a saxophone     on the banks of the Muscogee     rising into the cloud of her music     rising like sacred smoke     rising like stomp dance bonfire flames     rising like warriors bound     for the long paths of the milky way.     There is a woman with a saxophone     trying     not to fall.

[notemaker]

Imagine building a family in a terrible world. Some of you die sooner, and you try to make it work. Then everyone, everything is gone, you have less than a minute to process that, and you're alone. Except it's worse! Because your family will be there, but suddenly you're not part of it. The house is in front of you and you don't have the keys.

[knifearo]

this year my challenge for everyone is to unlearn the association between love and morality. love is not something that is inherently morally good, and the absence of love is not something that is inherently bad. sex without love isn't morally bankrupt, it's just an action. people without love aren't less kind or less good, they're just people. when we can get past this false (and often unnoticed) dichotomy of good love/evil lovelessness then i think we are going to be able to take leaps and bounds in sex positivity, aro advocacy, certain discussions of mental health...

[critterbitter]

Thinking about pokemon teams helping coparent… ahh.

Masterpost for more of my shenanigans!

[waterghostype]

crusty kid