I found this cedar waxwing on my walk home. I was surprised how close he let me get, and then I realized his wing was caught on a branch. I snapped this picture before I disentangled him so he could fly away.
They kept a clean and neat house. Rebeca would open it wide at dawn and the wind from the graveyard would come in through the windows and go out through the doors to the yard and leave the whitewashed walls and furniture tanned by the saltpeter of the dead. Her hunger for earth, the cloc-cloc-cloc of her parents’ bones, the impatience of her blood as it faced Pietro Crespi’s passivity were relegated to the attic of her memory. — (via livingliterature)
They had put together a delightful album with the postcards that Pietro Crespi received from Italy. They were pictures of lovers in lonely parks, with vignettes of hearts pierced with arrows and golden ribbons held by doves. ‘I’ve been to this park in Florence,’ Pietro Crespi would say, going through the cards. ‘A person can put out his hand the birds will come to feed.’ Sometimes, over a watercolor of Venice, nostalgia would transform the smell of mud and putrefying shellfish of the canals into the warm aroma of flowers. — (via livingliterature)
One of the greatest threats we face is, simply put, bullshit. We are drowning it. We are drowning in partisan rhetoric that is just true enough not to be a lie; in industry-sponsored research; in social media’s imitation of human connection; in legalese and corporate double-speak. It infects every facet of public life, corrupting our discourse, wrecking our trust in major institutions, lowering our standards for the truth, making it harder to achieve anything. — Jon Lovett’s commencement address to Pitzer College. (via theatlantic)