Couldn’t believe the yard.

I squatted in some bushes by the screened-in porch. Inside, some people were talking: Renee, Ryan, Ryan’s parents, sounded like. Ryan’s parents had sonorous/confident voices that seemed to have been fabricated out of previous, less sonorous/confident voices by means of sudden money.

They were both so scared they weren’t talking at all, which made me feel the kind of shame you know you’re not going to cure by saying sorry, and where the only thing to do is: go out, get more shame.

In fact, stupidity, purveyor of self assured assertiveness, mutes just about everything that would seek to disturb its impervious hierachies 

im not 89 plus

:(

Old England is an imaginary place, a landscape built from words, woodcuts, films, paintings, picturesque engravings. it is a place imagined by people and people do not live very long or look very hard. we are very bad at scale. the things that live in the soil are too small to care about; climate change too large to imagine. we are bad at time, too. we cannot remember what lived here before we did; we cannot love what is not. nor can we imagine what will be different when we are dead, we live out our three score and ten, and tie our knots and lines only to ourselves. we take solace in pictures, and we wipe the hills of history

helen macdonald

The mothers, who dine regularly in the church as part of a "mini-club," were seated with their offspring, ages one to three, at small, appropriately-sized children's tables. 

good documetation from (not so) recent exhibition

tru playaz 

@

W139 Amsterdam

Curated by Suzanne Posthumus 

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story reading @ 13:00 today @ ica