biomorphic lovelies by Claire Linder
You can’t convince me that loving people isn’t the most honorable thing a person could do with their life
“Most of the time, the universe speaks to us very quietly … in pockets of silence, in coincidences, in nature, in forgotten memories, in the shape of clouds, in moments of solitude, in small tugs at our hearts.”— Yumi Sakugawa, “Your Illustrated Guide To Becoming One With The Universe” (Adams Media; October 3, 2014) (via The Vale Of Soul-Making)
(via soulmvtes)
i wish you roses and roses and roses and roses and roses
Recalled with my dear friend, Leslie, over tea today that 11 years ago this coming February we had one of our first group exhibitions together. She proposed a reunion show with the same artists and an extension of the original exhibit, Heart-lags, to which I agreed, and so we shall!
I then dug up the definition of that word (heart-lag) I made up for the purposes\ of our show’s title and theme below, and still, it’s relevant.
Heart-lag
n. heart-lagged, heart-lagging, heart-lags
1. The condition of emotionally falling behind where you are physically.
2. To be plagued with outdated feelings and sentiments.
3. To be hung up on memories that will not allow you to fully be in the present and/or see any kind of future.
4. To feel like you have left something behind you, that you can never tangibly return to.
Synonym: extreme unceasing nostalgia
My heart-lags are in ice cream stains and foot slivers and the creases of your forehead, even though I am here in an office cubicle, crying.
“What if? points in both directions.”
― Pico Iyer, The Art of Stillness: Adventures in Going Nowhere
“What part of yourself did you have to destroy in order to survive in the world this year? But most importantly: what have you found to be unkillable?”— Arabelle Sicardi, from “The Year in Ugliness,” published in The Poetry Project
(Source: poetryproject.org, via gingamc)
sort of wild to see this photo randomly on my feed, it is my cottage. photo above taken by Tim Oehm.
Mahmoud Darwish, tr. by Fady Joudah, from The Butterfly’s Burden; “Maybe, because winter is late”
(via typewriter-worries)
From “Cats in the Sun”, Greek Islands, published 1994 by Hans Silvester
the decisive moment,
—Ada Limon, The Hurting Kind: Poems
Shyama Golden (Sri Lankan-American, 1983) - Intertwined (2020)
im a woman so i get to be the ritual observer and ritual performer and ritual object and ritual god all at once
(via librarycard)








