shehimbo

[shehimbo]

little weirds

#little weirds #collage #jenny slate #prose

[shehimbo]

Sandra Cisneros, ‘Bien Pretty’ from Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories

[shehimbo]

@poetryatmost / raymond carter / eileen myles / a month of changes by emility / olivia larson @poetbitesback / the months by linda pastan / tuck everlasting by natalie babbitt / dear august / morning sun by edward hopper / e.j.l. / sue monk kidd

[shehimbo]

angels in america/tony kushner

''You have to shed your skin, even if it's embedded with garnets and rubies. ''

- Letters of Summer Past (''Listy tamtego lata'')

[shehimbo]

A Monologue/ A Declaration in Front of Dead Birds ; do not repost 

[shehimbo]

“It’s this feeling that you want to love strangers, that you want to kiss the man at the post office, or the woman at the dry cleaners—you want to wrap your arms around life, life itself, but you can’t, and this feeling wells up in you, and there is nowhere to put this great happiness—and you’re floating—and then you fall down and become unbearably sad. And you have to go lie down on the couch.”

— Melancholy Play, Sarah Ruhl (via feminartistry)

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“Last night I couldn’t sleep and couldn’t sleep just because I wanted so badly to spill over to someone. I feel that I’m cut off from all humankind. I feel like putting my head on your shoulder and weeping from sheer homesickness.”

— Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Aurelia Plath c. June 1951 featured in Letters Home: Correspondence 1950-1963 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[shehimbo]

i wanted to feel loved without feeling like i was begging for it

[shehimbo]

I really feel like Television should enter an era of allowing happy endings. That’s not to say characters can’t suffer along the way or that storylines can’t be “dark” but I would really like to see stories end on hopeful notes. I’m so sick of every story having tragic endings, especially considering the world we live in right now. Call me naive, I don’t care, but hope breeds hope. Love breeds love. Happiness breeds happiness. Allowing our characters to overcome and find the light in the end is powerful. Allowing characters to be happy is brave because happiness is not boring. I feel like we’re surrounded by dark stories in fiction and in reality and I find myself wondering where’s the hope and happiness.. is no one overcoming the darkness?

[shehimbo]

one of my favorite things about human physiology is the way our eyes change when we look at someone we love. our pupils dilate automatically like they do when it’s dark outside and they’re trying to let more light in. except now it’s the light of your favorite person. the edges of our eyes soften a little and they sometimes even get watery which we also can’t control. tears of joy. we tend to raise our eyebrows as if we’re trying to make our eyes bigger. trying to get a better vision and seeing all the details. we tend to blink less than usual just to make the moment last a bit longer. even if it’s just a second. or when you smile at someone with your entire face involved and your eyes just crinkle and create a sparkle in them. and it all happens so effortlessly and universally.

[shehimbo]

so sad that we are surrounded by birds and most ppl dont even look at them. how can you look at the beloved pigeon and not admire its stupid little waddle and delightful little rump? how can you see the humble house sparrow and not be enraptured by its adorable little cap and splendid black bib? how can you see a seagull and not admire it’s size (very big when you think about it) and it’s tenacity in targeting humans, the most obnoxious and dangerous of all gods creatures? open your eyes 

#birds!!

[shehimbo]

blue lips by regina spektor

• <- earth from far away

#fav

[shehimbo]

“After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: if anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately. Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu-biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—she stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late. Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother until we got on the plane and would ride next to her—Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out, of course, they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—non-alcoholic—and the two little girls from our flight, one African American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice and lemonade, and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”

— Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”

[shehimbo]

Jenny Slate, Stage Fright (2019)

[shehimbo]

halfway: amélie // creation of adam: michelangelo // infinitesimal: mother mother

#ok this is my first try on this sort of thing; be gentle #web weaving #parallels #michelangelo #mother mother #creation of adam #amelie #quotes #music #art

[shehimbo]

ON BATHING YOUR LOVER

Ilya Kaminsky, “While the Child Sleeps Sonya Undresses” / Joni Mitchell, All I Want / John Edmonds, “Men Like Us,” New York Times Style Magazine / u/expensivetill9 on Reddit / Mitski, I Will / Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe / David Hockney, Domestic Scene / Elizabeth Bishop, “The Shampoo” / Homer, The Odyssey

[shehimbo]

WHAT is that one poem (?), abt a modern worker contemplating the numerous forgotten who were actually responsible for all the ‘great’ deeds of history