188 posts
Latest Posts by josephsapha - Page 3
This piece was a commission + so much fun to make
I got to hold a 500,000 year old hand axe at the museum today.
It's right-handed
I am right-handed
There are grooves for the thumb and knuckle to grip that fit my hand perfectly
I have calluses there from holding my stylus and pencils and the gardening tools.
There are sharper and blunter parts of the edge, for different types of cutting, as well as a point for piercing.
I know exactly how to use this to butcher a carcass.
A homo erectus made it
Some ancestor of mine, three species ago, made a tool that fits my hand perfectly, and that I still know how to use.
Who were you
A man? A woman? Did you even use those words?
Did you craft alone or were you with friends? Did you sing while you worked?
Did you find this stone yourself, or did you trade for it? Was it a gift?
Did you make it for yourself, or someone else, or does the distinction of personal property not really apply here?
Who were you?
What would you think today, seeing your descendant hold your tool and sob because it fits her hands as well?
What about your other descendant, the docent and caretaker of your tool, holding her hands under it the way you hold your hands under your baby's head when a stranger holds them.
Is it bizarre to you, that your most utilitarian object is now revered as holy?
Or has it always been divine?
Or is the divine in how I am watching videos on how to knap stone made by your other descendants, learning by example the way you did?
Tomorrow morning I am going to the local riverbed in search of the appropriate stones, and I will follow your example.
The first blood spilled on it will almost certainly be my own, as I learn the textures and rhythm of how it's done.
Did you have cuss words back then? Gods to blaspheme when the rock slips and you almost take your thumbnail off instead? Or did you just scream?
I'm not religious.
But if spilling my own blood to connect with a stranger who shared it isn't partaking in the divine
I don't know what is.
L.A. goth boy Leo at Helter Skelter, L.A., 1992. From the late ‘80s to early ‘90s the club was at several different locations, and always boasted the biggest and best clientele of goths, rivet heads and dark wavers. It was run by Michael Stewart and Bruce Perdew, the latter of whom created the magnificent skeletal and cadaver artwork for the club’s fliers, advertisements and murals. This photo was published in an article about Helter Skelter in Propaganda Magazine Issue No. 19/Fall 1992. PHOTO BY FRED H. BERGER, 1992. (Posted June 20 ’18)
yall take it for granted that Johnny Truant’s sections are typed, not handwritten. we’re all so fucking lucky that Mark “Z” Danielewski didn’t go the extra mile and make Johnny’s sections handwritten with the most atrocious handwriting known to man
the smiths is so fucking funny. i was looking for a job and then i found a job and heaven knows im miserable now. yeah alright. top ten relatable lyrics. steven patrick morrisey wails in his stupid wobbly english and im like yeah. if a double decker bus crashes into us to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die. you're so right. god. just shoot me now
'there are no real men anymore. men nowadays are all too feminine, they even look and act like women' where are all these feminine men. where. can you pinpoint them on a map for me. please. can you direct me to them. im begging you. please. please please please pl
TMA is so hilarious for introducing Gertrude from the perspective of someone who never knew her, letting us assume she was a confused, old lady losing her touch, only to then reveal she was a morally fucked up arsonist that tried to burn down her workplace, killed like two of her assistants, was an active menace to society and nuisance to all the Avatars, and arguably one of the most badass characters in the series.
big fan of liars. big fan of characters whose entire existence is a facade. love it when everything's stripped away from them and the lie is the only thing left of their identity. love it when the lines between an act and the truth are blurring. are they even them without the lie? the lie doesn't become the truth per se, but it's now such an intricate part of them it might as well be.
Tornado, 1938 by US outsider artist Marian Spore Bush, self-taught painter who believed she communicated with dead artists
