My favorite thing is to go where I have never been.
Diane Arbus
Tags: Quoting
Gratitude
F U N
Blue
Home
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One Community is a monthly photo project in which participants photograph their homes and community with a theme in mind. The theme varies by month. The goal is to both showcase similarities and differences in our communities worldwide – and bring us all closer together in understanding through art.
Would you like to join us? All you need to do is post one or more photos for each of the theme words, gratutude, fun, blue, and home, and add your blog post to the link-up. Easy! It begins today, November 5th, and stays open for one week.
Snap happy!
Tags: One Community
Past the flannel plains and blacktop graphs and skylines of canted rust, and past the tobacco-brown river overhung with weeping trees and coins of sunlight through them on the water downriver, to the place beyond the windbreak, where untilled fields simmer shrilly in the A.M. heat: shattercane, lambs quarter, cutgrass, saw brier, nutgrass, jimson-weed, wild mint, dandelion, foxtail, spine cabbage, goldenrod, creeping Charlie, butterprint, nightshade, ragweed, wild oat, vetch, butcher grass, invaginate volunteer beans, all heads nodding in a soft morning breeze like a mother’s hand on your cheek. An arrow of starlings fired from the windbreak’s thatch. The glitter of dew that stays where it is and steams all day. A sunflower, four more, one bowed, and horses in the distance standing rigid as toys. All nodding. Electric sounds of insects at their business. Ale-colored sunshine and pale sky and whorls of cirrus so high they cast no shadow. Insects all business all the time. Quartz and chert and schist and chondrite iron scabs in granite. Very old land. Look around you. The horizon trembling, shapeless. We are all of us brothers.
David Foster Wallace
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Happy Birthday, Angela!
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Happy Halloween!
Tags: Quoting
Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Tags: Quoting
Come January, or maybe even in two weeks time, I want to remember this morning and my skin kissed by sun. Under the wet cloak of dark, let me unearth this ripe with fall light and the tip-toe stalking of everything that caught it. Let me feel gratitude for the acid radiance of faded glorybower leaves. The dewy fuschia and indigo of her fruit. The sunset berries of cotoneaster. The lemony yarrow. The fiery glow of near falling currant leaves. The crisp white of cotton on the line. And how the warbling, tweeting birds danced, dipped, dove, and flapped under a firmament of blue.
