What I do: carve stone, write trashy novels, and reblog whatever my eyeholes and brainpan tell me to. Which means that someties it's NSFW.
If you follow me, most likely I will follow you.... Fell free to unfollow me if I offend. Honestly, I probably won't even know that it was you who left the party... : )
(via sleeplessnitesnwastedays)
Photo (Location: Aral Sea between Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan) - by Martin Plonka
Ok, this has taken the lead for my new home. The trailer is the main residence (needs a little work) and the car is the guest house (fully equipped with a curtain in the back window for privacy). In fact, the car is really all I need. The trailer will be just a bonus. Plus, the location is exactly what I’m looking for. Perfect.
“iwtd” - by Philipp Igumnov
That’s me on the top of the building, ready to….
(via darkface)
“Loud” - by Tamar (In collaboration with Sam of Topsy Design.)
My name for this photo is “Disintegration”.
It’s an hour, once a week deal - $80 a pop, no insurance. She’s gone over and over this concept of “parts”. ”Parts” as in we are all made up of different emotional ones (sorrow, anger, depression, fear, anxiety, confidence, empathy etc. etc.) and that some of these “parts” are governed either by a child’s voice or a adult’s voice. She says the child’s voice can’t be in control. And what really annoys me is that she tells me the child’s voice can’t be in control in a voice of a child.
I’ve told her that I don’t really get it. But lately I’ve given in to her constant harping on “parts”. Though, my concept of her ideas are quite different. I sort of understand her explained “parts” but what she doesn’t get is that after forty four years of repeated trauma those “parts” aren’t “parts”.
I explain to her the way I see it. I picture those “parts” as square, symmetrical tile like objects. And then I tell her that all those square, symmetrical tile like objects were put into a cloth bag when I was six years old, when I was innocent and pure. And then every day, every year, every trauma for forty four years, the cloth bag holding the square, symmetrical tile objects was smashed with a baseball bat. Forty four years of constant pummeling on that cloth bag. And then I tell her after those forty four years, I’ve finally opened that cloth bag to see what’s inside. And inside are tiny, tiny, splintered fragments, slivers of those original square, symmetrical tiles. They are so tiny and broken that it is beyond impossible to reconstruct them to what they were, back to their pure square, symmetrical shapes. I tell her it’s too late, that maybe if that bag was opened decades ago it wouldn’t be a shattered mess of nothing. It wouldn’t be disintegrated. But, it is.
She pretends to listen to my explanation and then she starts back again talking about “parts”. The hour is up, the check is written and I leave. I go home, lay down on the bed. The tears are relentless and then exhausted I fall asleep with terror dreams of the baseball bat smashing the cloth bag into nothing.
By Michele Ercolani, from her series L’etranger. Originally posted on Michele Ercolani Photographer.
(via littleclaypot)
