Ross Sterling Turner, A Garden in a Sea of Flowers, 1912 (source).
I donated to Women’s Medical Fund, which serves the Philadelphia area, in response to an emergency request they put out. The link for this particular appeal will only be live for a few more hours but you can always donate for general abortion funding needs here.
I also donated to the DC Abortion Fund, which serves women in Washington, DC, because this dude who used to go around the internet as catbus is raising money for them through the National Network of Abortion Funds Bowl-a-thon and will post a very special cat picture for every donation. I got a fluffy cat but!
Thanks lady! Reblogging for all other interested parties!
Americans feel entitled to happiness, and once they manage to find it, they feel as if they own it. If they are deprived of it, they feel cheated. If they feel it has been taken away from them, they imagine they have been done wrong. This guilt I have felt from everyone I’ve known. It’s a bit like a Dylan song: they have held the world in their hands and let it slip through their fingers.
—Terrence Malick, 1979
Pompeo Batoni. Portrait of a Woman as Diana, 18th Century.
You are personally responsible for becoming more ethical than the society you grew up in.
— Eliezer Yudkowsky (via abundance-mine)
Alfred Stieglitz, Georgia O’Keeffe (1918)
so fucking fly
never knew how badly i needed an all-pink power suit
And she finds it difficult to believe — that a person would love her even when she isn’t trying. Trying to figure out what other people need, trying to be worthy.
— Margaret Atwood (via renegadetongue)
I’ve got my boss telling me I’m not smart enough to pick locks, my supervisor telling me I’m a bad girlfriend, and my boyfriend telling me I’m not strong enough to help move our bed. Lot of haters in this house.
burn sage and also your enemies
Before and After.
Oil Paintings by Lee Price
I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.
— Virginia Woolf, The Pargiters: The Novel-Essay Portion of THE YEARS (via oscillating-wildly)