Sudden Wave Of An Immense Love For Humanity Has Hit Me Once Again…

Listen. Do it for the aesthetic. If you want to fill an entire 20 dollar sketchbook with anatomy drawings fucling do it. If you wanna get lost in the woods and come stumbling home with a bag of dried mushrooms and bones you go goblin dude. You aren't alive to go to work and hurt!! You're alive because bumblebees bump into little flowers and dandelions only open up in the sun! You're alive because cats purr when you pet them and coffee keeps you up all night!! Do everything for the aesthetic!!

With the shadow and bone trailer being leaked and my rule of wolves book being delivered Leigh Bardugo has completely overrun my morning

Here (1989) by Richard mcguire (raw magazine)

so can we start hunting down white liberals now or what

A little in love with this video taken from my dorm window 🌩️

The Attic Room, 1918

William Ratcliffe (British, 1870 - 1955)

That second paragraph is.... something alright

it isn’t that i ache, but the swell in my chest when i tilt up to look at the top of ferris wheels isn’t fear anymore. it isn’t that i ache but instead that while you and i were drunk on your living room rug and you said you’ll find love i didn’t tell you otherwise because i liked the way the words looked in the air between us. i feel no lacking, but the night is a blue that is knifeish, all silver keen like the imagined collar of my future. it isn’t that i want a specific thing, but i am wanting, the soft call of a horizon that peeks out sunsets too far to touch no matter how fast i run. 

where am i going. why am i not home here, where it is easy, and where i could build a life unseasonably sad but bearable. i could stop feeling stuck and instead teach myself this is what it means to be planted. i could say that the strange pull in me is only the desire of entropy, to unseam what should be held together.

it isn’t that i yearn, but i picture the blues of oceans and ask - is this the color that belongs to her? when i find her, will i be a better person? i fill my mouth with tongues and chocolate and good times but i cannot pin her down. maybe one day i will step through the mirror and she will be there, easily, hungry for her same ache and want of me.

home, i mean. home. 

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

Let’s say your matrilineal line is fairly consistent and everyone has their daughter at 25. So four women in your matrilineal line are born every hundred years. In a thousand years, that’s only 40 women. Like the math is so simple and yet ? You don’t think about it. So in 2000 years, 80 women. So basically, 0 AD started roughly about 80 mothers ago. That’s it.

Mahmoud Darwish, A River Dies of Thirst