Antonio Ysursa

http://www.flickr.com/photos/antoniophotography/
http://antonioysursa.com/

but in summer, we burn.

wildflowerveins:


in minnesota, winter means being alone. 

there are couples that rent out cabins in the backwoods and cling to each other when the wolves begin to howl. they find love in their shared fear and their bodies become softer, sheltered in the heat of their rooms. there are families of six who pad their windows with blankets and the bottoms of their doors with towels to keep out the cold. the mothers cook meals for an army, the boys shoot at the birds who have not fled for the south and the girls knit together soft things out of all they are missing in the mid-winter air. 

there are withered old men who live in shacks built on weary foundations. they cut down trees and burn wood because it reminds them of the lives they have lost. they listen to the music of fires and read russian novels and learn to taste nothing but destruction. they have loved, and in minnesota, that is enough. 

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I’m stunned by this. 

The doctor sits me on a table and asks me to stick out my tongue. I do. I ask him if he sees the paintings I carry in the back of my throat. He laughs as if I’m telling a joke, I’m not. I’ve got Basquiat, Schiele, Van Gogh, and Da Vinci so when I laugh, I taste brushstrokes. I ask him if he can stick out his tongue so I can see what he has trapped inside of him. He hesitates a little then he does and I see a man who struggles for acceptance and chokes on the word Love.”
- Lacey Roop

—(via pseudopsychee)

(Source: cinnamonngirl, via quietatoms)

first sight / after sight: we're here to laugh at the odds

ashliwood:

I am tired again. Stayed up late last night writing lists about all of the things this year that made me feel guilty. Made more lists about why I shouldn’t have ever felt guilty. you’re asleep on my lap as I write this. We spent thanksgiving with strangers. It wasn’t so bad. My anxiety was kinder…

Ashli Wood writes so beautifully. 

You were last seen walking through a field of pianos. No. A museum of mouths. In the kitchen of a bustling restaurant, cracking eggs and releasing doves. No. Eating glow worms and waltzing past my bedroom. Last seen riding the subway, literally, straddling its metal back, clutching electrical cables as reins. You were wearing a dress made out of envelopes and stamps, this was how you travelled. I was the mannequin in the storefront window you could have sworn moved. The library card in the book you were reading until that dog trotted up and licked your face. The cookie with two fortunes. The one jamming herself through the paper shredder, afraid to talk to you. The beggar. Hat outstretched bumming for more minutes. The phone number on the bathroom stall with no agenda other than a good time. The good time is a picnic on water, or a movie theatre that only plays your childhood home videos and no one hushes when you talk through them. When you play my videos I throw milk duds at the screen during the scenes I watch myself letting you go — lost to the other side of an elevator — your face switching to someone else’s with the swish of a geisha’s fan. My father could have been a travelling salesman. I could have been born on any doorstep. There are 2,469,501 cities in this world, and a lot of doorsteps. Meet me on the boardwalk. I’ll be sure to wear my eyes. Do not forget your face. I could never.

—“New York craigslist > personals > missed connections,” (via colporteur)

(Source: commovente, via kistlercommons)

invisiblestories: Letter written by Emma Hauck to her husband while in a psychiatric hospital. The words sweetheart come (‘Herzensschatzi komm’), are written over and over filling the surface of the paper (c. 1909) (via anticipatedstranger) Tragic and fascinating. 

invisiblestories:

Letter written by Emma Hauck to her husband while in a psychiatric hospital. The words sweetheart come (‘Herzensschatzi komm’), are written over and over filling the surface of the paper (c. 1909) (via anticipatedstranger)

Tragic and fascinating. 

(via kistlercommons)