Latest Posts by sohmygodness - Page 4

do you ever think about this quote by mary lambert because i think about it all the time

“I think I understand a whole lot better than you do”

Horned Owl on Flowering Branch by Kubo Shunman (Edo Period)

Trivia for Rear Window (1954) dir Alfred Hitchcock

I’m only posting this as a middle finger to WHATEVER BIT OF MY BRAIN WON’T LET ME DRAW TODAY.

5 fricking hours i’ve been fighting it.

What's that poem about the cockroach and the moth where the cockroach is like "I wish I've ever wanted anything the way that moth wanted to burn itself up in that lantern" because we had to read that in high school and it still fucks me up to this day

Improbable Compatibility Store / Patreon

I want you to write for pleasure—to play. Just listen to the sounds and rhythms of the sentences you write and play with them, like a kid with a kazoo. This isn’t “free writing,” but it’s similar in that you’re relaxing control: you’re encouraging the words themselves—the sounds of them, the beats and echoes—to lead you on. For the moment, forget all the good advice that says good style is invisible, good art conceals art. Show off! Use the whole orchestra our wonderful language offers us! Write it for children, if that’s the way you can give yourself permission to do it. Write it for your ancestors. Use any narrating voice you like. If you’re familiar with a dialect or accent, use it instead of vanilla English. Be very noisy, or be hushed. Try to reproduce the action in the jerky or flowing movement of the words. Make what happens happen in the sounds of the words, the rhythms of the sentences. Have fun, cut loose, play around, repeat, invent, feel free.

Ursula K. Le Guin, Steering The Craft

That smile and bright eyes looks like something out of a Peanuts strip I love it I love you I would die for this possum

Clock (Words by William Shakespeare, Read by Neil Gaiman, Music by FourPlay StringQuartet)

Released on World Shakespeare Day 2023, this is Clock, Shakespeare’s Sonnet 12, read by Neil Gaiman and set to a haunting musical backdrop by Australia’s FourPlay String Quartet. Taken from their debut album Signs of Life.

Read by Neil Gaiman Violin & vocals – Lara Goodridge Viola – Shenzo Gregorio Viola & vocals– Tim Hollo Cello & vocals – Peter Hollo

A Midsummer Night’s Dream [x]

Added an extra gif now that the DVD has been released to show just how long this kiss was. And because I like seeing all the audience members clapping. Slightly annoyed that the DVD gif doesn’t match the quality of the 1080p trailer gifs but what can you do…

“In The Wee Free Men, the village has a tradition of burying a shepherd with a piece of wool on his shroud, so that the recording angel will excuse him all those times during lambing when he failed to attend church — because a good shepherd should know that the sheep come first. I didn’t make that up. They used to do that in a village two miles from where I live. What I particularly liked about it was the implicit loyalist arrangement with God. Americans, I think, sometimes get puzzled by people in Ireland who call themselves loyalists yet would apparently up arms against the forces of the crown. But a loyalist arrangement is a dynamic accord. It doesn’t mean we will be blindly loyal to you. It means we will be loyal to you if you are loyal to us. If you act the way we think a king should act, you can be our king. And it seemed to me that these humble people of the village, putting their little piece of wool on the shroud, were saying, “If you are the God we think you are, you will understand. And if you are not the God we think you are, to Hell with you.” So much of Discworld has come from odd serendipitous discoveries like that.”

—  - Terry Pratchett, “Straight from the Heart, via the Groin,” A Slip of the Keyboard (via thelonelyskeptic)

when kafka said “all the love in the world is useless when there is total lack of understanding” and when richard siken said “if you love me, you don’t love me in a way I understand.”

John Keats, “Letter to Fanny Brawne,” 8 July 1819

pictures where the sea and sky are no longer distinguishable

Source

Beware!

I have realized that the perfect form of media must have a delicate balance between absolutely heart wrenching pure emotional devastation and the most ridiculous nonsense you have ever seen in your whole life

My best friend and I had a call recently—she’s back with her family for a bit helping out with some hometown stuff. As part of the stuff, she’s been going through a (deceased) relative’s scrapbook, compiled in the American Midwest circa 1870-1900 and featuring mostly cut-out figures from the ads of the day.

She talked about how painstaking this relative’s work was. (Apparently the relative was careful to cut out every finger, every cowlick; this was by no means carelessly or hastily assembled.) But she also she talked about how—the baby on the baking soda ad is ugly, it is so ugly, why anyone would clip this heinously ugly illustrated baby and paste it into a scrapbook? Why would you save the (terribly told, boring) ghost story that came with your box of soap?

(Why include these things in the first place? we asked each other. ”There’s a kind of anti-capitalism to it,” she mused.)

And we discussed that for a bit—how most of the images, stories, artists, and ads were local, not national; they’re pulled from [Midwestern state] companies’ advertisements in [Midwestern state] papers, magazines, and products. As a consequence, you’re not looking at Leyendecker or Norman Rockwell illustrations, but Johann Spatz-Smith from down the road, who took a drawing class at college.

(College is the state college, and he came home on weekends and in the summer to help with the farm or earn some money at the plant.)

But it also inspired a really interesting conversation about how—we have access to so much more art, better and more professional art, than any time in history. As my bff said, all you have to do to find a great, technically proficient and lovely representational image of a baby, is to google the right keywords. But for a girl living in rural [Midwestern state] of the late 1800s, it was the baking soda ad, or literal actual babies. There was no in-between, no heading out to the nearby art museum to study oil paintings of mother and child, no studying photographs and film—such new technologies hadn’t diffused to local newspapers and circulars yet, and were far beyond the average person’s means. But cheap, semi-amateur artists? Those were definitely around, scattered between towns and nearby smallish cities.

It was a good conversation, and made me think about a couple things—the weird entitlement that “professional” and expensive art instills in viewers, how it artificially depresses the appetite for messy unprofessional art, including your own; the way that this makes your tastes narrower, less interesting, less open.

By that I mean—maybe the baby isn’t ugly! Maybe you’ve just seen too many photorealistic babies. Maybe you haven’t really stopped to contemplate that your drawing of a baby (however crude, ugly, or limited) is the best drawing of a baby you can make, and the act of drawing that lumpen, ugly baby is more sacred and profoundly human than even looking at a Mary Cassatt painting.

And even if that isn’t the case….there was this girl in [American Midwestern state] for whom it was very, very important that she capture every finger, curl, and bit of shading for that ugly soap ad baby. And some one hundred years later, her great-something-or-other took pains to preserve her work—because how terribly human it is, to seek out all the art we can find that resonates with us, preserve it, adore it.

It might be the most human impulse we have.

Shameless cross-posting from Twitter is allowed when it’s objectively true

I’ve been making gay knights (and dames) collages on my phone at work

OH MY GOD LOOK AT THIS POSTCARD FROM 1880 IN THE MANCHESTER MUSEUM ARCHIVES

“festive image of Pleistocene mammals”

“a rink in the glacial period”

THIS IMAGE HAS SINGLE-HANDEDLY PUT ME IN THE FESTIVE MOOD

MERRY CHRISTMAS

This night, I say the name of the knife that wounds me still:

your hand almost gentle on the hilt; desire sliding neat

between my ribs, skin bruising soft as the rot-sweet peach.

I am reaching now for the pit of my heart, I am praying to you again.

I surrender my grieving made offering, I hail the winter

giving graceless way to spring—beg forgiveness by that awful

reverence, which I offer both what I love and what I fear.

Ode to Goncharov (1973), Yves Olade

these guys look like theyre fighting over how to make a soup

"hey can i put this in"

"NO ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME IT'LL RUIN IT"

being an older sibling is like. you've never known a life without me. mom yelled at me and it taught her she never wanted to yell at you. I painted my room purple and grey and then you did too. we live in the same house but I haven't spoken to you in months. I don't know your favorite color. I saw it was going to rain so I picked you up from school on my way home so your books wouldn't get wet. i was so worried when you woke up sick when you were three. you don't remember being sick. mom and dad made their worst mistakes with me and I'm glad they didn't make them with you. I'm doing everything for the first time so you won't be in the dark. I don't know any of your friend's names anymore. I used to know them all. if something happens to mom and dad you won't have to worry because everything will fall to me. you don't like to be home alone but even if you don't see me just knowing I'm there makes you feel better. at least that's what mom told me. you still give me jars to open for you because you can't quite get them. I only see you during dinner. i'd never even think about missing one of your concerts. I stand at the counter when I eat and now you do, too. when offered a selection of books you picked the same one I did when i was your age. I'm terrified you compare yourself to me. I love you. I don't know if you like me. I want you to. mom says dinner's ready