(Source: heavyschizophrenic)

1 Oct 2014 / Reblogged from awakenedvibrations with 22,808 notes

"It does not matter if you are a rose or a lotus or a marigold.
What matters is that you are flowering"

Osho (via awakenedvibrations)

(Source: seabois)

1 Oct 2014 / Reblogged from awakenedvibrations with 2,114 notes

red-lipstick:

Maurice Sapiro aka Maurice L. Sapiro (b. 1932, NJ, USA) - Moonglow, 2014    Paintings: Oil

red-lipstick:

Maurice Sapiro aka Maurice L. Sapiro (b. 1932, NJ, USA) - Moonglow, 2014    Paintings: Oil

(Source: mauricesapiro.com)

1 Oct 2014 / Reblogged from chalateca-muxer with 4,991 notes

nevver:

The soft machine

27 Sep 2014 / Reblogged from nevver with 1,919 notes

guardianmusic:

NEW DAMIEN RICE SINGLE.’NUFF SAID, REALLY

As we breathlessly posted earlier this month, Damien Rice is back. Here’s I Don’t Want to Change, off his forthcoming album.

Pre-order My Favourite Faded Fantasy here if you’re also excited about his return.

24 Sep 2014 / Reblogged from guardianmusic with 59 notes

ode to amy. rest in peace sweet angel. 

24 Sep 2014 / 0 notes

(Source: rubyvroom)

19 Sep 2014 / Reblogged from ethiopienne with 108,675 notes


Part of what psychedelics do is they decondition you from cultural values. This is what makes it such a political hot potato.Since all culture is a kind of con game, the most dangerous candy you can hand out is one which causes people to start questioning the rules of the game.
- Terence Mckenna

Part of what psychedelics do is they decondition you from cultural values. This is what makes it such a political hot potato.Since all culture is a kind of con game, the most dangerous candy you can hand out is one which causes people to start questioning the rules of the game.

- Terence Mckenna

(Source: befreeandfreeyourmind)

19 Sep 2014 / Reblogged from you-are-the-universe with 909 notes

bofransson:

Gunnar John - “Rosaforsen”

bofransson:

Gunnar John - “Rosaforsen”

19 Sep 2014 / Reblogged from you-are-the-universe with 396 notes

"When my mother didn’t come back I realized that any moment could be the last. Nothing in life should simply be a passage from one place to another. Each walk should be taken as if it is the only thing you have left. You can demand something like this of yourself as an unattainable ideal. After that, you have to remind yourself about it every time you’re sloppy about something. For me that means 250 times a day."

Peter Høeg (via observando)

19 Sep 2014 / Reblogged from observando with 490 notes

age-of-awakening:

A ‘Ring of Fire’ solar eclipse is a rare phenomenon that occurs when the moon’s orbit is at its apogee: the part of its orbit farthest away from the Earth. Because the moon is so far away, it seems smaller than normal to the human eye. The result is that the moon doesn’t entirely block out our view of the sun, but leaves an “annulus,” or ring of sunlight glowing around it. Hence the term  “annular” eclipse rather than a “total” eclipse.

my god that last one!!!

(Source: thisismyplacetobe)

19 Sep 2014 / Reblogged from knevets with 205,586 notes

annaporreca:

sunrise / sunset

annaporreca:

sunrise / sunset

30 Aug 2014 / Reblogged from vic-vicious with 1,680 notes

On my mother

November 10, 1999. It took me nearly 10 years to acknowledge her death to someone outside my family. 

최재란. God-fearing wife and daughter. Mother of 3. Sister to 3. High school chemistry teacher turned evangelist. Succumbed to a tumor under her left armpit in the breast, which I’m told eventually spread up to her brain. She was 38. 

She fought a good fight, I’m told. Her church community and friends were devastated, I’m told. She was very loved, I’m told. She loved us very much, I’m told. 



I know she did. She told us every Saturday night on the phone. My two brothers and I left Korea during her treatment. Jeremy was 13, I was 8, Daniel 5. My grandparents, my dad’s side, would look after us in the States until she got better. She sent us packages with Korean bible study books for kids. She wrote us letters: each of us got our own. It often had stick figure illustrations. Her signature sign off was two lips kissing, which looked like a 3 kissing an inverted 3.  My grandma used to say she’d always been a gifted writer of letters. 


For six months after her death, my dad called on her behalf and said she was too weak to talk on the phone. I vividly remember the sadness in his voice. 



I can’t remember our last moment together, my mother in flesh. I remember chasing through the corridors inside a hospital with my little brother. I can’t remember her last words to me, mine to her. I can’t remember any of it. At the time it didn’t hold as much significance as it does now in retrospect. I thought we would see her again. 

The last time I saw her, she appeared in my dream. I was 9, living in a small apartment in Fullerton with my grandmother and two brothers. She was in a white hospital gown. Gaunt. Skin and bones. Because we never saw pictures of her during her treatment, it deeply shocked me. The texture of the dream resembled a gritty noir film. She was running ahead of me, and I chased. I chased her through some corridors. Then she abruptly came to a stop, about 20 feet ahead of me. So did I. She turned around and looked at me across the distance, and waved. I stayed where I was. Her face was difficult to read. The next morning, I excitedly told my grandma about the dream. At the time I thought it was just a dream. Some six months later I would learn that she had died that weekend. 



According to a journal entry from April 8, 2010, she has appeared in my dream once more since. 

In this dream, I was handed her corpse in a grey bag and told to cremate her body. I took her to the crematorium. When her corpse turned into powder, I dug my hands deep; it felt like beach sand. I held her close to me. Then she appeared next to me and we hugged affectionately for a very long time. It felt as if I was dreaming inside my dream; her body didn’t feel corporeal. It was like two spirits hugging. 



I wade through memories in my effort to memorialize her. I remember how she let me cut my hair short and wear boyish clothes like my brothers, and how she gave away a closet full of my frilly dresses, gifts from my grandparents from the states, to my friends’ mothers who were just beside themselves.

One time we sled down a snowy slope together and crashed hard at the bottom. I remember the first thought in my head was to check whether her wig had stayed on. It did. She glowed. 

Another time she spanked me with the neck of a broom for stealing candy at a local supermarket. I remember the door closing behind me when I got home — her friend at the supermarket had spotted my friends and me. It’s funny in retrospect. 

One time she told me her favorite color was yellow. 

Another time, I was on an errand at the market for her. I used a pay phone to ask her if I could buy pancake mix. She said no. 

Another time, I had a really bad fever — she had me strip down to my underwear and sweat out on my bed. I was keenly aware that my brothers’ friends were in the living room. She closed the door, dabbed me with a cold wet towel and prayed for me in tongues. 

These hazy snapshots seem random and vapid with respect to her larger character, but it is, ineffably, what stuck over the years. The more I try, I realize to my frustration that I know very little. Because I remember very little. But I recognize that she lives in me and through me, genetically, spiritually, beyond my conscious awareness. I am my mother’s daughter. 나는 내엄마애 딸이다. For the first time, these words stir in me a deep sense of pride. 

30 Aug 2014 / 13 notes

"I’ve come to think that flourishing consists of putting yourself in situations in which you lose self-consciousness and become fused with other people, experiences, or tasks. It happens sometimes when you are lost in a hard challenge, or when an artist or a craftsman becomes one with the brush or the tool. It happens sometimes while you’re playing sports, or listening to music or lost in a story, or to some people when they feel enveloped by God’s love. And it happens most when we connect with other people. I’ve come to think that happiness isn’t really produced by conscious accomplishments. Happiness is a measure of how thickly the unconscious parts of our minds are intertwined with other people and with activities. Happiness is determined by how much information and affection flows through us covertly every day and year."

David Brooks (via observando)

21 Aug 2014 / Reblogged from observando with 403 notes

"My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness."

Virginia Woolf (via observando)

16 Aug 2014 / Reblogged from observando with 8,905 notes