snow and dirty rain

inspiration: a lil bit of everything
cats. pizza. poetry. feminism. fine art.

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Photograph

keepanopenmindorelse:

Drawings of the moon by Galileo Galilei, January 7, 1610

keepanopenmindorelse:

Drawings of the moon by Galileo Galilei, January 7, 1610



Reblogged from Consistently Inconsistent.

June 17, 2013, 10:00am

Photograph



Reblogged from Victor Marqué.

June 17, 2013, 3:14am

Video

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Martin Usborne. Nice to Meet You.

Well Done.

It Was a Long Time Ago.

It’s OK.

I Also Work at the Bank.

I Love You.

Abandoned dogs photographed through different materials.
Each image in this series is a portrait of a dog photographed through a material or substance: a wet pane of glass, faint smoke, dense material, bleeding light. Nearly all of the dogs are abandoned, untrained, often aggressive. One is a wolf. (Every dog was carefully handled and protected in the process). The images are titled with everyday phrases that so often hide subtexts.

 

Website



Reblogged from Dark Silence In Suburbia.

June 17, 2013, 2:58am

Video

workman:

upthefolksstudio:

Storytelling 

cyanotype, hand embroidery on linen

21.5x31”



Reblogged from pilgrim soul.

June 17, 2013, 2:44am

Video

gacougnol:

Patrick Bailly-Maître-Grand

Taxidermies
2002



Reblogged from COULEURS.

June 17, 2013, 2:43am

Photograph

yama-bato:

Patrick Bailly-Maître-Grand
Grand Soupirail-1Photographieépreuve au chlorobromure d’argent80 x 100 cm2011
via

yama-bato:

Patrick Bailly-Maître-Grand

Grand Soupirail-1Photographie
épreuve au chlorobromure d’argent
80 x 100 cm
2011

via



Reblogged from COULEURS.

June 17, 2013, 2:42am

Quote

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

— e.e. cummings (via pipwasreal)



Reblogged from .
Tags: poetry

June 17, 2013, 2:38am

Video

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Emanuel Smedbøl.

 

 

Website

Instagram



Reblogged from Dark Silence In Suburbia.

June 17, 2013, 2:38am

Photograph


A group of scarabs from the Scarabaeid family, July 1929.Photograph by Edwin L. Wisherd, National Geographic

A group of scarabs from the Scarabaeid family, July 1929.
Photograph by Edwin L. Wisherd, National Geographic

(Source: natgeofound)



Reblogged from Funeral.

June 17, 2013, 2:27am

Photograph

fiore-rosso:

diane lange.

fiore-rosso:

diane lange.



Reblogged from COULEURS.

June 17, 2013, 2:26am

Anne Sexton - The Truth the Dead Know

Text


For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959
and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959

Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.



Tags: poetry

June 12, 2013, 6:11pm

Photograph

from Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison

from Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison



Tags: quote

June 12, 2013, 5:47pm

Traci Brimhall - To My Unborn Daughter

Text

They will try to make you read it, the book of plagues,
written by the dangerous one behind the stars. Do not

believe their dusty proverbs. I am a good woman.
They’ll tell you we are banished, but this isn’t exile.

It’s a refuge from a nation of titans. Know that a man
does not have to be bigger than the tower he builds,

but a battlefield must be wider than the bodies below it.
This is yours—this cup of rain we pass as we sing.

This is yours also—what a man will do for a woman.
He will lay her in sage and empty his spurred heart

into her mouth. She will listen with her body until
he is relieved, the way the moon is relieved

when it tells its secrets to water by lying down on it.
I’ve never met a man without demons. Not the priest

with his scourge, nor the sailor who believes dead whales
lashed to the ship speak to him as he sharpens harpoons.

Not even the blacksmith who came home to find his wife
dead, and then beat her for leaving him. How can I

convince you that this is love? Is it luckier to have a redeemer
who will kill for you? One who will die for you?

Or one who will use your flesh to quiet his burning cigarette?
Stranger inside me, when you are born, I will give you

a closed book and ask you to never read it, never rest,
never forgive a man who wants to save you.



Tags: poetry

June 12, 2013, 2:51pm

Photograph



Reblogged from Horrorgrafia..

June 03, 2013, 2:40pm

Video

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Duane Michals.

The Unretouched Beauty, 2012. Tintype with hand-applied oil paint, 10 x 7 7/8”.

A Portrait of Dave Coulter Inside and Out, c. 1980. Photograph with hand-applied oil paint, mounted on illustration board, 19 3/4 x 15 7/8”.



Reblogged from Dark Silence In Suburbia.

June 02, 2013, 2:49pm