Words to keep inside your pocket:
- Quiescent - a quiet, soft-spoken soul.
- Chimerical - merely imaginary; fanciful.
- Susurrus - a whispering or rustling sound.
- Raconteur - one who excels in story-telling.
- Clinquant - glittering; tinsel-like.
- Aubade - a song greeting the dawn.
- Ephemeral - lasting a very short time.
- Sempiternal - everlasting; eternal.
- Euphonious - pleasing; sweet in sound.
- Billet-doux - a love letter.
- Redamancy - act of loving in return.
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Under Flowers Flow theme is designed by Smallbit.Net.
Edits by me.
Today I receive a postcard of
a blue guitar. Here snow falls with wings,
tumbling in its feathered body, melting
on the window glass. How each evening becomes
another beautiful woman holding
the color of expensive sapphires
against her throat, I’ll never know.
It is an ordinary clarity.
So then was it music?
Something like love or
words, a sentimental moment once
years ago, that blue sky?
How soon the sky and I have grown apart.
On the postcard, an old man hangs
half-dead, strung over his instrument, and what
I have imagined is half-dead, too. Our bones
end hollow, sky blue; the flute comes untuned.
My entry for Let’s Draw Sherlock, based on Mucha’s The Moon:
Oh. My. God.
These awesome photos, in which rolling waves appear to be both perfectly frozen in time and miraculously made solid, are the work of French photographer Pierre Carreau.
Carreau “shoots waves with a variety of high speed cameras using various macro and wide angle lenses, capturing water shapes that appear more sculptural than liquid.”
Visit his Pierre Carreau’s website to view many more examples of his amazing work. He also offers prints of some of his images via Clic Gallery.
[via Colossal]
And this is how we danced: our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August
turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers
sweeping through my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned
to heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart
there are two headless people building a burning house.
In case of rain, there was always the shotgun
above the fireplace. Always another hour to kill—only
to beg some god to return the seconds. If not the attic,
the car. If not the car, the dream. If not the boy, his clothes.
If not alive, put down the phone. Because the year
is a distance we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say:
this is how we danced: alone in sleeping bodies.
Which is to say: this is how we loved: a knife on the tongue
turning into a tongue.
“Home Wrecker,” Ocean Vuong (via commovente)
This Stardust styled shoot is nothing short of magical! The details capture the enchantment of the book perfectly but my favorite part by far is the wonderful camera trick that turned the bride into a luminous star herself!
- via Fab You Bliss
Morning After, by Lindsay Bottos (x)
Thoughts about the impermanence of a hook up written in permanent marker in the places he touched.
“I’ll never forget the day Marilyn and I were walking around New York City, just having a stroll on a nice day. She loved New York because no one bothered her there like they did in Hollywood, she could put on her plain-jane clothes and no one would notice her. She loved that. So as we we’re walking down Broadway, she turns to me and says ‘Do you want to see me become her?’ I didn’t know what she meant but I just said ‘Yes’- and then I saw it. I don’t know how to explain what she did because it was so very subtle, but she turned something on within herself that was almost like magic. And suddenly cars were slowing and people were turning their heads and stopping to stare. They were recognizing that this was Marilyn Monroe as if she pulled off a mask or something, even though a second ago nobody noticed her. I had never seen anything like it before.” - Amy Greene, wife of Marilyn’s personal photographer Milton Greene
