I’m tired of living in a box,
in the blinded wide sigh alley
of the cooped up side of the world
where all the people stare at the same four walls
and the only reason it ever gets any different
is when someone changes out a few photos
or paints a picture, maybe the entire wall
And if you put your hands down against the cardboard
the grain-paper feel of it sticks because it’s been raining-
hard enough to forget that you’re living in a box-
when all you can focus on is the sound of the rain
drumming out your head barely protecting the fact
Of living in a box.
I want the open air
In a field where people feel bad
Because the secret to freedom
Must be learned the hard way
Until you can taste love for someone else
Means giving up all freedom in order to be free
An open air that fills the lungs, floating up
Taking us like paper lanterns to the shadow of the moon
Love is a gift that is always taken and received
Letting you be a free in a open field next to the pine trees
That grow forever on this side of happiness
The trees that have sorrow carved in their trunks
Trunks that make the real boxes
The one you lay in at the end of the very last day
So that when I finally lay down, I will say,
“Life be good to those I love. Set them free.”
literally my favorite picture on the internet
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: “What is it you see
From up there always?—for I want to know.”
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time: “What is it you see?”
Mounting until she cowered under him.
“I will find out now—you must tell me, dear.”
She, in her place, refused him any help,
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that he wouldn’t see,
Blind creature; and awhile he didn’t see.
But at last he murmured, “Oh,” and again, “Oh.”
"What is it—what?" she said.
“Just that I see.”
"You don’t," she challenged. "Tell me what it is."
"The wonder is I didn’t see at once.
I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it—that’s the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?
There are three stones of slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill. We haven’t to mind those.
But I understand: it is not the stones,
But the child’s mound——”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t,” she cried.
She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his arm
That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
And turned on him with such a daunting look,
He said twice over before he knew himself:
“Can’t a man speak of his own child he’s lost?”
"Not you!—Oh, where’s my hat? Oh, I don’t need it!
I must get out of here. I must get air.—
I don’t know rightly whether any man can.”
"Amy! Don’t go to someone else this time.
Listen to me. I won’t come down the stairs.”
He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.
“There’s something I should like to ask you, dear.”
"You don’t know how to ask it."
“Help me, then.”
Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.
"My words are nearly always an offense.
I don’t know how to speak of anything
So as to please you. But I might be taught,
I should suppose. I can’t say I see how.
A man must partly give up being a man
With womenfolk. We could have some arrangement
By which I’d bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special you’re a-mind to name.
Though I don’t like such things ‘twixt those that love.
Two that don’t love can’t live together without them.
But two that do can’t live together with them.”
She moved the latch a little. “Don’t—don’t go.
Don’t carry it to someone else this time.
Tell me about it if it’s something human.
Let me into your grief. I’m not so much
Unlike other folks as your standing there
Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.
I do think, though, you overdo it a little.
What was it brought you up to think it the thing
To take your mother-loss of a first child
So inconsolably—in the face of love.
You’d think his memory might be satisfied——”
"There you go sneering now!"
“I’m not, I’m not!”
You make me angry. I’ll come down to you.
God, what a woman! And it’s come to this,
A man can’t speak of his own child that’s dead.”
"You can’t because you don’t know how to speak.
If you had any feelings, you that dug
With your own hand—how could you?—his little grave;
I saw you from that very window there,
Making the gravel leap and leap in air,
Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly
And roll back down the mound beside the hole.
I thought, Who is that man? I didn’t know you.
And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs
To look again, and still your spade kept lifting.
Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice
Out in the kitchen, and I don’t know why,
But I went near to see with my own eyes.
You could sit there with the stains on your shoes
Of the fresh earth from your own baby’s grave
And talk about your everyday concerns.
You had stood the spade up against the wall
Outside there in the entry, for I saw it.”
"I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.
I’m cursed. God, if I don’t believe I’m cursed.”
"I can repeat the very words you were saying:
‘Three foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.’
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn’t care! The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretense of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand.
But the world’s evil. I won’t have grief so
If I can change it. Oh, I won’t, I won’t!”
"There, you have said it all and you feel better.
You won’t go now. You’re crying. Close the door.
The heart’s gone out of it: why keep it up?
Amy! There’s someone coming down the road!”
"You—oh, you think the talk is all. I must go—
Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you——”
"If—you—do!" She was opening the door wider.
“Where do you mean to go? First tell me that.
I’ll follow and bring you back by force. I will!—”
Top piece- Rendition of Samo by David Flores
Bottom right- Another rendition of Samo by Scritch
Bottom Left- A piece by Jean-Michel Basquiat, also known as Samo
The first time I saw work by “Samo.” I thought it was dumb. Another artist putting shit on a board and calling it art. I’m not a huge fan of modern art. But the more you look at it, the more you think. There is no such thing as good or bad art in this world. All art makes you think, everything can cause you to think. Samo does that. “The Mona Lisa” is not interesting because it is an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Her smile is not particularly unique. It is only because you have no idea why she is smiling that it drives people up the wall to look harder at the painting. It causes you to wonder because you can never know. I still do not like Samo’s work but I think about it a great deal.
The Third Sunday of the Triodion Period: Sunday of The Last Judgement (Meatfare Sunday)
The Sunday of the Last Judgment is the third Sunday of a three-week period prior to the commencement of Great Lent. During this time, the services of the Church have begun to include hymns from the Triodion, a liturgical book that contains the services from the Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee, the tenth before Pascha (Easter), through Great and Holy Saturday. On this day, focus is placed on the future judgment of all persons who will stand before the throne of God when Christ returns in His glory.
The Sunday of the Last Judgment is also known as Meatfare Sunday. This is the last day that meat can be eaten before the Lenten fast. Dairy products are allowed on each day of this week, even Wednesday and Friday. The next Sunday is the Sunday of Cheesefare, It is the last day that dairy products can be eaten prior to the commencement of Great Lent.
On the Saturday before this Sunday, the first of three Saturdays of the Souls are held. This is a special commemoration on this and the next two Saturdays, when the Church offers a Divine Liturgy and Memorial Service for the departed faithful. This is considered a universal commemoration of the dead. It is closely related to the theme of the Sunday of the Last Judgment since the services focus on the Second Coming of Christ and the resurrection of the dead. Through the memorial services, the Church is commending to God all who have departed and who are now awaiting the Last Judgment.
Beautiful work of Kyle Thompson, somewhere on Tumblr too! It’s really cool how he uses motion to convey an emotion. I especially like the piece (not sure what it’s called) that has the book pages across his face- it looks like a wind had pushed it completely back. He’s really getting into that book (either that or it’s swallowing him whole. Cool beans!
Hey this is the work of Duane Michals. He’s one of the first photographers to use his photography to tell a story especially in a sequence. Pretty awesome dude!
Duct Tape fixes everything. Even if you are lost alone in the woods, you will have a topographical map in duct tape. Problem solved. Therefore duct tape fixes everything.
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