Top comment: It’s “The Fog & Gold Flag of San Francisco”, designed by Brian Stokle in 2019. It was inspired by Roman Mars’ 2015 TED talk about flag design. Post link
“Shutting out the world is not about turning your back on your surroundings, but rather the opposite: it is seeing the world a bit more clearly, staying a course, and trying to love your life.”
“I am astonished in my teaching to find how many poets are nearly blind to the physical world. They have ideas, memories, and feelings, but when they write their poems they often see them as similes. To break this habit, I have my students keep a journal in which they must write, very briefly, six things they have seen each day—not beautiful or remarkable things, just things. This seemingly simple task usually is hard for them. At the beginning, they typically “see” things in one of three ways: artistically, deliberately, or not at all. Those who see artistically instantly decorate their descriptions, turning them into something poetic: the winter trees immediately become “old men with snow on their shoulders,” or the lake looks like a “giant eye.” The ones who see deliberately go on and on describing a brass lamp by the bed with painful exactness. And the ones who see only what is forced on their attention: the grandmother in a bikini riding on a skateboard, or a bloody car wreck. But with practice, they begin to see carelessly and learn a kind of active passivity until after a month nearly all of them have learned to be available to seeing—and the physical world pours in. Their journals fill up with lovely things like, “the mirror with nothing reflected in it.” This way of seeing is important, even vital to the poet, since it is crucial that a poet see when she or he is not looking—just as she must write when she is not writing. To write just because the poet wants to write is natural, but to learn to see is a blessing. The art of finding in poetry is the art of marrying the sacred to the world, the invisible to the human.”
[d/f] It was weird seeing my sweet daughter grow up into a little slut. For the last few weeks, she has been even trying to get ME to fuck her. It takes all of my will power to resist pumping that tight pussy full of cum.
I was five years old. My mother and a friend I was expected to address as “Aunt” had taken us children to a modest little tea garden with swings and seesaws on the edge of our small town on the Dutch-Belgian border. It sported the elegant French name of “Les Champs Elysees”: the Elysian Fields — Celestial Fields of Bliss … I can still see and hear the trio that was playing on the rickety bandstand: the thin, sorrowful violinist in his patent leather shoes, the bald, rotund pianist, the bosomy lady in white tulle, a moaning cello clamped between her short, plump thighs.
The other children were still swinging and seesawing when I got bored, and as mother and the pseudo-aunt, with her long nose, were absorbed in the music — which did not prevent them from chattering rapturously in whispers — I saw my chance to escape across a narrow stream, and found myself in a sun-drenched meadow. I lay down in the fragrant, swaying grass, tall enough to make me unfindable, and listened to the trio far away. Then, suddenly there was a loud zooming close to my ear and I was terrified: a velvety bee circled around my head, almost touching it.
But ignoring me, it sat down on a hairy purple flower that was so close to my head that it looked huge and vague, and started to suck … At that moment something happened: all my fear evaporated, but so did bee and sun and grass . .. and I.
For at that instant sunlight and sky, grasses, bee and I merged, fused, became one, and still: remained sun and sky and grass and bee and I. It lasted for a heartbeat, an hour, a year … Then, as abruptly, I was I again, but filled with an indescribable bliss — were they not Elysian Fields?
The trio was still playing the tune that I remember to this day, and I can whistle it for you anytime you wish … I had probably come as close to reality as I ever was to come in this life.
Reprinted in Parabola Volume 4, No. 3, “The Child,” Fall 1979. This issue is available to purchase here. If you have enjoyed this piece, consider subscribing.
Pictured: Claude Monet (French, 1840-1926): An Orchard in Spring, 1886
On a day with a light breeze that is moving the leaves and branches, sit quietly and look at a tree. Say to yourself, “I have never seen a tree before.” And you will see a tree more than you have ever seen a tree… – Michael Lipsey
“The question is not whether there is another world, this is another world.” – John Giorno
Forvitni is finally finished! They’re going on the AH for 5kg&yes a know that’s a lot, but the reason is bc they’re a fully gened **bred gen1 + this took me a lot of time + I really like them and will probably end up keeping them if they don’t sell! I’m actually pretty hesitant putting them up at all, but if they find a good home at that price I won’t be upset.
shoutout to @cecils-dragons for giving Forvitni to me to flip! (part of the reason I’m being hesitant— he put in the effort to gene her & she’s beautiful)
Plate 42. Rocks. The micrographic dictionary, a guide to the examination and investigation of the structure and nature of microscopic objects. 1883. (via nemfrog)
Fear and confusion about what you are seeing and what’s about to happen. You become certain that the best view of any woman’s pussy is from the floor underneath her. Whether you endure the full weight of her sodden silky cunt or she pisses on your face, you accept what every quean should; your place. It is, has, and will always be your place.
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