Bufflehead Cabin

How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

— Emily Dickinson

Search

Also infesting ...

Stuff I Shudda Posted

More liked posts

(via fourtyfivenorth)

theantidote:

"The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not live.”

—Lord Henry Wotton from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

(via vintageanchorbooks:)

kvetchlandia:

Harold Feinstein    Man with His Daughters at the Sideshow, Coney Island, New York     1949

The red leaves take the green leaves’ place, and the landscape yields. We go to sleep with the peach in our hands and wake with the stone, but the stone is the pledge of summers to come.

Emily Dickinson, The Letters of Emily Dickinson (via litverve)

(via journalofanobody)

Leo Kottke - Hear The Wind Howl

i12bent:

Every year I promote the virtuosity and musicianship of Leo Kottke (b. Sep. 11, 1945) who plays the meanest 12-string slide guitar known to man…

Leo Kottke: Hear The Wind Howl - from Mudlark, 1971

(via the-theme-is)

My own writing life is as predictable as the old priest preparing to say the dawn mass. The pleasant cold, the mild pain of being alive. I have the same breakfast every day—cold cereal, yogurt, coffee. I read the newspapers. I take a fistful of vitamins. I shower. I linger at my bookshelf or at the window. I read a chapter or a poem from a shelf I keep above my desk of former lovers and seducers, impossible rivals—Nabokov or Lawrence, Larkin. Woolf. Sitting down at the computer is as daunting as the altar boy’s first genuflection.

Aquinas described writing as a form of prayer. Writing is for me dishearteningly hermetic. Revision is writing. Revision is humiliation—Tuesday saying something less well than Monday. Revision is open to noticing connections. Revision is joy at precisely that moment when the sentence no longer seems mine but speaks back to me and haughtily resists further revision.

I read in the afternoons. I take long walks. I watch TV in the evening. I write letters at all times.

Richard Rodriguez (via wesleyhill)

(via alexphil323)

poboh:

Sekiyado / せきやど, 1932, 高橋松亭 / Takahashi Shôtei. (1871 - 1945)
- Color Woodblock -

(via plurdledgabbleblotchits)

[I’d call this a classic wooden gaff-rigged cutter, if I didn’t know better than to label photos that have no captions.]

(via rlanham1963)

gordium:

Ancient Languages of Anatolia and Surrounding Regions

[I’ve been delving deeply into the patriarch tales of the Book of Genesis guided primarily by Thomas Mann’s masterpiece Joseph and His Brothers while co-reading the King James version and the wonderful translation plus commentary of Robert Alter. The project is for these people to spring alive in my imagination off the cryptic, terse and obscure pages; to see the arch of Rachel’s life from that strong, self-possessed shepherd girl at her father’s well to the old woman dying on the desert road in childbirth. These are some very weird people who spoke & wrote a language wedged between Aramaic and Akkadian.]

(via femmeviva)

Billy Strings and Don Julin - Little Maggie

[Here’s a cure for anyone suffering under the illusion that bluegrass is unsophisticated redneck music.]

(via fuckyeahbluegrass)

lich-tung:

ourirenelove:

Miroku Bosatsu: The Future Buddha | Miroku Bosatsu: The Future Buddha, mid 1200s Japan, Kamakura Period (1185-1333)

(via 2turtlestumbling)

fragilepotentate:

My gift to you will be an abyss, she said,
but it will be so subtle you’ll perceive it
only after many years have passed
and you are far from Mexico and me.
You’ll find it when you need it most,
and that won’t be
the happy ending,
but it will be an instant of emptiness and joy.
And maybe then you’ll remember me,
if only just a little.

—Roberto Bolaño, “My Gift To You”

(via journalofanobody)

historicaltimes:

Sailing ships tied up at North Quay, , Drogheda, Louth, Ireland, 1860-1883.

(via plurdledgabbleblotchits)

stonewareceramics:

He makes that look easy.

(via 2turtlestumbling)

elpasha71:

Douglas Smith

Ophidiophobia - Fear of snakes

(via proteus7)

Loading posts...