texturism

love [remixed by ta-ku] | daughter

dare me? fine - more daugther - get after this. my goodness.!

between two hands. shibori goodness. | via designed-for-life: awelltraveledwoman

forever | julianna barwick

wow. always and forever, julianna. this moves, you will move …

the beautiful centerpiece is elle, elle luna. a dear - in a new way - friend. i’ll keep it simple, i couldn’t be more proud of her. weeks after leaving her job as lead designer for an app you’re likely using - to paint full time - she decided to take a bigger leap - her first solo show. this only happens once and she’s pulling it off with aggressive deadlines. but that’s elle! she moves, she’s decisive, she gets things done. if you’re in SF, you’d be crazy [as in please don’t miss her show] not to visit her pop up at the ian ross gallery on thursday may 24 at 7pm. get there!

the poem is about the heart. not the heart as in “i’m in love” or “my girl cheated on me”—i mean the conscious heart, the fact that we are the only things in the entire universe that know true consciousness. we’re the only things—leaving religion out of it—we’re the only things in the world that know spring is coming. we’re the only things in the world that know spring is coming. i love the imagery there. i love the idea of knowing there is life on the other side of winter. no matter where you are, what you’re going through, what you are feeling, etc, etc, there is life on the other side of it. spring is coming.

- jack gilbert, spring is coming | via jarrettfuller [emphasis mine]

a summer kid, i’d say. always summer. but this year i’ve realized that spring is my season and has been since that spring on martha’s vineyard with my nana, helen. we moved out there to live at one of my aunt’s homes in lambert’s cove. the rolling hills, sweet ocean smells, the horses [damn fine creatures], the blossoms, Oh The Blossoms. that was the year that i learned the order in which the colors appeared. we needed color, something new each day to brighter her last days. it was inevitable but when was the question. when hovered and at times lingered on the tip of my tongue. but i never mentioned it to anyone. not a single person. it was life as usual on the island. camp with nana, i’d say. and boy did we have fun as we wrote the last chapter of her life, together. [that’s what i told 300 of her closest friends the following september as i stood up there in red not black because she didn’t get to wear that red dress for her 80th birthday. so i did. for her, for us, for love.] i easily assumed the role of gardener and cook because she was the very best teacher. she must have known all those years that her quiet yet consistent lessons were teaching me to - eventually - take care of her. during the first week away from the nursing home, her shoulders lowered for the first time in her life after raising 5 kids on her own. she didn’t know my name, but she knew that she knew me. she knew that i was her friend. she called me pretty girl, i didn’t mind at all. she knew that i would greet her every morning with a cup of juice as i opened the curtains to reveal sun or rain - which didn’t matter - because the birds were always there to entertain. we would talk a little bit while holding hands. she was chatty in the mornings about nothing and everything. the simple conversations were profound. she was - in her way - saying goodbye a little bit each day … to me, to the world. and then breakfast, always warm cornbread muffins baked with fresh berries from the farmers market. and don’t forget the butter - never measured, nothing was. she taught me the art of handling food with care, with love. it was all about handfuls, pinches, dashes, splashes and always mix with your hands. get in there with your hands, she’d say, that’s the secret. probably the best secret anyone has confided in me. spring feels like my nana. graceful yet determined. beautiful.

let’s sit here. oval saddle leather chair by garza furniture | via youmightfindyourself

by jenny holzer | via kateoplis

wisdom from my fearless muse. - elleluna [my fearless friend]

shallows | daughter

gorgeous, as always. from if you leave.

posture + gaze. nina donis ss 2013. | via filomenasmarket: harveyfaircloth

replica | oneohtrix point never

[revisiting + on repeat] there’s a wall that divides my kitchen and living room with an opening at both ends. great flow, i said first time i climbed the 5 flights to see it. i’ll take it. a deposit check signed, a sunny walk back to my office in harvard square. proximity was/is key. mission accomplished. a pattern often traced from the kitchen through the entryway to my bedroom or bathroom. the other end opens into my living room with a view of the boston skyline [second selling point] from the zakim bridge to kenmore square. if you know boston, you’re probably wondering how? and then wow, really? there’s a comfortable sofa that takes up just enough space but i prefer sit in the window. i wonder about the stories. there are so many. french lentils with a torn piece of kombu + chopped dried figs + a dash of ground clove simmering on the stovetop. greens sweating in combination of miso + tahini + orange juice blended with cayenne. raw goat’s milk cheese, waiting. bare feet on hardwood making circles or ovals? rectangles is more like it. in and out of the openings, up and down. a monday evening supper dance …

no one wants to live in fear. i’ve always been scared of saying the wrong thing. i don’t sleep well. i never have. but each time i tell another person, i feel stronger and sleep a little more soundly. it takes an enormous amount of energy to guard such a big secret. i’ve endured years of misery and gone to enormous lengths to live a lie. i was certain that my world would fall apart if anyone knew. and yet when i acknowledged my sexuality i felt whole for the first time.

- jason collins, on being gay | via sportsillustrated [emphasis mine]

to whole the halves. to live more fully.

suddenly, i realized where i was standing. black, boarded up windows for two stories.

a single bouquet laid still wrapped, looking more like they had been forgotten there than left as an offering.

a woman clad in black running gear raised her arms over her head as she yelled a tired cheer, a friend filming her crossing of the finish line. her do-over on a warm spring boston dusk. i might have been the only spectator. it felt like a prayer. it felt like an answer to a question i didn’t know how to ask. she kept running.

- @jennymack on a female runner crossing the boston marathon finish line

i was thinking about my friends today. the dear ones. the special few. the loyal companions. jenny was included. she is one of my first twitter-turned-real-life friends. we met online during the early days of twitter and tried to meet a few times in real life but it never worked because one or the other would reschedule. you know how it goes. oh but then the first twestival. do you remember? probably not. we would meet there, finally. only we didn’t because it was shoulder-to-shoulder packed. a few days later pictures were posted to flickr, tagged and circulated on twitter. wait, what? we met! a tweet to jenny. we were standing next to each other in a picture. like i said shoulder-to-shoulder. we’re all connected.

childhood’s end | majical cloudz | via headunderwater

wow - gets in there … powerful + stunning.

a lovely mess. inside faile studio. by jamie beck