this is quite fun to do because i don’t have to think that much but i got too carried away and now the proportions of the face is wrong??? i’ll probably do a second piece but idk maybe in red or purple or even just plain b/w.
They say there are five stages of grief.
The first is when I wait for you to come home even though it’s 4.37am. I wait for you for a month, and I save portions for your dinner.
The second is when I break all the cups you’ve used. I tear up all the sheets you’ve slept on. I scream at the walls for not warning me.
The third is when I call and say, can we be friends? I cooked your favourite, will you come over for a last supper?
The fourth is when you say no and I finish eating five tubs of ice cream in an hour. It’s when I lay in bed and cry over the clothes you left behind.
The fifth is when I pack up all your things and mail them to her address. I paint the walls. I scrub the floors.
We burnt alive, and I was born out of the flames.
owwww my heart
B E A U T Y dir. Rino Stefano Tagliafierro
For every road we can’t retrace
For every memory we can’t face
For every name that’s been erased
Let’s have another round
May I propose a little toast?
For all the ones who hurt the most
For all the friends that we have lost
Let’s give them one more round of applause
But you’re like a party somebody threw me
You taste like birthday
You look like New Year
You’re like a big parade through town
That leaves such a mess but you’re so fun
October, 2013, I used to fall asleep to the melancholy lullabies of your memory each night. Tossing and turning I’d hope the thoughts of you would seep out of my ears if I moved with enough force, but my attempts always failed. You see, when you were mine, and as your fingers would travel along the landscape of my limbs, seeds were planted within my bones. Your love would arrive in the form of a storm, and I was always without my umbrella. I remember feeling the rosebuds cracking through my marrow; my skin flushing the crimson color of their newborn petals. Their roots rejoiced to the nurturing of your lips as they danced across my flesh. But only a year after you planted your garden, a drought abruptly roared over my plains. Those once luscious flower beds on my bones have now been long wilted, for my heart is void of the kind of love it desires the most.
Your voice was an octave equal to the song of the birds in the early morning, waking up the Earth. And it was not until I was no longer awoken by it, and I forgot its sweet melody, that I realized heartbreak does indeed fade away. At some point my memories of you started to become diluted, some of them possibly existing as figments of my own imagination, never having existed in the first place. And even if I wish not to admit it, I’d fantasize about your next relationship. What if you loved them more? What if you forgot about me? It is hard for one to imagine a love with anyone but their ex-lover, so we scoff at how they seem so unaffected by the sadness they’ve inflicted on our hearts. But experiencing these overwhelming daydreams only lead me to the same realization that forgetting the sound of your voice did. One day I will love someone new just as you will. And maybe his hands will plant a new flower all of his own in the bones you have left behind.
Artifacts of you will still resurface when the future farmers of your old land harrow the soil, and when they do I will dust them off and position them proudly on my mantle. Because it is okay to hold onto distant times. I will never apologize for the days I spend dreaming, or the evenings I bathe in nostalgia. I refuse to let go of the memory of how your eyes were the colors of emeralds I wish I could wear around my neck. And I may never cease reliving the ecstasy that was once so plentiful because I can’t just let you fade away. I loved you first. These are my memories— only I can control their fate— and they are what will make me feel alive. No matter where you are, you will always be with me, and although we may no longer be in love, I still love you.
But while I’m here I must not deprive myself of joy, for we’ll all become just impressions in the bed sheets one day.
The Tide II
Newcastle Island, 2014
I have always had a fascination with detail shots, so for this image I decided to crop in more closely, so that you can better see the debris, the water, the insects, and the texture of the sea grass.
Johnny Savage - Fallout
“Fallout is a series of photographs that considers the modern Irish landscape; a landscape where empty buildings stand like ruins, reminders of another time or place in history. Appearing like portals to a different world, they quietly haunt the periphery of towns and cities, anonymous, the same, in a limbo of dream and reality…”
"White feminism" does not mean every white woman, everywhere, who happens to identify as feminist. It also doesn’t mean that every "white feminist" identifies as white. I see "white feminism" as a specific set of single-issue, non-intersectional, superficial feminist practices. It is the feminism we understand as mainstream; the feminism obsessed with body hair, and high heels and makeup, and changing your married name. It is the feminism you probably first learned. "White feminism" is the feminism that doesn’t understand western privilege, or cultural context. It is the feminism that doesn’t consider race as a factor in the struggle for equality.
White feminism is a set of beliefs that allows for the exclusion of issues that specifically affect women of colour. It is “one size-fits all” feminism, where middle class white women are the mould that others must fit. It is a method of practicing feminism, not an indictment of every individual white feminist, everywhere, always.
"We do almost everything together, we live together, we share a studio. We’re one of those couples that probably spend way too much time together. A lot of people say that’s unhealthy and I can definitely agree: you need private time. But somehow it does work for us, we collaborate on different things, we help each other with everything, I’ll ask him a million questions, he asks me a million questions…In a way, everything is a collaboration when you’re so closely involved with someone. I don’t know if people like it, but we enjoy doing it. And we cook together!"