Source: Hugleikur Dagsson, DJ Set, 2013. 

Daria - Do you want to come in?

Tom - No! There are girls in there rubbing stuff on each other's cheeks and making animal noises. I got kind of scared.

Daria - That's just the opening rites of the Blushathon. At least you got out before the rhythmic chanting.

Tom - Oh, yeah, I think I saw that on the Discovery Channel. Why don't you get in the car?

Source: “Dye! Dye! My Darling” episode 13, Season 4, Daria, 2000. 

sorry in advance, my babies

Jacob Stack, Day of the Girl, signed print, 297 x 210 mm. 

Source: Jam Art Prints, Irish Art & Design, Jam Art Factory, 64 Patrick St, Wood Quay, Dublin 8, Ireland. 

The word “art” is something the West has never understood. Art is supposed to be a part of a community. Like, scholars are supposed to be a part of a community… Art is to decorate people’s houses, their skin, their clothes, to make them expand their minds, and it’s supposed to be right in the community, where they can have it when they want it… It’s supposed to be as essential as a grocery store… that’s the only way art can function naturally.

Amiri Baraka  (via gothhabiba)

-I don't have a favorite song. I have a current favorite song. It changes a lot. I have different favorite songs for different situations. - What's your favorite song right now?

Chelsea M. Cameron, Faster We Burn, 2013. 

Seine River, Villeneuve Saint-Georges/ Paris, France, 2018. 

Source: Mystic Cheesecake Balloon

Diving into the Wreck First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element. And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters. This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.

Adrienne Rich, Poems 1971-1972, 1973. 

Source: Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie, The Wicked + The Divine, Issue 30, 9 August 2017. 

André Masson, plafond de l’Odéon- théâtre de l’Europe, Paris, 1965. 

Source: Mystic Cheesecake Balloon.

Debout, Gabriel médita puis prononça ces mots: _ L'être ou le néant, voilà le problème. Monter, descendre, aller, venir, tant fait l'homme qu'à la fin il disparaît. Un taxi l'emmène, un métro l'emporte, la tour n'y prend garde, ni le Panthéon. Paris n'est qu'un songe, Gabriel n'est qu'un rêve (charmant), Zazie le songe d'un rêve (ou d'un cauchemar) et toute cette histoire le songe d'un songe, le rêve d'un rêve, à peine plus qu'un délire tapé à la machine par un romancier idiot (oh! Pardon). Là-bas, plus loin – un peu plus loin – que la place de la République, les tombes s'entassent de Parisiens qui furent, qui montèrent, qui descendirent des escaliers, allèrent et vinrent dans les rues et tant firent qu'à la fin ils disparurent. (...) Mais que vois-je par-dessus les citrons empoilés des bonnes gens qui m’entourent ?

Raymond Queneau, Zazie dans le métro, 1959.