the Odd Cry
Come Atlanta, Come. November 20. 630pm. Spelman College’s Museum of Fine Art. get (dis)possessed.

Come Atlanta, Come. November 20. 630pm. Spelman College’s Museum of Fine Art. get (dis)possessed.

finding your style allows you to be comfortably uncertain

I’m not real, I’m just like you. You don’t exist in this society. If you did your people wouldn’t be seeking equal rights. You’re not real, if you were you’d have some status among the nations of the world. So we are both myths. I do not come to you as a reality, I come to you as the myth because that is what black people are: myths. I came from a dream that the black man dreamed long ago. I’m actually a presence sent to you by your ancestors. I’m going to be here until I pick out some of you to take back with me
Sun Ra (via shiftingself)


making this for myself


'Cuban-born and American-raised, Mendieta described her work as “earth-body” art. From 1971, when she had her first solo show while an MA student at the University of Iowa, until her death, she created a diverse collection of work that included silhouettes of her body created in mud, earth, rocks, wild flowers and leaves, performance pieces that evoked the folk and occult traditions of her native Cuba as well as her beloved Mexico and subversive self-portraits that played with notions of beauty, belonging and gender. In her performance pieces, where she sometimes used blood “as a very, powerful magical thing”, she evoked the power of female sexuality as well as the horror of male sexual violence. In her photographic self-portraits, she pressed her face against glass to distort her features or pictured herself dripping in blood or disguised as a man with glued-on facial hair.'


keep this shit rollin’.

Seamus Heaney’s Beauty



Paul Muldoon delivered the eulogy at Seamus Heaney’s funeral, which took place in Dublin on September 2, 2013:

Photograph by Mariana Cook, 2001.

last words to wife: Noli Timere…Don’t be afraid.

stand. out.

stand. out.

The heartbeat inside them had maybe slowed, only a murmur but if you squatted to listen, if you knew how to listen, if the wind would die down you would hear it.
Joyce Carol Oates, from Man Crazy (via the-final-sentence)