Lovely Bloodflow from BATHS on Vimeo.

Billy Collins

Sonnet

All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now.
and after this one just a dozen
to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans,
How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan
and insist the iambic bongos must be played
and rhymes positioned at the end of lines,
one for every station of the cross.
But hang on here while we make the turn
into the final six where all will be resolved,
where longing and heartache will find an end,
where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,
take off those crazy medieval tights,
blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.

NOSAJTHING

Radiohead - Reckoner (Nosaj Thing remix) by truant

Vandalism is Easy (when you are wearing a dress) Montage by Mackenzie Buffington

The Billie Holiday Show by Mrshedonist on Mixcloud

Tortoise - I Set My Face to the Hillside by mausclea

“i think anybody who seriously believes in an afterlife is likely to be slightly mad in this life …” — Brian Eno

A 24 Hour Moratorium On Consumer Spending

People Can Do The Most Amazing Things

People Can Do The Most Amazing Things by Kisses

For Mama J

Dreams (Mingus Rude edit) by elijs

Happy Diwali! from Britt

"We are headed to Varanasi tomorrow- the holiest city in India for the Hindus. It is on the Ganges river. People flock there to bathe in its holy waters, as well as to burn bodies, float dead bodies down, brush their teeth, poop, and anything else you can imagine. This place is filthy."

"I have been volunteering at Mother Theresa's charity in Calcutta with veryyy mentally disabled women, and of course I get really worked up about it and cry."

"It is also very exciting! Inexplicably loud and busy. The food is delicious!!!! Sooo good. Jen, lots of vegetarian stuff. I haven't had meat for a month because it sketches me out here, but wowzaas its a tasty place."

Love's A Real Thing

From one of my favorite collective Albums,

World Psychedelic Classics 3: Love's a Real Thing, relays the funky, fuzzy sounds of West Africa in the 1970s.

Live Forever: Elizabeth Payton

Jackie and John (Jackie fixing John’s hair)">

Elizabeth Peyton, Jackie and John (Jackie fixing John’s hair) , 1999
Oil on board 14 x 11 in. Collection Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey R. Winter [Jacqueline Lee Bouvier Kennedy and John F. Kennedy, Jr.]

Berlin (Tony)">

Elizabeth Peyton, Berlin (Tony) , 2000
Oil on canvas 40 x 30 in. Private collection [Tony Just, artist]

Ben Drawing">

Elizabeth Peyton, Ben Drawing , 2001
Oil on board 10-1/8 x 8-1/4 in. Collection Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh A.W. Mellon Acquisition Endowment, 2001 [Ben Brunnemer, Peyton’s assistant from 2000–2004]

John Lennon">

Elizabeth Peyton, John Lennon , 1996
ink on paper 13-1/4 x 11 in. Collection Walker Art Center Miriam and Erwin Kelen Acquisition Fund for Drawings, 1996

Michelle and Sasha Obama Listening to Barack Obama at the Democratic National Convention August 2008">

Elizabeth Peyton, Michelle and Sasha Obama Listening to Barack Obama at the Democratic National Convention August 2008 , 2008
Oil on board 14-1/4 x 11-1/4 in. Courtesy the artist and Gavin Brown's enterprise, New York

I lamented on these images that I saw a couple years ago, and it took me some time to recall the artist's name, Elizabeth Payton. I am attracted to her vibrant color and the narrative that she captures in her portraits, as well as, the reverie she seems to capture of close subjects such as her friends and the cultural content she relays through historical figures and personal heroes.

Bongwater: Power of Pussy from DANGEROUS MINDS on Vimeo.

how can i tell her we are both just stencils?

A "ballsy critique of outsourcing, The Simpsons, and the standards and human rights conditions that people in first world nations accept"? - MTV

Banksy vs. The Simpsons from Room237 on Vimeo.

Yves Klein

Half shaman, half showman, Yves Klein took the European art scene by storm in a career that lasted just eight years, from 1954 to 1962. An innovator who embraced painting, sculpture, performance, photography, music, theater, film, architecture, and theoretical writing, Klein was a precursor of many movements of the postwar avant-garde, including minimal art, conceptual art, land art, and performance art. He self-identified as “the painter of space,” seeking to achieve immaterial spirituality through pure color—primarily an ultramarine blue of his own invention, International Klein Blue. Through these and other experiments Klein aimed to reach “beyond the problematic in art” and rethink the world in spiritual and aesthetic terms, creating a pivotal transition between modern art’s concern with material objects and contemporary notions about the conceptual nature of art.

Category, By. "Yves Klein: With the Void, Full Powers." Walker Art Center - Calendar. Web. 13 Oct. 2010. .

American Gothic

Let Me In

Let the Right One In is a vampire fiction novel by Swedish writer John Ajvide Lindqvist. It takes place in a suburb of Stockholm in the late 1980s, where a 12-year-old outcasted and bullied boy named Oskar befriends a distant and curious century-year-old vampire named Eli. The novel focuses on the darker side of humanity, taking on themes such as bullying, drugs, pedophilia, murder, prostitution, and the supernatural.

In 2008 the screenplay by Lindqvist was adapted into a romantic vampire film directed by Tomas Alfredson. The film quality highlights the cold darkness of Sweden beautifully and 11-year-old actor Lina Leandersson, who plays vampire Eli, adds a cool and refreshing front to vampire flicks. The film was highly praised and received numerous awards at various film festivals. It's international success sparked the American film adaptation that is being released this October titled Let Me In.

The Beauty that has Come

Queen Nefertiti

This world famous bust, found in el-Amarna
was smuggled out of Egypt by the Ludwig Borchardt expedition (1907-14)

Lady Chatterley's Lover

'But I wouldn't preach to the men: only strip 'em an' say: Look at yourselves! That's workin' for money!--Hark at yourselves! That's working for money. You've been working for money! Look at Tevershall! It's horrible. That's because it was built while you was working for money. Look at your girls! They don't care about you, you don't care about them. It's because you've spent your time working an' caring for money. You can't talk nor move nor live, you can't properly be with a woman. You're not alive. Look at yourselves!'  There fell a complete silence. Connie was half listening, and threading in the hair at the root of his belly a few forget-me-nots that she had gathered on the way to the hut. Outside, the world had gone still, and a little icy.  'You've got four kinds of hair,' she said to him. 'On your chest it's nearly black, and your hair isn't dark on your head: but your moustache is hard and dark red, and your hair here, your love-hair, is like a little brush of bright red-gold mistletoe. It's the loveliest of all!'  He looked down and saw the milky bits of forget-me-nots in the hair on his groin.  'Ay! That's where to put forget-me-nots, in the man-hair, or the maiden-hair. But don't you care about the future?'  She looked up at him.  'Oh, I do, terribly!' she said.  'Because when I feel the human world is doomed, has doomed itself by its own mingy beastliness, then I feel the Colonies aren't far enough. The moon wouldn't be far enough, because even there you could look back and see the earth, dirty, beastly, unsavoury among all the stars: made foul by men. Then I feel I've swallowed gall, and it's eating my inside out, and nowhere's far enough away to get away. But when I get a turn, I forget it all again. Though it's a shame, what's been done to people these last hundred years: men turned into nothing but labour-insects, and all their manhood taken away, and all their real life. I'd wipe the machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake. But since I can't, an' nobody can, I'd better hold my peace, an' try an' live my own life: if I've got one to live, which I rather doubt.'  The thunder had ceased outside, but the rain which had abated, suddenly came striking down, with a last blench of lightning and mutter of departing storm. Connie was uneasy. He had talked so long now, and he was really talking to himself not to her. Despair seemed to come down on him completely, and she was feeling happy, she hated despair. She knew her leaving him, which he had only just realized inside himself had plunged him back into this mood. And she triumphed a little.  She opened the door and looked at the straight heavy rain, like a steel curtain, and had a sudden desire to rush out into it, to rush away. She got up, and began swiftly pulling off her stockings, then her dress and underclothing, and he held his breath. Her pointed keen animal breasts tipped and stirred as she moved. She was ivory-coloured in the greenish light. She slipped on her rubber shoes again and ran out with a wild little laugh, holding up her breasts to the heavy rain and spreading her arms, and running blurred in the rain with the eurhythmic dance movements she had learned so long ago in Dresden. It was a strange pallid figure lifting and falling, bending so the rain beat and glistened on the full haunches, swaying up again and coming belly-forward through the rain, then stooping again so that only the full loins and buttocks were offered in a kind of homage towards him, repeating a wild obeisance.  He laughed wryly, and threw off his clothes. It was too much. He jumped out, naked and white, with a little shiver, into the hard slanting rain. Flossie sprang before him with a frantic little bark. Connie, her hair all wet and sticking to her head, turned her hot face and saw him. Her blue eyes blazed with excitement as she turned and ran fast, with a strange charging movement, out of the clearing and down the path, the wet boughs whipping her. She ran, and he saw nothing but the round wet head, the wet back leaning forward in flight, the rounded buttocks twinkling: a wonderful cowering female nakedness in flight.  She was nearly at the wide riding when he came up and flung his naked arm round her soft, naked-wet middle. She gave a shriek and straightened herself and the heap of her soft, chill flesh came up against his body. He pressed it all up against him, madly, the heap of soft, chilled female flesh that became quickly warm as flame, in contact. The rain streamed on them till they smoked. He gathered her lovely, heavy posteriors one in each hand and pressed them in towards him in a frenzy, quivering motionless in the rain. Then suddenly he tipped her up and fell with her on the path, in the roaring silence of the rain, and short and sharp, he took her, short and sharp and finished, like an animal.  He got up in an instant, wiping the rain from his eyes.  'Come in,' he said, and they started running back to the hut. He ran straight and swift: he didn't like the rain. But she came slower, gathering forget-me-nots and campion and bluebells, running a few steps and watching him fleeing away from her.  When she came with her flowers, panting to the hut, he had already started a fire, and the twigs were crackling. Her sharp breasts rose and fell, her hair was plastered down with rain, her face was flushed ruddy and her body glistened and trickled. Wide-eyed and breathless, with a small wet head and full, trickling, naitve haunches, she looked another creature.

D.H. Lawrence

Napoleon Bonaparte to Josephine De Beauharnais

I wake filled with thoughts of you. Your portrait and the intoxicating evening which we spent yesterday have left my senses in turmoil. Sweet incomparable Josephine, what a strange effect you have on my heart! Are you angry? Do I see you looking sad? Are you worried? ... My soul aches with sorrow, and there can be no rest for your lover; but is there still more in store for me when, yielding to the profound feelings which overwhelm me, I draw from your lips, from your heart a love which consumes me with fire? Ah! it was last night that I fully realized how false an image of you your portrait gives! You are leaving at noon; I shall see you in three hours. Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire. Bonaparte Paris, December 1795

chris ofili

Wanabe

maria kalman

(with a list of reminders)

Apples and the Art of Good Mixing and Good Living ("We must Consult Brother Jonathon")

Calvados is distilled from cider made of apples and is produced in Normandy, France. Apple Jack may be bottled-in-bond under the same regulations that apply to whiskey.

Harvard Cooler

1/2 Teaspoon Powdered Sugar

2oz. Carbonated Water

2oz. Apple Brandy

Fill with ginger ale and stir again.

In the 18th and early 19th centuries, cider was the favorite American beverage; cider-drinking was one of the obvious things that distinguished Brother Jonathan (as the British liked to call us) from the ale drinkers of old England. Beer only became the main American tipple after the Civil War, largely due to the fashionability of the German-style beer garden.

Look For:

Woodchuck Draft Cider

Bulmer's Woodpecker

Grant's Honey Apple Ale

Fever Ray Mixtape

Dazed Digital Mixtape

TRACKLIST

1. Khulumani - Nkata Mawewe
2. The Tale - Meredith Monk
3. Guiyome - Konono No. 1
4. Jungle Riot - Ove-Naxx
5. Ngunyuta Dance - BBC
6. Natsu Ga Kita - Afrirampo
7. Do You Be? - Meredith Monk
8. Believer - M.I.A.
9. Kuar - Olof Dreijer remix - Emmanuel Jal
10. Dread - Nate Young

Mad Women

'Mercy Street'

Mercy Street by Fever Ray

Coat-Stand..........ManRay

Immigration Reform 2010!

Tour of California

Things to remember in the narrow isles of the grocery:

"Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me, and be my friend." - Albert Camus

Flowerhead

German born illustrator, Olaf Hajek, creates commercial and personal work. His work can be recognized in the NY Magazine or National Geographic. He paints with acrylic on paper, wood, or cardboard and is heavily influenced by folklore. He finds the American Folkart Museum a place of inspiration and awe. "I love the haptical," Hajek says. It is in his curiousness of the relationship of science and touch that we can explore the luminous and fairytale qualities of Hajek's illustrations.

Hajek illustrated the movie poster for an upcoming film Love Berlin: How We Met.

Sense Synthetic

I flipped the pages of a fashion magazine in the checkout line at the grocery. What I found was a short blurb on perfumes basically telling the consumer to stick to the perfume counter at department stores. It's objective was to inform women (and men) of the dangers of counterfeit and inexpensive perfumes. The fact that the deal you doused yourself in from Chinatown, a bottle (faux) Chanel No. 5, may be more harmful and disgusting than it is cheap. Common ingredients in these types of perfumes do not have a quality code and may include harmful chemicals and random ingredients, like urine.

This led me to think of the perfumes that these vendors are interpreting, a number of designer perfumes made from synthetic materials. Could these perfumes be of a greater quality than knock offs in Chinatown? Not necessarily. I remembered my boyfriend quizzing me on why natural perfumes are within the price range of over the counter designer perfumes and often, more expensive.

I keep a a couple of perfumes on the counter at home; Este Lauder Pleasures, a gift from my grandfather given to me when I was eight, most of the bottle still remains; and a tiny 1/4 once bottle of cocoa perfume by Afterlier.

Natural perfumes have a history that is 4000 years old on top of centuries of experimentation with extracting scents from aromatic materials. Natural perfumes require art, science, and expertise. Combinations of dozens of essences per bottle change and adapt to body chemistry, which in turn creates beauty.

Synthetic perfumes create beauty also, but the ingredients are less expensive, fake, and the typical number of essences is large enough to manipulate the structure of the scent. The aesthetics of both natural perfume and synthetic perfume aim to pleasure the senses but differ in several aspects: ingredient sources, structure, time on skin and relationship with the body, composition, cost and history.

The fine and sacred materials that compose natural perfumes are unique. Next time I'm walk through Macy's I'm curious to see the selection of natural perfumes to synthetic perfumes.

The Mother Nest

The demand for scientists to learn more about bees has increased dramatically as the severity of the livelihood of the bee population becomes more earnest. Bees are crucial to maintaining the ecosystem as pollinators and preservationists; 20,000 species of bees exist and typically we associate them with hives. Recently a solitary type of bee has been discovered that creates nests by pasting together flower petals.

OSS 117 - Lost in Rio

If you like dancing and Chinese, you'll love it.

http://www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi4012377881/

Thomas Struth

Seestück Donghae City, 2007 Image">

City of Glass

Paul Auster

I read Paul Auster's New York Trilogy during the fall. I only recently discovered my appreciation for the cryptic story "City of Glass." And have been reminded of it again and again more recently. I thought back to a story published in 2000 about a determined fan who approaches Auster much like a character would in one of his own novels.

On his way for his morning Espresso Paul Auster stopped in front of a flyer posted in his neighborhood. "To Mr. Paul Auster," it began. "I have been wandering up and down the Park Slope with a pack of Turkish cigars I bought for you, expecting to run into you. But it seems this method is not going to work. So if you read this message, could you please contact me," the man's name and e-mail listed at the bottom.

The flyers were posted all over Park Slope and Auster did reply. Through e-mail they arranged to leave the cigars at a local bookstore. Auster reported on the matter, "I appreciate the discretion of it."

The fan was a Turkish medical student, visiting New York City. He and Auster kept up regular contact through e-mail, and the Turkish fan disclosed that he too was secretly a published writer.

Here is the full story (subscription required)

http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2000/09/25/2000_09_25_031_TNY_LIBRY_000021754

Stockton Race

Masuelli Bicycles is hosting a Cycling race in Stockton: May 30th, at 2PM.

$5 Entry (towards non profit tba)

Alleycat Style

Single Speed Admissions Only

First Place: Bamboo Frame

Foreign Pabulum

What the fuck should I eat? I was in a hole and I began to think of holes. Holes in the ground, things I like that grow in the ground, money trees (Pachira aquatica), Courtney Love, and finally an economic hole: GREECE. And I ate.

Balk-yeah Salad: Nothing to protest

• 
  
• 1 head romaine lettuce- rinsed, dried and chopped
• 1 red onion, thinly sliced
• 1 (6 ounce) can pitted black olives
• 1 green bell pepper, chopped
• 1 red bell pepper, chopped
• 2 large tomatoes, chopped
• 1 cucumber, sliced
• 1 cup crumbled feta cheese
• 6 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 teaspoon dried oregano
• 1 lemon, juiced
• ground black pepper to taste

Whisk together the olive oil, oregano, lemon juice and black pepper. Pour dressing over salad, toss and serve.

Thanks for the Bailout.

No Bike, Four Fleas, and a Loaf

By Jenna

"Turn off your alarm. We said we would be there at eight, are you getting up?" Vito, my boyfriend rolled over to switch off his alarm clock. We moved in together a few months prior. Vogue said it was acceptable to condense into one space- in order to save money. So we were living together, the double dose everyday. And more allowance for those nugatory "you didn't even put bleach in the whites" arguments. On this morning we had planned to meet a friend by bicycle to shop around at four different flea markets in town.

We got up together, few words mentioned between us. An hour later we cleared up our petty fight from last night; were dressed, fed, and on our way. We cycled the mile from our house to Adam's. He offered to make coffee but as we were already late, we decided to get started. I confess that I don't even remember this leg of the trip, I was tired.

Somewhere in Stockton, California I was under a bridge, trailing behind Adam and Vito. I pulled my bike next to me and shuffled my way through crowds of strangers. Vito stood 6'5 with black, curly, Italian locks that bounced well above the primarily Asian population. And next to him Adam's swirling cigarette smoke stuck in the air. I followed my men and absorbed the grass smell mixed with car exhaust and dust. I looked and I saw tables of fresh produce, farm fresh. I stopped Vito at a table with a sign that read "homemade soy milk." I listened to one of the two women tell me about her children's favorite lightly fried tofu that she made fresh and lay on the table between us. They liked the one made with tomatoes and cilantro and that's the one I urged Vito fork out the dollar-fifty for. He put it into his backpack and we continued underneath highway 4.

We quickened our steps near a Chinese food truck and a handful of picnic tables. The thick moisture of grease padded the surrounding air. Nearby trucks unloaded fish: raw eyeballs, scales and all. I'm from Minnesota and it is exciting to see the lobster tank at the upscale grocery. But shrimp, lobster, tuna, you name it, ready to be weighed and chopped right before my eyes, fabulous. I didn't even mind the smell, maybe I still wasn't awake. The plan was to hit all three markets. This was only the first and offered food and fish, we were looking for a 54cm road bike. A cheap one.

Back on our bikes, we followed Adam, his nearly dreaded, silver hair tucked behind one ear and a rolled cigarette was soggy between his lips. Up and across the El Dorado Street bridge Adam kept pace at seventeen mph and I followed. Peddling past run down houses, dingy bars, outdated corner stores, and fields, we turned. Off our bikes once more, this was an open air market where one needed to be on the look out for gems, agile and ready to move. We locked our bikes on the gate. Mine taking a few minutes longer, I had just fallen off my bike and bent the key to my lock. I worked it through and walked beside our tour guide. Adam said, "this is our man. He's here every weekend. He gets new things on Sundays, and he doesn't know what he's got." We entered a cement auditorium first.

There Vito and I bought two cups of coffee. We pored them out onto the dirt covered ground once we were outside again. Up and down the isles we stopped and bought five avocados for a buck, they weren't Haas and they weren't homegrown, but they were a dollar. I shoved them into Vito's backpack.

In suspense we finally made our last stop, our man. The man with my functional and fitting road bike. We scrapped through all his junk, nothing. "Well it's Sunday he gets his new bikes," Adam reminded us, "that's why." We continued on our tour of flea markets, two left. Halfway between our current location and our next was Adam's shop.

Adam came to America by fluke. He landed in San Francisco, bought a vintage Mercedes and broke down in Stockton. Soon after he bought a Volkswagon bus with a painting of Mount Shasta on the side. Mid summer in Stockton, Adam a Bavarian tourist then, stripped himself of his heavy outer garments and began to sun himself. It was not long before the police interrupted him. He was in a church parking lot, needless to say this occurred a few more times. It was two years before we made friends. Now we stopped and had a nice cup of coffee, strong coffee. And on we went down the levy path and toward highway 99. We arrived, Adam deterred questionnaires by telling the friendly clipboard holder that we were German tourists on bicycle, touring Stockton flea markets.

I walked into the fairground type setting. This flea market was orderly with vendor tents in a large square making rows and rows of people selling household cleaners, underwear, tools, peanuts, antiques, and bikes. A young boy cradled his new puppy. "¿Cuál es su nombre?" I asked him. He was shy, "I dunno," I laughed. Peanuts piled on a table caught my eye and fresh peanut sauce was on my mind. A little boy sold me a pound for a dollar. He was happy to keep the change for himself. Adam had a hint of restlessness in his gait. We sped to the exit and biked back to the Levy path, continuing towards Delta College.

Vito tore off on his fancy track bike twenty-three miles per hour. I fell behind and Adam stayed in the middle. I could see Adam turn his head back at me, but I was tired and now pissed. We got there and this time it took a vendor selling fresh French bread for me to come around. Up and down the isles we went, toting our bikes and straying behind Adam holding chunks of fresh bread with our free hands.

A purple Peugeot! Finally something to look at, the man selling it found it in his mother’s garage never ridden. He wanted sixty.

It was a nice, desirable bike in good condition. But it was not the road bike I desired, this pretty purple Peugeot was not going to help me work on holding twenty miles per hour. We took one last lap for the hell of it and walked out of the market tired. We prepared to part ways: a kiss and a laugh and it began to rain.

A Picture of Dorian Grey: The Preface

• The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
• • To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.
• The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
• • The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
• Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
• • • Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
  • They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
  • • There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
• The nineteenth-century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
• • • • The nineteenth-century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
    • The moral life of man forms part of the subject matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.
  • No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be be proved.
  • • • No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
      • • No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
    • Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
    • • Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
• From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type.
• • • All art is at once surface and symbol.
  • Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
  • • Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
• It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
• • Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.
  • • When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.
• We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
• All art is quite useless.
• -Oscar Wilde

Must Read before I turn 26

Maurizio Cattelan

Italian-born Maurizio Cattelan is known for his satirical and controversial sculptures. His sense of humor is present in his work, which he uses to discredit and ridicule art in general, as well as the institutions that promote it. It’s because of this, combined with the fact that he never seems to be taking himself too seriously. He says that he became an artist because of the assured income and the attractive women.

His more controversial sculpture titled, La Nona Ora (The Ninth Hour) depicts Pope John Paul II struck down my a meteorite.

Snow White

Avocado Soup

Fruit Soup

Ingredients
BASIC RECIPE
2 haas avocados
2 cups soymilk or more (to desired consistency)
sea salt (to taste)
pepper (to taste)

Add In:

seriano peppers

cilantro

red bell peppers

lemon juice

baby spinach (finely chopped)

..........

Directions
Mash avocados in a bowl with a fork until smooth. Slowly add soymilk and mix until desired consistency is reached. If you like it creamier, add less soymilk. If you like it thinner, add more soymilk. Add salt, pepper, and any add ins that suit your tastes

Banksy

Psychedelic Picasso

A Light Exists in Spring

by Emily Dickinson

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period –
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.