obsessively examining the slings & arrows of outrageous pop culture



ARCHIVE: happy as kings


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the morning after the supermoon

a green smear of summer leaves frames the path as we walk on dennings point.
the crumbling old cider mill bites into the soft ground while the river looks out from its eyeless sockets.
we watch from above the train tracks as the 11:12 metro-north fills up the horizon line & comes closer & closer so much faster than our heartbeats.
at the outdoor market by the water, vendors cluster with apricots & iced coffee, jars of honey, homemade falafel, vegan ice cream with coconut milk & cardamom, hummus with garlic & lemon juice, & multi-flavored jams.

tiny twins wait on the platform with their father, both dressed in red t-shirts.
inside the train car, the metallic reek of nail polish as teenage girls aim towards manhattan like strong young arrows.
young men crunch salt & vinegar potato chips & surf the web on a silver macbook air.
i am filled with a dull ache from the empty space where my final wisdom tooth was extracted four days ago.
the bridge. then harlem. & home.

(c) hollycara
july 13 2014

Remembering this day three years ago when I had the extreme pleasure of sitting down for tea with my childhood idol Marianne Faithfull. Earl Grey, black, no sugar.

Kilkenny, July 2013


Anne Lamott

best photo of the week and it’s only Monday

(via tedr)


barnabas, quentin and the mummy’s curse by marilyn ross, 1970


Myrna Loy, Shimmer (via)

(via lostsplendor)

The only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.

Ted Hughes (via explore-blog)

(via explore-blog)

RIGHT TO LIFE ~ by Marge Piercy

A woman is not a basket you place
your buns in to keep them warm. Not a brood
hen you can slip duck eggs under.
Not the purse holding the coins of your
descendants till you spend them in wars.
Not a bank where your genes gather interest
and interesting mutations in the tainted
rain, any more than you are.

You plant corn and you harvest
it to eat or sell. You put the lamb
in the pasture to fatten and haul it in to
butcher for chops. You slice the mountain
in two for a road and gouge the high plains
for coal and the waters run muddy for
miles and years. Fish die but you do not
call them yours unless you wished to eat them.

Now you legislate mineral rights in a woman.
You lay claim to her pastures for grazing,
fields for growing babies like iceberg
lettuce. You value children so dearly
that none ever go hungry, none weep
with no one to tend them when mothers
work, none lack fresh fruit,
none chew lead or cough to death and your
orphanages are empty. Every noon the best
restaurants serve poor children steaks.
At this moment at nine o’clock a partera
is performing a table top abortion on an
unwed mother in Texas who can’t get
Medicaid any longer. In five days she will die
of tetanus and her little daughter will cry
and be taken away. Next door a husband
and wife are sticking pins in the son
they did not want. They will explain
for hours how wicked he is,
how he wants discipline.

We are all born of woman, in the rose
of the womb we suckled our mother’s blood
and every baby born has a right to love
like a seedling to sun. Every baby born
unloved, unwanted, is a bill that will come
due in twenty years with interest, an anger
that must find a target, a pain that will
beget pain. A decade downstream a child
screams, a woman falls, a synagogue is torched,
a firing squad is summoned, a button
is pushed and the world burns.

I will choose what enters me, what becomes
of my flesh. Without choice, no politics,
no ethics lives. I am not your cornfield,
not your uranium mine, not your calf
for fattening, not your cow for milking.
You may not use me as your factory.
Priests and legislators do not hold shares
in my womb or my mind.
This is my body. If I give it to you
I want it back. My life
is a non-negotiable demand.


F Train

Hershey Queens!!


LITTLE HOUSE by iambexx on Flickr.

(via luabi)

MUSIC MEN PREFER HILTON BLONDES. Ad from the Glorious 1960’s.


- Mary Oliver, The Uses Of Sorrow

(via utnereader)

Dr. Seuss reimagined by the good folks at Burning Man 2011

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