Falling in love is like friendship on fire:
Aquarius, Leo, Gemini

Falling in love is like your boner gets a brain, like a heart orgasm that just won’t quit:
Scorpio, Pisces, Aries

Falling in love is wanting to fix and resolve instead of simply walking away:
Gemini, Sagittarius, Libra

Falling in love is chemicals in the brain telling you this person is good to commingle your genes with:
Capricorn, Virgo

Falling in love is like your chest hurts a fucking ton whenever you see, hear, or think about that other person - except you like the feeling, and it kinda buzzes all the way up and down your spine and the back of your skull:
Cancer, Taurus, Libra, Aries

I open a box filled with fragments, “lost events.” Inside folders, pressed between leaves, I find perfect quatrains beside barely legible lists of words held together with straight pins… I am under the spell of traces, strange comminglings…
—  Mara L. Werner, “Most Arrows: Autonomy and Intertextuality in Emily Dickinson’s Late Fragments”

growing up the things that informed my life and me the most were experiential. these were the moments that you could live inside. i remember there was a summer where guns n’ roses, terminator 2 and slalom water skiing all met up in my head. it was relentless in the way i thought about them and the way they commingled with each other. i can remember that summer and still in some ways go back and live inside of it because of the way it was so experiential and transformative for me. there is a texture to it. like pop culture was curated by some force that summer for me personally… BLOOM is meant to be an experiential idea- one that started as a conversation between us and bobby hundreds… just an idea. then it became a short film about how you can empower yourself, how falling/failing can make you stronger… but that conversation became bigger and we realized that we could create a film, stage uniforms, stage look, show design, and merchandise and have them all inform each other. so that we could make a moment that would be different than all the moments before it and after it- that you could take with you as a texture. in so many ways it is amazing the dialogue we can have and the art we can create and share with each other now. i love seeing the fan art from tv shows and movies i love… its that conversation that wasn’t truly possible in that summer to me- thats what i appreciate most about now. so if you are reading this, you are part of BLOOM.

sometimes you have to crack the pavement before you can BLOOM.


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Directed by: Bobby Hundreds
Produced by: We Are Famous
Starring Scout Taylor-Compton

Prize fighters

I can taste the metallics of winning fights. Rust smearing off the pipes, commingling with the sunburst orange and sparkly gold on my blouse my parents disapproved of. ‘Her hair was held up tight like Phela Bongo back in my old neighborhood,’ my mother would skat. ‘She was tall and long legged and the hair twist up tight around her hair oddly gave her heavy breasts balance.’ I looked down and saw my own crowns and sighed.

Stories passed down to me were always passed down with insinuations. As a child, they filled me with a strange ennui that loosened my limbs up in a perverse way my father would pick up on. I’ve always thought he beat me as hard as he did because we carried the same soul. One blackened and strengthened by its high gloss. One broken by ways of hard livin’ bartering sins for prayers during services.

My mother’s stories were always shrouded for the most part, until she reached the last few minutes of her monologue where she would creep up as a wandering ghost of the night..‘Boom! And then I saw the dead body!’

This was always around the time I would wake up and want to kick myself for not having listened. ‘Listen!’ She would break bread between her paragraphs before detailing a morbid tale. ‘Listen.’

My father’s tales on the other hand always started off as a tapping of foot; fine leather sole shoes over wood. It always began with a trumpet solo where the shimmy of a drum would not start till the protagonist began to slip outside of his imagination.

He never fooled me, you know. I always knew his tales were about him. A skinny boy who left home at eighteen to attend university in Havana.

I can smell the cigars and feel the definite texture of white linen that talks back when you sit down. Of course he saw me through him. Of course I cringed when he would tell my mother, ‘You don’t know her like I do.’ Of course I’d smile wickedly when I would be believed, because like him, I never meant no harm. I only wanted to be free. A vanishing bird finding a cloud hovering over a skyscraper. He only begrudged me because I was a girl. He only hated me because I was a young woman. He only feared me because I turned out to be the best of him—A prize fighter who puts down her fists to offer up her heart, while holding steady of her brain.

12x03 - A Castiel Theory

As of now—this is my working theory:

When Lucifer possessed Cas, he left a bit of himself behind; and Castiel—left a bit of his “good” in Lucifer. After all, an angel did possess another angel, and that kind of divine commingling has to cause some sort of cosmic chaos.

Castiel is a lot rougher than he has been in the past. He’s not quite as soft and timid, nor is he quite as self-loathing as we’ve come to know. In fact, he actually seems to be a little into himself lately … much like Lucifer always was; but now, Lucifer is still a cold blooded killer, yes … yet—he healed the sister of his now, vessel. That was … kind? Also, he actually went pretty easy on Rowena, even though she has crossed him before. The old Lucifer wouldn’t even dream of leniency towards such rebelliousness; but the devil we’re seeing now is in fact, in the details and his details are quite a bit gentler than they used to be.

But where he is softening, Castiel is hardening—the angel is sassy and sarcastic, but it isn’t dry and unknowing like it was when he first saved Dean—it’s very deliberate and cruel. How he spoke down to Crowley wasn’t how he’s spoken to anyone before … ever.

Also, since when does Castiel let someone else take the lead into a dangerous situation? He stood behind Crowely when they thought they’d be coming face to face with Lucifer. The old Cas would have never done that—he’d charge forward, take control of the situation and throw himself onto the sword if he had to.

Castiel isn’t quite himself anymore; and the devil—is hardly such.

I’m worried about what this might mean for our beloved, rebellious angel of the lord. If Lucifer goes back to hell, will he take some of Castiel’s empathy with him?

And will that leave Cas as something—someone that will truly never belong on Earth, because he simply doesn’t have the compassion for it?

Will the boys still want him around?

What did saying “yes” really cost him?

okay but actually, those of you who speak languages other than english, would you mind sending what the translation of the following text would be in them?

Do you recall how we came to that place? And they sang of their lightnings and shapeful disgrace? And we tilted our vanes and ennobled our spires. They welcomed us then and commingled all choirs. And not enough, not enough. Still It mourns, and still waits the Sun.

like, i wanna make a masterpost/edit with the text in several languages. I already have Spanish from me. 

either reblog or submit it to me or send me in an ask, do make sure to tell me which language it is. thanks! 

(note: i know some of the terms in here arent even very clear in english, follow your instincts or just use literal translation, doesn’t matter) 

edit: languages so far - english, spanish, arabic, swedish, bulgarian, russian, tagalog, greek, french, latin, hindi

New term starts today~ students I dislike are gone, new students to dislike coming in, my favorites are staying, and my puberty-entrenched sixth graders have moved into the once a week middle school class.  Now I just need this couple in front of me to spontaneously combust into a flaming ball of burning commingled flesh, and this Thursday will be perfect.

I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees. I would rather live on my feet than survive on my knees—because if it brings me to my knees, it’s a bad religion.

Philosophy is gumming up my mind—too often it feels like I am rearranging bricks that are much heavier than I initially imagined. Isn’t it horrible that promiscuity has gotten such a bad rap? I wanna be open to fucking, getting fucked by, and commingling with anything and anyone at any point—bodies, concepts, the way the cold wind bites my neck through the gap in my scarf. Promiscuity affirms the multiplicity of everything because everything is other things.

I’m fairly sure that headphones have saved my life—these little plastic buds block out so much modern refuse, allow me to escape the total assault of supermarkets, the blathering chatter of common sense that surrounds me. Garbage in, garbage out. I would rather not and it’s not really a judgement even though it sounds that way. You do you—I’d rather find affinity than argue.

St. John the Damascene says,
The dwelling and establishment of the Persons is in one another.  For they are without interval and inseparable, and each possesses an unconfused mutual indwelling in the others—not so as to become compounded or commingled, but so as to possess one another.  For the Son is in the Father and the Spirit, and the Spirit in the Father and the Son, and the Father in the Son and the Spirit, but there is no compounding or coalescence or commingling.  And they possess one and the same motion, for there is one impulse and one motion of the three Persons, something that is not to be observed in any created nature.
The divine irradiation and energy is one, simple, and undivided, beneficently diversified in divisible things, dispensing to all of them the components of their proper nature while remaining simple.  It is indivisibly multiplied in divisible things, and, gathering them together, it returns them to its own simplicity.  For all things desire it, and in it they have their existence, and to all things it communicates their being in accordance with the nature of each.  It is the being of things that are, the life of the living, the reason of the rational, and the intellectual act of those possessing intelligence; yet it is itself beyond intellect, and beyond reason, and beyond life, and beyond being.  Further, it penetrates all things without mixing, itself being penetrated by nothing …

Donald Trump, however, represents something much more radical. A president who plausibly owes his office at least in part to a clandestine intervention by a hostile foreign intelligence service? Who uses the bully pulpit to target individual critics? Who creates blind trusts that are not blind, invites his children to commingle private and public business, and somehow gets the unhappy members of his own political party either to endorse his choices or shrug them off? If this were happening in Honduras, we’d know what to call it. It’s happening here instead, and so we are baffled.

i crave
the things
never said
and the honesty
which isn’t betrayed
for a cowardice
formed out of
the fear of

have become
and sad keanus
and good guy gregs
who ideate
in a uniformly
small and
tawdry way

we lack
the nuance
to grasp
the complexity
of our life
and divide
itself Manichean
into good
and evil


we love
in our self-interest
and consume
as if a drug
for a mysterious

in which:
is intractable

the identity
is protean
and our ethics
rise and fall
as if a wave

the undulations
rolling in hyper-speed
mostly unnoticed

of respect
as doctors
commingling life-saving
with a practice
that holds hostage
the health
of people

and the insidious
reducing something
to rubble
on the shores
of history

a class act
and revolutionary
negro leading
mass murder
against muslims
in the name of
corporate profits

and no one
is greater
than the needle
or the gun

wether we must
hold or
the hand of evil

we can
do the palmistry
of predestination
and trace
the intricate lines up-to
the moment
in which
we become

or examine
the subconscious
and see that
we already are

this admission
of our guilt
allows us
to begin
to confront
the evil
around us

the boring
of those who
are good or fine
in their own eyes
is powerless

Mini Plum & Pistachio Crostata with Lemon Verbena Whipped Cream.

I think of flavor as a 360-degree experience—obvious to those of you familiar with the K&C tagline (food for all five senses), but perhaps less obvious in tangible practice than in theory. What does it mean to feed all of our senses, to drench the palate and the nose and the eyes and the tactile and aural perceptors, too? (I JUST SAID PERCEPTORS. WHAT IS HAPPENING.)

Let’s start with the utterly tangible: This lush plum and pistachio crostata, laced with vanilla bean in the pastry and served with lemon verbena-infused whipped cream.

I’m not exactly a synesthete, but I feel synesthetically about preparing food: Let it be a wild celebration of the senses commingling, or let it be nothing.

Read more and get the recipe here!


Cranberry sauce is, for me, both the perfume and the heart of the Thanksgiving meal. It provides an exquisite top note to all the earthy, deep, savory flavor, and acts as an unguent to any sharp edges. In the sweet and bright spoonfuls of cranberry sauce, all is made well. And yes, I would, gladly, eat it by the spoonful.

This year’s magic is spiced with a bouquet of airy fennel, star anise, and clove, and mellowed by orange zest. Because each of these flavors is quite strong on its own, I used delicate amounts of them individually. Their heady melange makes this cranberry sauce feel like a party.

This sauce commingles perfectly with the other items on our K&C vegetarian Thanksgiving feast menu: Insanely delish with the herb crusted tofu and shiitake mushroom gravy, rosemary chèvre mashed potatoes, brown butter citrus sweet potatoes, and balsamic brussels sprouts with pomegranate, feta, and mint.

Translation: Every which way you go, there’s a heavenly bite on your plate.

Read more and get the recipe here!