dvebheb
“My mom has 5 sets of china (don’t ask) and put them in her pool prior to being evacuated from fires in northern California. The dishware survived!”
Source: reddit.com
MARCEL BREUER, Church of St Francis de Sales, Muskegon, Michigan, USA, 1961-66
This looks like someone put a chapel in the interior of the Hoover dam and I’m not sure if that’s a complaint or not
“My mother boils seawater. It sits all afternoon simmering on the stovetop, almost two gallons in a big soup pot. The windows steam up and the house smells like a storm. In the evening, a crust of salt is all that’s left at the bottom of the pot. My mother scrapes it out with a spoon. We each lick a fingertip and dip them in the salt and it’s softer than you’d think, less like sand and more like snow. We lay our fingertips on our tongues, right in the middle. It tastes like salt but like something else, too—wide, and dark. It tastes like drowning, or like falling asleep on the shore and only waking up when the tide has come up to your feet and you wonder if you’d gone on sleeping, would you have sunk?”
like the movements of the tide. waves come in waves go out. she has many moods, some harsh and violent, some calm and tranquil. she has depths unfathomable and is older than comprehension but no matter what happens, how tectonic the movements of land, what falls brutally from the sky or what prowls the deep,
she is still the ocean
i am not worthy of the ocean i am a pale imitation of her waters
have forgotten form have forgotten solidity have become waves static flashing warnings in a storm of my own design
itsssssssssssss singing to meeeeeeeeeee the water is singing to meeeeeeee
all the turbulent seas the oceans screaming to me i am trying