Subjective Visual Perception

...my favorite word is movement. I love the way sugar tastes when it's sprinkled on a lemon, and the sound of your voice when my head is lying on your chest. I wish it were raining. Or that the sun was shining on the sea
hummusrevolutionaryfront:

'Just had my day brightened up. Big Caribbean army bloke in front of me on the DLR knitting. Old lady turns to him and says “I didn't know men could knit”. He turns to her and in his best Caribbean accent says “No ma'am, the only thing men can't do is have babies. And there's nothing women can't do.” '
DLR= Docklands Light Railway, London

This is pretty hilarious and adorable

hummusrevolutionaryfront:

'Just had my day brightened up. Big Caribbean army bloke in front of me on the DLR knitting. Old lady turns to him and says “I didn't know men could knit”. He turns to her and in his best Caribbean accent says “No ma'am, the only thing men can't do is have babies. And there's nothing women can't do.” '

DLR= Docklands Light Railway, London

This is pretty hilarious and adorable

(via givemeallthebaconandeggs)

merciful heavens
(source unknown)

merciful heavens

(source unknown)

Tip…see? (an original piece)

I love it because in my regular life all my muscles are taut and my nerves constantly humming, just out of tune.

And then a quick burn and there is a marvelous sensation of softening and turning into the sea.

I like to imagine myself, pupils blown a bit wider, all lush mouth and soft arms, wide and welcoming, warm and wild and cool…like the sea can be.

I like knowing that my panicked form knows how to loosen and bend and open to joy.

Because stepping out of this silly tight case I’ve built for myself is more rejoicing than release.

I once told a joke about a straight person.

They came after me in droves.

Each one singing the same:

Don’t fight fire with fire.

*

What they mean is: Don’t fight fire with anything.

Do not fight fire with water.

Do not fight fire with foam.

Do not evacuate the people.

Do not sound the alarms.

Do not crawl coughing and choking and spluttering to safety.

Do not barricade the door with damp towels.

Do not wave a white flag out of the window.

Do not take the plunge from several storeys up.

Do not shed a tear for your lover trapped behind a wall of flame.

Do not curse the combination of fuel, heat, and oxygen.

Do not ask why the fire fighters are not coming.

*

When they say: Don’t fight fire with fire.

What they mean is: Stand and burn.

Stand and Burn by Claudia Boleyn.  (via claudiaboleyn)

(via official-mens-frights-activist)

thosemightbestars:

I came to the burn this year with the intention of finding love. It didn’t need to be love on the playa. It didn’t need to be physical love. It needed to be the feeling of love. I needed to feel loved. I went to a wish station and wrote “LOVE” on a ribbon to tie onto the Temple of Grace. Next to the marker was a stamp “I am Loved” it said. It clicked. I stamped my left arm with the stamp and yelled “I am loved!”. I am loved by my friends. I am loved by my family. I am loved by my community. I am loved by my cats, by my neighbors, by the people who walk by and smile. It is not love that I need. I crave connection. I need someone who understands and accepts me for who I am. But I already have love. And I was in the perfect place to find connection too. Looking back, the first thing I found on the playa was love. This was the first second photo I took at burning man in 2014 (the first one had the genie bottle in the “O” but Embrace suddenly appeared and seemed so meaningful). Literally, I found Love as soon as I got there.


This woman…she is breathtaking. I have never wanted to go to Burning Man until I saw it through her beautiful words and stunning pictures.

thosemightbestars:

I came to the burn this year with the intention of finding love. It didn’t need to be love on the playa. It didn’t need to be physical love. It needed to be the feeling of love. I needed to feel loved. I went to a wish station and wrote “LOVE” on a ribbon to tie onto the Temple of Grace. Next to the marker was a stamp “I am Loved” it said. It clicked. I stamped my left arm with the stamp and yelled “I am loved!”. I am loved by my friends. I am loved by my family. I am loved by my community. I am loved by my cats, by my neighbors, by the people who walk by and smile. It is not love that I need. I crave connection. I need someone who understands and accepts me for who I am. But I already have love. And I was in the perfect place to find connection too. Looking back, the first thing I found on the playa was love. This was the first second photo I took at burning man in 2014 (the first one had the genie bottle in the “O” but Embrace suddenly appeared and seemed so meaningful). Literally, I found Love as soon as I got there.

This woman…she is breathtaking. I have never wanted to go to Burning Man until I saw it through her beautiful words and stunning pictures.

On the occasion of a new arrival - an original piece

You were born in just spring, when the air was liquid with orange blossoms.

It had been warm for weeks but your arrival felt like new, and so you will always make me think of spring, my young man.

Your mother, my dearest friend, cupped the fragile bird egg of your skull, wreathed with whorls of amber. She counted your toes. She measured the length of your eyelashes. We do this, we mothers.

You were a mirror image of your sister, your pouting mouth a grimace against the cold, the loss of the breast. Even the squint of your eyes, twinned to her, like the sea after a storm, like rain.

Your face, so small and fresh, was composed. I could see that your mother saw a symphony on your countenance.

It had been warm for weeks when you made her, my friend, my sister, when you made her a mother twice over. When she cradled your long thin bones, when she tallied your eyelashes and the flutter of your breath and you curled against her like a flower.

We number these things, we mothers, these tiny details in the first moments of knowing you outside of our bodies. They join the lists we made as we grew you, the countless things we treasured up in our hearts from the moment we knew you.

We hoard these treasures against the hard days, the weak days. We know that there will be days when the weight and noise of the music of your life will overpower us, we mothers. Will drown out who we are, what we have done, what we are doing. There will be days when we lose a step, when we will not be at our best. We memorize the song of your life against the discordant clang of the world.

I write to tell you, my sweet new small one, that we mothers are not always perfect. That we will fail you. But our love is fierce and forgiving. Our pride in you is endless and deep. I write to tell you that we are not composers…not usually.

But as I watched your mother looking into your face on that warm afternoon in March, watched her drink in the heady scent of orange blossoms, watched her marvel at the power of her body. As I watched her trace your face with her tired hands, I knew:

You are the finest symphony she’s ever written.

Warsan Shire’s “for women who are ‘difficult’ to love”

And they will stand, for the Lord is able to make them stand.

—Romans 14: 1-22  Love your neighbor Christian. Them’s the rules…no exceptions. NO EXCEPTIONS