strut/walk like you own your everything. cos you do. always.
outfit caught on cam. for mixing mis/matching patterns inspiration, check it out :) http://fora.mtv.ca/2013/04/street-style-layering-101/#more-37085
In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose
persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down the newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew on the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
all of it, to the heart.
Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten.
Naked: I’ve forgotten.
Ni, wo: you me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.
Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat
but watched the other faces.
My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.
Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set them both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang. The sun, the sun.
he was going blind,
my father would stay up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.
This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.
He’s so happy that I’ve come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.
Under some blankets, I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.
He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?
This is persimmons, Father.
Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.
Image for TROPICAL GALACTICAL flyer.
the thing with people, friends or lovers who travel far away, for a long time (whether they’re traveling places or time away from you), is that they’re changing and growing in ways that are different from where you are. “Its a good reminder about change and being happy in doing what you do cause its right for you, not your relationships, cause those can change” (thanks Sar ♥ )
The Great Lang Dulay, a T’boli Dreamweaver of Lake Sebu, South Cotobato and National Artist of the Philippines. Her work is featured in the National Museum as well as on the bodies of her beloved people.
In her own words:
“I started dreaming of the designs when I was 12 years old. I kept on dreaming, so I wove even more… And I never forget my dreams.”
“The geometrical designs represent T’boli traditions. Colors are significant: red for bravery, commitment and love, and black for their struggles.”
“This pattern represents the bubbles of the sea, and here — the shield of a warrior. Whatever I see in my dreams is what inspires me.”
Lang Dulay knows a hundred designs, including the bulinglangit (clouds), the bankiring (hair bangs), and the kabingi (butterfly), each one special for the stories it tells.