sassysairs-deactivated20120222 asked: Ashley!!!! Why are you still following me and my crazy fangirling. I feel sorry for you haha

That’s easy:

1) I like you, and you’re hilarious, and

2) I kind of fangirl fangirls. I genuinely like listening/watching/creeping people follow/blather about the things they love.

But I can stop if it’s creepy. :)

I bought a skirt in the mall this afternoon. This skirt. 

It’s messing with my head a little bit. I haven’t bought bottoms in the mall since high school, I don’t think. My hips and thighs are by far the biggest part of me, which is saying something because I’m pretty big all over.

Maybe it’s just because I’m feeling adrift these days in general, but suddenly having access to Mall Skirt is confusing. I expected that I’d feel the rush I used to, the thrill of passing as a ‘normal’-sized person when smaller people would ask me where my clothes came from, but I didn’t. I feel a bit guilty about buying it, actually. And I don’t mean guilty for any of the social or environmental concerns that a person can reasonably have when they’re buying clothes in the mall. I felt guilty because I was buying something at a straight-sized store that I had no right to. Because I’m obligated to spend an extra $25 on everything at a place that sells plus-size pants and skirts because, you know, that’s the tax on being a fatass or because it’s a show of solidarity to keep spending that extra $25 on everything. 

Or, you know, the days are getting shorter and my brain’s not at its best. High possibility of that. 

candaceshaw:

kateledeuce:

Taken with instagram

That’s our festival!

nevver:

Octopus for Hire

(via therotund)

I think I may have actually started writing down recipes where other people could see them, last fall. I also may have actually started writing down recipes as I come up with them. Maybe. 

I’m not much of a photographer so this is all words right now. 

http://overduerecipes.tumblr.com/

fuckyeahcrystals:

Stibnite

I did this as a kid, too, but with my grandfather, and over about 75 acres of woods and swamps. Absolutely one of the best things about living in the country around here. 

candaceshaw:

When I was a kid in the village, we tapped the old maples around our yard and had a never-ending supply of home-made maple syrup.  I miss it; we don;t have any sugar maples here in town.

travelthisworld:

Ontario, Canada 

It’s so cold, and so beautiful today. I never want to go to work in January.

fromthesolarsystem:

Food in 1967 (by Bollops)

Yes! This was absolutely in my mom’s never-used box of recipe cards.

True to life. 

I want more of these at Halloween, and more diversity in Halloween revelers and their costumes, please. 

These pumpkins are exactly what I want out of Halloween: fun, but definitely spooky; homemade and harvesty; a reminder that things are not as they seem. I love the transgressive spirit of the holiday, and it’s not too hard to get how a festival about spirits and the dead has transitioned into the sexiest time of the year.* The veil is thin, as the pagans remind us - and the clothes are, too. 

Don’t get me wrong: sexy it up as much as you like. Dress up as a sexy pirate, a sexy Bugs Bunny, a sexy iPhone app, a sexy scented candle, a sexy dinosaur, or just wear your mask and corset and tutu and enjoy. Seriously. I fully support you. You look hot. Last year my “autumn” costume was horns, a crown, a corset, stockings, and craft leaves sewn to a pair of boyshorts. I would love to see some more creativity in your sexy costumes, but please understand that I am not telling you that you have to wear pants. 

What I oppose, though, is the sameness of it all. I went out last night and saw very few people in costumes that read as sexy who weren’t young, thin, white women. And really young: I would have guessed that the vast majority of people I saw downtown were 19-25 years old. 

And it’s not just that the 25+ set is at home with the kids. I know loads of people in their 20s/30s/40s who don’t have children, and who like to go out and do things and have fun. So where is everyone? 

I want to see dudes with bellies dressed like Edward Cullen, not just like The Dude. I want to see ladies with big hips wearing garters and petticoats. I want to see someone - anyone! - dressed as a classic movie monster. Where are you, Wolfman? Where are you, Swamp Thing?

Be something horrible, or something wonderful, or something funny, or something sexy. Just don’t let the truly horrible homogenization of sex and attraction keep you at home. Go out and fuck with people. 

gothiccharmschool:

(via sweethomestyle)

This is the greatest. I went to a Hallowe’en party last night where three dogs were in costumes, and I liked it more than I wanted to admit. This is downright majestic. 

(via therotund)

I’ve been isolating myself, a little at a time. Work takes up too much of my mental energy without giving any back. I don’t want to meet you; I don’t care who you are. I don’t have cable but I consume image after image after image. The desire to make things starts to wither. What have you made, that I can rest my weary eyes upon it? 

The rocks in these photos extend out far enough that children can swim there. There’s some sand, some gravel. There are steeper ones on the far side, with a sharp drop down into the water. My oldest cousin cut his knee there and needed stitches. My parents almost bought this island, once (it was the price of a small car), but changed their minds. 

I’ve sat on those rocks in that water countless times, but I’ve never taken my own photo.

(In sum: cranky.)

-cityoflove:

Geiranger, Norway

Give me open air, open water. 

(via lavatramp)

I first read Wallace Stevens’ poetry nine years ago, in my first apartment. My roommate and I found “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” and put it up in pieces on the walls. The professors at Trent liked you to read things aloud; in retrospect, I’m a little amused by my early-twenties self, earnestly reciting “The Snow Man” or reading “Esthetique du Mal” from a heavily marked-up copy. 

The last time I cracked open my The Collected Poems was in 2006, but I pulled it off my bookshelf two nights ago to remind myself that sometimes you can be a poet and work for the insurance company, too.

i12bent:

Wallace Stevens: The Man on the Dump

Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up.
The sun is a corbeil of flowers the moon Blanche
Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho … The dump is full
Of images. Days pass like papers from a press.
The bouquets come here in the papers. So the sun,
And so the moon, both come, and the janitor’s poems
Of every day, the wrapper on the can of pears,
The cat in the paper-bag, the corset, the box
From Esthonia: the tiger chest, for tea.
The freshness of night has been fresh a long time.
The freshness of morning, the blowing of day, one says
That it puffs as Cornelius Nepos reads, it puffs
More than, less than or it puffs like this or that.
The green smacks in the eye, the dew in the green
Smacks like fresh water in a can, like the sea
On a cocoanut—how many men have copied dew
For buttons, how many women have covered themselves
With dew, dew dresses, stones and chains of dew, heads
Of the floweriest flowers dewed with the dewiest dew.
One grows to hate these things except on the dump.

Now, in the time of spring (azaleas, trilliums,
Myrtle, viburnums, daffodils, blue phlox),
Between that disgust and this, between the things
That are on the dump (azaleas and so on)
And those that will be (azaleas and so on),
One feels the purifying change. One rejects
The trash.

That’s the moment when the moon creeps up
To the bubbling of bassoons. That’s the time
One looks at the elephant-colorings of tires.
Everything is shed; and the moon comes up as the moon
(All its images are in the dump) and you see
As a man (not like an image of a man),
You see the moon rise in the empty sky.

One sits and beats an old tin can, lard pail.
One beats and beats for that which one believes.
That’s what one wants to get near. Could it after all
Be merely oneself, as superior as the ear
To a crow’s voice? Did the nightingale torture the ear,
Pack the heart and scratch the mind? And does the ear
Solace itself in peevish birds? Is it peace,
Is it a philosopher’s honeymoon, one finds
On the dump? Is it to sit among mattresses of the dead,
Bottles, pots, shoes and grass and murmur aptest eve:
Is it to hear the blatter of grackles and say
Invisible priest; is it to eject, to pull
The day to pieces and cry stanza my stone?
Where was it one first heard of the truth? The the.

(via i12bent)