"i'm taking pictures of things i find beautiful." (by shea glover)


vivian  maier was a nanny in chicago that took thousands of photographs in her spare time before she died in 2009.  some collectors bought 10,000 undeveloped photos at auction in 2007, which were later posted to the internet.  they went viral.

these discovered photos skillfully depict tiny slices of city street life in black-and-white.  gorgeous.







new to being a mom / new to being a baby


luscious, verdant, sultry summer.  its not quite the same in south florida, where the season starts in february and lasts until november.  i miss georgia heat waves and the thick smell of hot pine needles and tall meadow grass.  and most of all, i miss warm blackberries off the bush.  the older i get, the more i feel a push to return home to the georgia piedmont.

summer in the south / paul lawrence dunbar

the oriole sings in the greening grove
as if he were half-way waiting,
the rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
timid, and hesitating.
the rain comes down in a torrent sweep
and the nights smell warm and pinety,
the garden thrives, but the tender shoots
are yellow-green and tiny.
then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
streams laugh that erst were quiet,
the sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
and the woods run mad with riot.


things to accomplish in life, from the perspective of someone that wishes they didn't feel the need to accomplish so much in life:

1.  make a happy family
2.  earn a doctoral degree
3.  publish two books, one fiction and one non-fiction
4.  see all 50 states
5.  see all 7 continents
6.  build a house
7.  fix up a classic car from the ground up
8.  sail around the world
9.  become completely fluent in another language
10. save someone else's life
11. make an album
12. die happy



(image: a dreamscape created out of noise by Google's image recognition neural network. (!!!))

"what do machines dream of?  new images released by google give us one potential answer: hypnotic landscapes of buildings, fountains and bridges merging into one.

"the pictures, which veer from beautiful to terrifying, were created by the company’s image recognition neural network, which has been 'taught' to identify features such as buildings, animals and objects in photographs.

"they were created by feeding a picture into the network, asking it to recognise a feature of it, and modify the picture to emphasise the feature it recognises.  that modified picture is then fed back into the network, which is again tasked to recognise features and emphasise them, and so on.  eventually, the feedback loop modifies the picture beyond all recognition.

"at a low level, the neural network might be tasked merely to detect the edges on an image.  in that case, the picture becomes painterly, an effect that will be instantly familiar to anyone who has experience playing about with photoshop filter ...

"but if the neural network is tasked with finding a more complex feature – such as animals – in an image, it ends up generating a much more disturbing hallucination ...

"ultimately, the software can even run on an image which is nothing more than random noise, generating features that are entirely of its own imagination ..." showing features like bananas, or elaborate and fantastic landscapes such as the one at the top of this post.


[from: yes, androids do dream of electric sheep / alex hern / the guardian / 06.18.15]


i saw a bird once that was mourning the death of another bird.  the friend had obviously been hit by a car and did not survive.  the bird kept flying to and from his body, chirping, over and over.

death is not the most uplifting thing to blog about, but there is something really powerful in these videos showing different species experiencing grief.  they place life, death, and emotion into a different perspective.  i think it is easy to assume a sort of human exceptionalism, but death is universal.  maybe grieving is too.


"The suits — beaded, sequined, plumed and bejeweled — can take hundreds of hours of precise, painstaking labor for practitioners of one of New Orleans' most storied street cultures. Intricate headdresses inspired by the war garb of the Native Americans of the Great Plains are rendered in Day-Glo marabou down and wispy, Technicolor ostrich feathers. Patient artisans sew tiny, multicolored glass beads half the size of rice grains into elaborate narrative scenes of Wild West mythology. 

"A year's worth of vision, craft and needlework traditionally culminates on Mardi Gras day, when the Indian tribes unveil this year's suits. After a traditional performance of "Indian Red" (one of the sacred songs in the repertoire), the "gangs" roam the neighborhoods, searching out other tribes for ritual confrontations that incorporate thundering drumbeats, intricate tambourine rhythms and powerful chants that echo through the streets. After hours on the streets, the Downtown tribes — 9th Ward Comanche Hunters, Hard Head Hunters, Yellow Pocahontas, Creole Osceolas, Washitaw Nation, Young Generation — gather under the hulking Claiborne Overpass, while the Uptown gangs — Creole Wild West, Wild Tchoupitoulas, Golden Blades, Wild Magnolias, Shining Star Hunters — rove near the corner of Second and Dryades."
Check out more of Pableaux Johnson's gorgeous article on the Mardi Grad Indians here.


the sounds of birds on telephone wires by jarbas agnelli.


jamais vu: the feeling that an experience is utterly unfamiliar despite knowing that you've been in that situation before; the opposite of deja vu

can be achieved by saying the same word over and over again until it begins to sound strange and different.  as a kid, i used to do this often with the word 'ladder.'  say it enough times, and it starts to sound like a sound you make when trying to spit something out, or get something off the roof of your mouth.


a young afghani boy sings about love and humanity in the documentary afghan star.

"if there was no music, humans would be sad.  there would be nothing."


weapons of mass instruction, a tank-shaped library that distributes books for free throughout argentina.


bringing a daughter back from the brink with poems 

betsy macwhinney // new york times

When George W. Bush was re­elected in 2004, my 13­ year ­old daughter, Marisa, was so angry that she stopped wearing shoes.

She chose the most ineffective rebellion imaginable: two little bare feet against the world. She declared that she wouldn’t wear shoes again until we had a new president.

I had learned early in motherhood that it’s not worth fighting with your children about clothes, so I watched silently as she strode off barefoot each morning, walking down the long gravel driveway in the cold, rainy darkness to wait for the bus.

The principal called me a few times, declaring that Marisa had to start wearing shoes or she would be suspended. I passed the messages on, but my daughter continued her barefoot march.

After about four months, she donned shoes without comment. I didn’t ask why. I wasn’t sure if wearing shoes was a sign of failure or maturity; asking her seemed like it could add unnecessary insult to injury.

But all of her rebellion that year wasn’t quite so harmless. I feared she was acting out in dangerous ways.

As we walked through the grocery store one day, she reached out for an avocado, causing her sleeve to fall back, revealing a scary­looking scab on her wrist along the meridian where a watchband would be.

I grabbed her hand. “Oh, Marisa. You must be in a lot of pain.”

She looked away, saying nothing.

I tried to squelch a wave of nausea, chilled by the knowledge that my daughter was harming herself.

I did what parents do: I engaged with professionals and took their advice. Marisa went to a counselor alone, and we went to a different one together.

I felt a pit of horror in my stomach as a psychiatrist told me, in front of Marisa: “She shouldn’t be left alone, and she shouldn’t be allowed to handle anything dangerous. No knives. If you have any medication in the home, keep it locked up and away from her.”

Later that evening we were unloading the dishwasher together, her on one side, me on the other. I unconsciously passed her a sharp knife to put away.

“Mom, are you sure you can trust me with this?” she said jokingly.

I had held it together pretty well up to that point, at least in front of her, but started sobbing uncontrollably when she said that.

She looked surprised, and gave me a hug. “I’ll be O.K.,” she promised.

I started Tuesday Night Dinners, to which I’d invite everyone we knew who would be fine with the chaotic scene of a weekday family dinner.

Sometimes three people would show, sometimes 20, and we would eat the kind of simple food that a working mother can throw together between getting home at 5 p.m. and having people arrive at 5:30.

The parents of her friends would come with their teenagers, and at least for that one evening the house was lively with people. I wanted life to come to her. I wanted her to float on the current of rich connections.

Other evenings were filled with sullen, delicate silences punctuated by minor conflicts: me resisting the urge to ask how she was doing, because I was afraid of what I might learn, and her courageously struggling to understand teenage­hood.

As she played the guitar in her bedroom, I tried not to lurk outside the closed door, but when the music stopped, I had to breathe through my panic, wondering if she was still safe.

It wasn’t clear to her whether she should bother growing up. She would ask me, “Do you like your life?” Her tone implied judgment of my life without her having to spell it out: You drive, work in a cubicle, do chores and are terminally single. What’s the point?

One day my son came home from school talking about vandalism that had occurred at the elementary school. “Someone spray­painted stuff all over the schoolyard,” he said. “Things like, ‘Too many Bushes, not enough trees.’ ”

I glanced sideways at Marisa. She met my eyes and looked down, confirming my suspicions. I’m no fan of vandalism, but I was actually glad to learn she cared that much about something.

It turns out, she did the deed with a boy, who was caught and required to pay a fine. I asked my daughter to call the boy’s family and confess, which she did, and offered to pay half the fine, which they accepted.

I started leaving poems in her shoes in the morning. She had used the shoes as a form of quiet protest, so I decided I would use them to make a quiet stand for hope. When one of your primary strategies as a parent involves leaving Wendell Berry’s “Mad Farmer Liberation Front” in your child’s shoe, it’s clear things aren’t going well.

What I wanted her to know is: People have been in pain before, struggled to find hope, and look what they’ve done with it. They made poetry that landed right in your shoe, the same shoe you didn’t wear for four months because of your despair.

Before she went to school in the morning, I wanted her to read the poem “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver that talks about not having to be good and not having to walk on your knees for miles, repenting. As Ms. Oliver writes, “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” *

Or this, from Mr. Berry: “Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts.” **

Would that matter to her? Would she get my message that the world loved her and she should really try to start loving it back?

I wasn’t going to talk her out of how dire things were on the planet, but could she, even so, find reasons to put shoes on each day? Raising a child who had no hope for the future seemed like my biggest failure ever.

I normally don’t invite poetry into my daily life. As an ecologist, I embrace science. But all I had to offer her at that point were the thoughts of others who struggled to make a meaningful life and had put those thoughts into the best, sparest words they could.

It suddenly struck me — I the one who loves science, data, facts and reason — that when push comes to shove, it was poetry I could count on. Poetry knew where hope lived and could elicit that lump in the throat that reminds me it’s all worth it. Science couldn’t do that.

I believed, inexplicably, that it was urgent to deliver the perfect words in her shoe each day. It felt like her life depended on it.

One day I called in late to work so I could purchase scissors and a glue stick from a gas station minimart. I took the supplies and a stack of discarded magazines into a cheap Mexican restaurant to drink bad coffee and assemble poems in the form of a ransom note, as if my daughter had been kidnapped and I had to disguise the writing to get her back.

I frantically searched for the word “bones” so I could nod to her budding sexuality with Roethke’s “I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,” but superstitiously didn’t want to clip the word “bones” from a grizzly headline.*** I hoped no one would ask why I was late, because I had no idea where to begin, how to explain.

For a few weeks she didn’t comment on the poems. She had to know I was doing it because she had to remove the poems from her shoe before putting them on in the morning. I felt encouraged, though, when I’d find a well­worn, many­times­folded poem in her pocket as I did laundry.

As the days grew longer, she became more involved in life. She made plans, took up running, planted seeds, decorated her room. I could see that her putting on the shoes wasn’t defeat, but maturity.

At some point, I knew she had come out of a long dark tunnel. I also knew it wouldn’t be her last tunnel.

The most optimistic people often struggle the hardest. They can’t quite square what’s going on in the world with their beliefs, and the disparity is alarming.

She was temporarily swamped at the intersection of grief over a bleak political landscape, transition to a mediocre high school, and the vast existential questions of a curious adolescent.

In retrospect, my poetry project was a harmless sideline that kept me benevolently out of her way as she struggled not just to see the horizon but to march bravely toward it.

A few years ago, she was interviewed to join a group of students on a long trip to Sierra Leone. The professor explained that it was likely to be a very difficult time, far from home, with physical and mental hardship.

“What would you do,” he asked Marisa, “if you get to the abyss, and it begins talking?”

“Well,” she replied, “I would have a lot of questions for the abyss, indeed.”

*wild geese (mary oliver)

you do not have to be good.
you do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
you only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
tell me about your despair, yours, and i will tell you mine.
meanwhile the world goes on.
meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -- 
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

**manifesto: the mad farmer liberation front (wendell berry)

love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay.  want more
of everything ready-made.  be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die
and you will have a window in your head.
not even your future will be a mystery
any more.  your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
when they want you to buy something
they will call you.  when they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
so, friends, every day do something
that won't compute.  love the lord.
love the world.  work for nothing.
take all that you have and be poor.
love someone who does not deserve it.
denounce the government and embrace
the flag.  hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
give your approval to all you cannot
understand.  praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
ask the questions that have no answers.
invest in the millenium.  plant sequoias.
say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
call that profit.  prophesy such returns.
put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
expect the end of the world.  laugh.
laughter is immeasurable.  be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
so long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
ask yourself: will this satisfy
a women satisfied to bear a child?
will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
go with your love to the fields
lie easy in the shade.  rest your head
in her lap.  swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
as soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it.  leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.  be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
practice resurrection.

***i knew a woman (theodore roethke)

i knew a women, lovely in her bones,
when small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
ah, when she moved, she moved more ways that one:
the shapes a bright container can contain!
of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
or english poets who grew up on greek
(i'd have them sing in a chorus, cheek to cheek).

how well her wishes went!  she stroked my chin,
she taught me turn, and counter-turn, and stand;
she taught me touch, that undulant white skin;
i nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
she was the sickle; i, poor i, the rake,
coming behind her for her pretty sake
(but what prodigious mowing we did make).

love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
her full lips pursed, the errant notes to seize;
she played it quick, she played it light and loose;
my eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
her several parts could keep a pure repose,
or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(she moved in circles, and those circles moved).

let seed be grass, and grass turn to hay;
i'm martyr to a motion not my own;
what's freedom for?  to know eternity.
i swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
but who would could eternity in days?
these old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(i measure time by how a body sways).


the girl who gets gifts from birds
katy sewell // bbc

lots of people love the birds in their garden, but it's rare for that affection to be reciprocated. one young girl in seattle is luckier than most. she feeds the crows in her garden - and they bring her gifts in return.


she didn't gather this collection. each item was a gift - given to her by crows.

she holds up a pearl coloured heart. it is her most-prized present. 'it's showing me how much they love me.'

gabi's relationship with the neighbourhood crows began accidentally in 2011. she was four years old, and prone to dropping food. She'd get out of the car, and a chicken nugget would tumble off her lap. A crow would rush in to recover it. soon, the crows were watching for her, hoping for another bite. 


in 2013, gabi and lisa started offering food as a daily ritual, rather than dropping scraps from time to time.

each morning, they fill the backyard birdbath with fresh water and cover bird-feeder platforms with peanuts. gabi throws handfuls of dog food into the grass. as they work, crows assemble on the telephone lines, calling loudly to them.

it was after they adopted this routine that the gifts started appearing.

the crows would clear the feeder of peanuts, and leave shiny trinkets on the empty tray; an earring, a hinge, a polished rock. there wasn't a pattern. gifts showed up sporadically - anything shiny and small enough to fit in a crow's mouth.

one time it was a tiny piece of metal with the word 'best' printed on it. 'i don't know if they still have the part that says 'friend',' gabi laughs, amused by the thought of a crow wearing a matching necklace.


gabi has been given some icky objects. her mother threw out a rotting crab claw, for example.


her most amazing gift came just a few weeks ago, when she lost a lens cap in a nearby alley while photographing a bald eagle as it circled over the neighbourhood.

she didn't even have to look for it. it was sitting on the edge of the birdbath.

had the crows returned it? lisa logged on to her computer and pulled up their bird-cam. there was the crow she suspected. 'you can see it bringing it into the yard. walks it to the birdbath and actually spends time rinsing this lens cap.'

"i'm sure that it was intentional," she smiles. "they watch us all the time. i 'm sure they knew I dropped it. i'm sure they decided they wanted to return it."


in tennessee, real snowflakes embedded in a sheet of ice from freezing rain.  (mark owens/kevin wall, #TNwx)


"in ersilia, to establish the relationships that sustain the city's life, inhabitants stretch strings from the corners of the houses, white or black or gray or black-and-white according to whether they mark a relationship of blood, of trade, authority, agency.  when the strings become so numerous that you can no longer pass among them, the inhabitants leave: the houses are dismantled; only the strings and their supports remain.
thus, when traveling in the territory of ersilia, you come upon the ruins of the abandoned cities, without the walls which do not last, without the bones of the dead which the wind rolls away: spiderwebs of intricate relationships seeking a form."

italo calvino, invisible cities


woody guthrie's new years rulins for 1942
(19. keep hoping machine running)