anarchism & nature

academia-core:

pretty book pages

radicallyaligned:

They say we wear our ancestors faces. That in the mirror we see thousands of women we’ll never meet.

Is that the bridge of some great aunts nose? Do my cheekbones follow the path laid out by a woman who lived ten thousand years before me? Do I have my great-great-great-great grandmothers crooked smile?

Did the young girl who farmed sheep, whose blood runs in my veins, did she pinch the skin under her chin, too? When she bore a daughter, did she see her face in her? Did she conceptualize the thousands of faces to come?

I have my mothers eyes. The shape, the lashes. When I love this, I am loving my mother. When I hate a part of me, am I hating the woman from whom it was a gift?

I cannot know them, but I can know their legacy. I move my piano key fingers across a keyboard and see the hands of a woman weaving. I push my hair behind my ear and see the tied back curls of a woman bent over in the garden, harvesting squash.

I am what survived the eons that have passed.

In ten thousand years, perhaps a young woman will love her eyes, and my ghost will weep and say yes! That’s me! That is the piece of me that survives!

extension-trip:

girl are you ok you’ve been seeing a lot of intimacy in everyday objects and mundane situations

sroloc–elbisivni:

[grabs your shirt] listen. listen to me. the practical is holy. the everyday is sacred. the simple act of surviving is divine. do you get it? sanctity begins at home, in the hands that build and the lives we live and the deaths we die and the worms that eat our bodies. if making something by hand is not worthy of veneration then nothing is.

cigaretteuncle:

simone weil

aliciasilvastuff:

By czeslawzuk