Make my 20 lb cat, Piaf, a movie star.
Mama’s gotta make her baby famous.
“You and Anderson Cooper have the same coming out calendar week in common, but in many obvious ways, you couldn’t be more different. Anderson Cooper is an heir to one of America’s great Industrial Age fortunes and a network professional whose maleness and whiteness backed by his considerable accomplishments guarantee him work. You are a young Black man from New Orleans who fled your still struggling city. You didn’t arrive in Los Angeles with generational wealth and privilege, only the beautiful lyrics and melodies that danced through you and your dream of making it in a music industry whose sand castles were crumbling.”
— … (via sexualsportswear)
(Source: holmavik, via corrodedvessel)
It’s Frida’s birthday, y’all!
July 6, 1907: Artist Frida Kahlo Born
On this day in 1907, female painter and wife of fellow Mexican artist Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, was born in Mexico City in her famous Blue House. Known primarily for her striking surrealist self-portraits, Frida was also an avid political activist. The Blue House (La Casa Azul) in which she was born and returned to in her last years is now a museum dedicated to her life.
A collection of 6,500 of Frida Kahlo’s personal photographs were opened to the public for the first time in 2007 and were placed on display at Artisphere in Arlington, VA earlier this year. If you didn’t get a chance to see the exhibit, you can view some of the photos here, and read a Q&A of curator and photographer Pablo Ortiz Monasterio about putting together the exhibition.
(via newshour)
Folks, here is my baby sister:
i spent the last ten minutes complaining about how the benadryl isn’t working. (plot twist: i didn’t even take it)
A solid morning
early: literary criticism & news with my coffee
mid: in bed with a book and my boo
late: at work laughing about anything with my boss, smells of our small kitchen and tea brewing
ginger + osmanthus + lemon verbena for the summer pollen & humidity
rose iced tea for my skin & disposition
“Hey You,” Adrian Blevins
Back when my head like a head in a nest
was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful
and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river
among the taxing rocks. My beautiful was all hush
and glitter. It was too moist to grasp. My beautiful
had no tongue with which to lick— no discernable
wallowing gnaw. It was really a breed of destruction
like a nick in a knife. It was a notch in the works
or a wound like a bell in a fat iron mess. My beautiful
was a drink too sopping to haul up and swig!
Therefore with the trees watching and the beavers abiding
I toss my beautiful down at the waterway against
the screwball rocks. Even then there was no hum.
My beautiful was never ill-bred enough, no matter what
you say. If you want my blue everlasting, try my
she, instead. Try the why not of my low down,
Sugar, my windswept and wrecked.
