A series of illustrations I made a few months back… “Midcentury Dogs”.
A Dog’s Grace (by Tatsuro Kiuchi)
Inspired by Edward Hopper, I made this piece for the New York Times Townies.
A Dog’s Grace By KIMBERLEE AUERBACH BERLIN.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the Prime Minister of Australia kicking ass and taking names (mostly Tony Abbott’s). [x]
We reported yesterday that Bloomsbury was “counting on a new Rowling three-book set” in order to help boost their sales profits and volumes. We asked you to let us know what you thought this might lead to, and you provided some great responses.
However, it is now known that Bloomsbury will be releasing the supplemental works, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Quidditch Through the Ages, and The Tales of Beedle the Bard as one complete box-set.
laughing at this rn
laughing at everything about this
There’s one part of me that’s like:
You should do your work, and then you wouldn’t be so stressed, and you would feel a great sense of accomplishment, and you’d have free time when you’re finished.
But then there’s this other part of me that’s like:
They both make such good arguments.
“Each year the homosexuals, independent women, and porn-viewers will offer up 24 tributes to fight to the death in an arena…”
just like out of curiosity
do queen porn watching ladies get put in multiple times for each of their conservative failings
because if so i get the impression that like everyone i follow on tumblr will just be sitting in the arena chatting until the gamemakers blow us all up
Blackberries spilled through her front yard,
lanterns full of dark sugar. She wore
her pink skirts among the bushes till they bled.
School was a different story
every day: Balboa discovering the Pacific,
Petrarch discovering love. When Madame Curie
discovered radium she died of cancer.
Her name was Lúthien, and her feet twinkled like stars.
Her name was Eva, and she got blamed for everything.
Her name was Ann, and she lost her head.
We use this phrase for love as well as murder.
Her name was Portia, and Solomon was an admirer.
Oh, one day Virginia really did lose her head
in the valentine sense, blindly. She loved everything.
Her lucid hips and the way the salt ducked
over the bow of her sailing boat delighted her.
She loved men: they bowled straight at answers
and their chins were like mown lawns.
She loved women too, their smart hands, the hearts
full of tiny rooms opening into other rooms.
Today she thinks: I too have such a heart.
Mercedes walks a street made of billboards.
She weaves a family from a spider web of compromises.
Over her shoulder Madame Curie glows
like a quarantined star, queasily brilliant. By that light
she reads Aristotle and by it she comes home
in the early mornings, stockings askew.
Something hardens - anger or a barnacle.
Suddenly she is always shouting. The doors
in her heart close two by two by two.
She loves everything, everything.
One day she will kill herself by walking
into an oven with stones in her pockets.