Whether you can’t escape their logos or you are opening Firefox for the first time – let’s take a moment to bask in the brilliance of these sites.
1.) Messy Nessy Chic: All things obscure, fashionable, abandoned, vintage. Always a mouth-watering adventure for the curious. I usually fill my browser with all the articles I want to read and just watch as my perception of the universe shatters.
2.) PostSecret: Through tears, scars. laughter, and hangnails, this blog will always give you a hug. It’s a refreshing space to be reminded that you are never an outsider. It’s almost spooky.
3.) Open Culture: Not so much a blog as a host for roughly an infinite number of resources. You miiiiight notice the words “free” plastered all over the front page but for the information junkie, time has never been more expensive.
Hasta la vista grad school!
4.) This Is Indexed: I lost track of how many years I’ve been reading this blog but minimalistic, geometric poetry never gets old.
5.) Hel-Looks: WHERE ARE THESE PEOPLE (Helsinki) AND WHERE DO THEY GET THESE CLOTHES (read the description)! Another blog I’ve been reading for years and still am not satisfied with the answers.
6.) FoodGawker: Notice the theme of information overload. Notice that you need nourishment. FoodGawker hooks you up to all kinds of blogs and a full stomach.
From the swaying of the damp room,
And the heavy boots on wooden floors high above,
I know that we still have not arrived.
To whom do those memories belong?
The ones that mist across my mind,
From a place with open air.
Should I keep gnawing at the ropes
And cursing the time I spent
Entrusting my fate to the captain?
Or should I watch the orchestra of dust
Weaving starry lacework
For the bashful sun?
After breaking through the seed’s shell
And through the cold ground above,
The tree casts a limb.
That first split:
The first attempt to differentiate,
To individualize, to risk.
From there, the tree splits until infinity.
With more opportunities to branch arriving after each split,
The tree can now become its fullest form.
Then I saw her eyes,
Brimming with little men
Carving dust and tears
Behind the thinning veil.
With her last breath,
A whisper says, “how nice it was.”
That was my sister,
Unaged by time’s sweat and snow
From wrestling the mountain
Only wanting to inhabit herself.
The term in French cuisine is: Emotional Rollercoaster
See also: Ultra-Lazy Method
[insert professional food photography according to your imagination]
1 Pillsbury pie crust that you’ve been staring at since Thanksgiving
3 cloves of garlic
1/2 can of chickpeas = garbanzos = cana
1/3 bag of spinach
some soy milk
1.) Unroll pie crust and let it warm up on the counter so you can easily mold it into your teeny rice cooker.
2.) The only research I did before going into this was to use butter to coat the rice cooker bowl before putting in the pie crust, so do that.
3.) Forget to saute everything.
4.) Mix together all ingredients in a bowl except for the crust.
5.) Cut the now-practically-melting-but-flexible pie crust into a Pac-Man shape. Fold/close his mouth and stuff it against the sides of the rice cooker.
6.) Pour in everything that was in the mixing bowl into the pie crust and top it off with milk or another egg if there’s space. Use that extra triangle for garnish.
7.) Continually run back to the kitchen every five minutes for the next half-hour because you’re not sure if it is going to burn into an ashy crisp or you will die of salmonella this very night.
8.) Be angry at the rice cooker for shutting off every 30 seconds and threaten to use the oven.
9.) Get out materials to finish cooking that damned quiche on the stove because your anti-materialist ideals forbid owning pie pans.
10.) Start to remove it only to discover that the rice cooker has a half a brain and cooked it PERFECTLY! It’s actually sliiightly undercooked which, as a cookie-dough lover is the same as perfect. Also, it doesn’t get all dried out like when you cook it in an oven. Turns out, when the rice cooker is on “cook” instead of “warm,” even for 30 seconds, you can trust that little guy.
my crystal ball tells that your mouth is watering
Encountering a renowned writer’s
Or professional artist’s description
Of still struggling with the haunting past
And the daily monotony,
I drown in a wave that condenses
Decades worth of suffering.
Hardly having begun this journey,
I have learned
That in order to defy the torments,
To live the creative life,
And to become true to oneself
Is not a finite rebellion
Nor an act of sheer force.
Instead, I continue to realize
New ways of seeing the chains,
To love the cycle
Of expression and transformation,
To add some bracelets to my weary arm,
And keep dancing into the night.
Finally the schedule clears
And I am ready with my humble guide
For the the open road
Of painted, curving lines.
I gaze out the right, rear window,
Examining the words
On the flat, horizontal landscape.
My eyes continue to spring back to their left corner
While the hypnosis fights a radio too slowly.
I ache to be there already.
At last this waking life melts
Into the author’s ancient dream.
Bad lighting and sleepy limbs,
No longer pain my weightless body.
Why do my eyes keep moving
Long after I have forgotten
The words I just read?
Everything I really see is still worlds, worlds away.
Here I am,
Admiring the “impossible”
Furious at the past
And disappointed by the present.
What comes next?
What should I be doing?
“It better be good!”
I screech at the walls,
Shaking them by their shoulders.
It better be worth staying here
So that I may someday go far far away.
my extremely professional photography ahem.
I) Can I give it a hug?
Turns the long tusks
Of the evergreen’s branches
Into the shy old dog’s
Drive too quickly
Along the interstate
And miss the lamppost,
Lonely in the humid night’s fog,
Transform into a radiant tipi.
My favorite part of snow is
Other people’s footprints.
I usually feel as if no one
Has ever been as strange as me
To have walked this path before.
On the white-feathered ground,
I can see the proof
Of not being the strangest.