but miracles do happen, every shining now and then
| Writing | History | Charles Lightoller was a BAMF | LSDLN era | "perhaps, when we examine this story, we can find it's scary in a different way, and maybe also hopeful."
Teach the children. We don't matter so much, but the children do. Show them daisies and the pale hepatica. Teach them the taste of sassafras and wintergreen. The lives of the blue sailors, mallow, sunbursts, the moccasin flowers. And the frisky ones – inkberry, lamb's-quarters, blueberries. And the aromatic ones – rosemary, oregano. Give them peppermint to put in their pockets as they go to school. Give them the fields and the woods and the possibility of the world salvaged from the lords of profit. Stand them in the stream, head them upstream, rejoice as they learn to love this space they live in, its sticks and leaves and then the silent, beautiful blossoms. Attention is the beginning of devotion.
“guess you can never have enough closet space…” “ain’t that the truth. right, evan?” is a line i think none of you are fully taking in cause the first time i heard it i slammed my computer shut and took a lap around the house
calling myself babe when I'm talking to myself. in a pitying but loving way. like babe you gotta get up. babe why are you doing this. babe you're giving me nothing here
@melisusthewee me still having a galaxy brain moment after our brainstorming last night 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯 GOD NEVER ABANDONED MARCELO. HE WAS THERE THE WHOLE TIME, EMBODIED IN HIS FRIENDS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
one day I’ll finally write that ridiculously elaborate fanfiction that I’ve been carefully constructing in my daydreams for months and then you’ll be sorry. you’ll all be sorry.
“What makes a poem a poem, finally, is that it is unparaphrasable. There is no other way to say exactly this; it exists only in its own body of language, only in these words. I may try to explain it or represent it in other terms, but then some element of its life will always be missing. It’s the same with painting. All I can say of still life must finally fall short; I may inventory, weigh, suggest, but I cannot circumscribe; some element of mystery will always be left out. What is missing is, precisely, its poetry.”
— Mark Doty, from Still Life With Oysters and Lemon