the moon is hiding in
her hair.
The
lily
of heaven
full of all dreams,
draws down.
cover her briefness in singing
close her with the intricate faint birds
by daisies and twilights
deepen her,

recite
upon her
flesh
the rain’s

pearls singly-whispering.

e.e. cummings (via fauns)

we can’t jump off bridges anymore because our iphones will get ruined. we can’t take skinny dips in the ocean, because there’s no service on the beach and adventures aren’t real unless they’re on instagram. technology has doomed the spontaneity of adventure and we’re helping destroy it every time we google, check-in, and hashtag.

Jeremy Glass, We Can’t Get Lost Anymore 

i’m so sick of seeing people trash this generation for no other reason than that things aren’t the way they used to be. there’s this constant vitriolic stream of people snarling that selfies, check-ins and blogs are the death of culture, and i am bored of it.

the human desire to record and document experience is hardly new. without that urge we wouldn’t have art, music, dance, theatre. the world of electronics evolving around that to give us an even broader scope of options to preserve our unique view of the world and share it with others is a beautiful thing. despite a legion of cynical naysayers constantly shouting otherwise, i’ve not actually become immune to earth’s beauty or my own experiences in it. stop being terrified of change and development and calling it profound.

(via thekatediary)

mm, yes to the commentary.

“What if
all women were bigger and stronger than you
and thought they were smarter
What if
women were the ones who started wars

What if
too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos
and no K-Y Jelly

What if
the state trooper
who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike
was a woman
and carried a gun

What if
the ability to menstruate
was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs

What if
your attractiveness to women depended
on the size of your penis

What if
every time women saw you
they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands

What if
women were always making jokes
about how ugly penises are
and how bad sperm tastes

What if
you had to explain what’s wrong with your car
to big sweaty women with greasy hands
who stared at your crotch
in a garage where you are surrounded
by posters of naked men with hard-ons

What if
men’s magazines featured cover photos
of 14-year-old boys
with socks
tucked into the front of their jeans
and articles like:
“How to tell if your wife is unfaithful”
or
“What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate”
or
“The truth about impotence”

What if
the doctor who examined your prostate
was a woman
and called you “Honey”

What if
you had to inhale your boss’s stale cigar breath
as she insisted that sleeping with her
was part of the job

What if
you couldn’t get away because
the company dress code required
you wear shoes
designed to keep you from running

And what if
after all that
women still wanted you
to love them.”

For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It, written 20 years ago by Carol Diehl. 

she wrote a post about the history of this poem that is worth reading.

(via archangvl)