"Though she knew even less about radios than about Southern Californians, there were to both outward patterns a hieroglyphic sense of concealed meaning, of an intent to communicate.”

 

f-l-e-u-r-d-e-l-y-s:

 faig ahmeds Embroidered Art 

When you think of traditional carpets from Azerbaijan, the thought of contemporary art does not quickly spring to mind… but these beautiful, and modern works will change that. Faiq Ahmed, a native of the Eurasian nation, has taken his countries old-school art form and brought it beautifully into the current era, deconstructing the ancient process of weaving and adapting it to todays contemporary art forms.

red-lipstick:

GreenEyedMonster88 aka Lilly Sternmann (Germany) - Mothman, 2008    Drawings

red-lipstick:

GreenEyedMonster88 aka Lilly Sternmann (Germany) - Mothman, 2008    Drawings

illogicalcomicsestate:

deweyguyen:

Tom Toye

top is inside cover of Illogical Comics 8, middle: a page from a comic in one of the dimensions books, bottom: comic for Noel Freibert’s WEIRD torture garden show. 

Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years I’ve acquired stacks: One is leather, a rope of Rapunzel’s hair braids its spine. Another, tree-friendly, its pages reincarnated from diaries of poets who now sit in cubicles. One is small and black like a funeral dress, its pages lined like the hands of a widow. There’s even a furry blue one that looks like a shag rug or a monster that would hide under it— and I wonder why? For every blown out candle, every Mazel Tov, every turn of the tassel, you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages. It’s never a notebook we need. If we have a story to tell, an idea carbonating past the brim of us, we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin. In the absence of pens, we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number of a parting stranger until we become the craziest one on the subway. If you really love a writer, fuck her on a coffee table. Find a gravestone of someone who shares her name and take her to it. When her door is plastered with an eviction notice, do not offer your home. Say I Love You, then call her the wrong name. If you really love a writer, bury her in all your awful and watch as she scrawls her way out.

Megan Falley, “If You Really Love a Writer”  (via weaverofstars)

(Source: pigmenting)

I don’t think love is always a huge, cataclysmal emotional event. I think sometimes it sits in front of you for a very long time until you glance over and say, oh, there you are. I don’t think it’s your saving grace. I think it’s the hand that you hold while you save yourself. I don’t think it’s someone who sweeps you off your feet. I think it’s someone who stays right beside you and lets you walk on your own. I don’t think it’s always a blazing but temporary insanity of racing hearts and hormones. I think that’s the love that changes us. The love that should stay with us is the calm, deep, thorough knowing that you want to be with someone despite logical objections. And what may be even more important than anything is that I think you find your own love at the very edges of where other people’s love pushes you.