a thousand loving suns

mzatonyi: Paris, 1853, Draped model by Eugéne Durieu and Eugéne...

Tue, 21 May 2013 18:10:28 +0200

mzatonyi:

Paris, 1853, Draped model

by

Eugéne Durieu and Eugéne Delacroix.

Photo

Sun, 12 May 2013 21:23:00 +0200

booksvscigarettes: Old map of Constantinople

Sun, 12 May 2013 01:14:04 +0200

booksvscigarettes:

Old map of Constantinople

Photo

Sun, 12 May 2013 01:09:54 +0200

tamburina: Claude Monet in Giverny, date unknown

Fri, 10 May 2013 23:57:48 +0200

tamburina:

Claude Monet in Giverny, date unknown

theredshoes: Mark Rothko (1903-1970) Centre Triptych for the...

Fri, 10 May 2013 01:16:16 +0200

theredshoes:

Mark Rothko (1903-1970)
Centre Triptych for the Rothko Chapel
1966

"If there is a God, He will have to beg my forgiveness."

Thu, 09 May 2013 18:14:10 +0200

““If there is a God, He will have to beg my forgiveness.””

- A phrase that was carved on the walls of a concentration camp cell during WWII by a Jewish prisoner. (via foie)

thebeautiful-and-thedamned: My god, my god, when my thoughts...

Fri, 03 May 2013 03:41:45 +0200

thebeautiful-and-thedamned:

My god, my god, when my thoughts drift to you.
These mended bones.

"I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."

Thu, 02 May 2013 22:19:16 +0200

““I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.””

- Jack Kerouac (via johnny-nije-dobar)

"After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: If anyone in the vicinity..."

Thu, 02 May 2013 17:59:52 +0200

“

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 till 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 for 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.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)

booksvscigarettes: Hand Silhouette from Chauvet Cave, c. 30,000...

Thu, 02 May 2013 01:32:02 +0200

booksvscigarettes:

Hand Silhouette from Chauvet Cave, c. 30,000 BCE

now here’s why this is so touching to me:

Maybe whoever made this didn’t have any artistic intention, any need for self-expression. Or maybe they did. Maybe it was a religious rite, maybe it was child’s play. But here we are, tens of thousands of years later, and we’re looking at the negative space of where someone’s hand was for a brief moment that someone has amplified with some hard-won paint and a decision. And we know they were there, just like we are here now, and then they were gone just as we’ll be gone very soon and weren’t here for the longest time.

Photo

Wed, 01 May 2013 13:30:14 +0200

nzafro: Liberty.

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 20:46:46 +0200

nzafro:

Liberty.

arpeggia: Alécio de Andrade - Musée du Louvre, Paris, 1990 |...

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 20:37:34 +0200

arpeggia:

Alécio de Andrade - Musée du Louvre, Paris, 1990 | More posts

coffeenuts: by the cheshire smile

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 02:39:12 +0200

coffeenuts:

by the cheshire smile

Photo

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 02:37:59 +0200

Photo

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 23:49:03 +0200

Photo

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 17:10:14 +0200

feezix: Pages from Albert Einstein’s notebook

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 22:12:46 +0200

feezix:

Pages from Albert Einstein’s notebook

sonder

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 22:10:36 +0200

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.