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pixography:

Salvador Dali ~ “The Stillness of Time”, 1975

Also known as “La Noblesse du Temps, Persistance de la memoire”, Dali infused this masterpiece with elements he depicted during his own lifelong obsession with sex and the fleeting passage of time. With the bravura of an Old Master draftsman, Dalí delineates with great flourish the figures flanking the melting timepiece.
Sensuously rendered, Venus stands at the left holding a mirror, an attribute for vanity and lust.  She is self-absorbed and seemingly unaware that she is entangled in Vulcan’s net. At the right sits an angel, a divine messenger of life and death, in contemplation before the keeper of time in our waking state. In the dream state, however, the watch or clock is no longer relevant; our reality has morphed the distortion of time and memories become obfuscated. <source>

pixography:

Salvador Dali ~ “The Stillness of Time”, 1975

Also known as “La Noblesse du Temps, Persistance de la memoire”, Dali infused this masterpiece with elements he depicted during his own lifelong obsession with sex and the fleeting passage of time. With the bravura of an Old Master draftsman, Dalí delineates with great flourish the figures flanking the melting timepiece.

Sensuously rendered, Venus stands at the left holding a mirror, an attribute for vanity and lust.  She is self-absorbed and seemingly unaware that she is entangled in Vulcan’s net. At the right sits an angel, a divine messenger of life and death, in contemplation before the keeper of time in our waking state. In the dream state, however, the watch or clock is no longer relevant; our reality has morphed the distortion of time and memories become obfuscated. <source>

(via tierradentro)

“you have had love, and that means
your sternum is a divining rod

for both passion and grief. because the tongue is the body’s
strongest muscle, make it say

joy. make it say I am a factory of splendid things. make it say
the octopus is the smartest animal

in the animal kingdom, and I am an octopus.
I am an octopus.
I am happy. my survival

was not an accident, or purposeless.”
—Marty McConnell, “zoo,” published on Roots of She (via bostonpoetryslam)

(via writingsforwinter)

I’ve always wanted to begin a poem
with the line, “I’ve always wanted
to begin.” Now I have. Best to end here,

but then the universe is expanding
back into its black beginnings,
and space, aware of its own looming demise,

is singing of possibilities. I’m almost over, it sings,
it’s almost over and sooner or later we’d be left
with nothing but time. If we live that long.

Sometime before then all our dialects
will have moored on the gray sands of forgetting,
all our sad words will have started

to repeat themselves, as if sound didn’t dissipate
into stillness, as if not everything has been said before.
Here, let me tell you a joke: I am a man of faith.

Or a child, a tree, some living thing
that will someday be a dead thing.
What does faith have to do with it? I know;

it isn’t funny. Nothing funny about mortality,
how movement bleeds into clockwork,
how clockwork succumbs to its own igneous finitude.

How we aid entropy by being born.
See? I only wanted to begin, now I’m humming
the ghost-heavy refrain of imminent endings.

In that song about possibilities, someone
is hurling an empty bottle skyward. I see you:
You’re imagining it slowing towards its peak,

anticipating gravity, its ruthless duty. Stop.
Don’t. Let’s go. Let’s not be around when it shatters.
Let’s not wait for an ending.

—“Poem That Had Some Difficulty With the First Line,” Mikael de Lara Co (via commovente)

(via squeats)

“… the hunter’s heart,
the hunter’s mouth, the trees and the trees and the
space between the trees, swimming in gold.”
—Excerpt from Richard Siken’s “Snow and Dirty Rain”  (via commovente)
“And yet, in a time where the mainstream seems to continually question the power and validity of art, and especially of poetry, its need, its purpose, in a generation obsessed with appearances, of status updates and smiling selfies bathed (corrected?) in the golden light of filters, in which it has become more and more difficult for us to say aloud, to one another: I am hurt. I am scared. What happens now?, the poem, like the fire escape, as feeble and thin as it is, has become my most concentrated architecture of resistance. A place where I can be as honest as I need to—because the fire has already begun in my home, swallowing my most valuable possessions—and even my loved ones. My uncle is gone. I will never know exactly why. But I still have my body and with it these words, hammered into a structure just wide enough to hold the weight of my living. I want to use it to talk about my obsessions and fears, my odd and idiosyncratic joys. I want to leave the party through the window and find my uncle standing on a piece of iron shaped into visible desperation, which must also be (how can it not?) the beginning of visible hope. I want to stay there until the building burns down. I want to love more than death can harm. And I want to tell you this often: That despite being so human and so terrified, here, standing on this unfinished staircase to nowhere and everywhere, surrounded by the cold and starless night—we can live. And we will.”The Weight Of Our Living: On Hope, Fire Escapes, and Visible Desperation by Ocean Vuong (via letters-to-nobody)

(via letters-to-nobody)

“You belong here and everything you feel is okay
Everything you feel is okay”
—Andrea Gibson - Panic Button Collector (via soyamilkandonesugar)

(via featherumbrellas)

hwighting:

Claude MonetWater Lillies (1907)Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

hwighting:

Claude Monet
Water Lillies (1907)

Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

(via mariannapaige)

“I think…if it is true that there are as many minds as there are heads, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts.” —Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy (via larmoyante)
tierradentro:

“Still Life with Melon and Peaches”, c.1866, Edouard Manet.

tierradentro:

Still Life with Melon and Peaches”, c.1866, Edouard Manet.

“She felt everything too deeply, it was like the world was too much for her.” —Joyce Maynard, Labor Day (via raspberrymilk)
artmastered:

Vincent van Gogh, Roses, 1889, oil on canvas, 33 x 41.3 cm, The National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo.

artmastered:

Vincent van Gogh, Roses, 1889, oil on canvas, 33 x 41.3 cm, The National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo.

(via guiseofgentlewords)

(Source: pyyrite, via guiseofgentlewords)

“be softer with you. you are a breathing thing. a memory to someone. a home to a life.” —nayyirah waheed  (via origamiprincesss)

(Source: nayyirahwaheed, via thetalltwig)

aseaofquotes:

Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

aseaofquotes:

Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

“I’m just tired; I just want the world to be quiet for a bit.” —Matty Healy (via rnoonphase)

(Source: hajniil, via pavorst)