Portrait of a Lady

I don’t want to be preachy or to act as if I’m living a life that is more morally sound or ethical than anyone else. It’s hard to talk about animal rights issues because whenever the topic is brought up, it immediately brings into question most people’s lifestyles. We don’t like to be questioned or to have to experience inconvenience and this is natural and, in some ways, understandable. It’s hard to change. It’s difficult to question our norms especially when it involves seeing that we are causing suffering. I went through this process myself; I refused to fully accept what the reality of the meat industry, even when confronted with the facts. It took me a long time to come to a place where I could push past the discomfort and see clearly. I want to list the facts so that hopefully others can be given the power to know the truth and to help change it.  

*Hens on egg farms are held captive in wire cages in which they cannot move or even spread their wings. Their feathers are worn raw by the cage walls and floor. Even cage-free hens often live in raised wire-floor enclosures which reek of excrement. Fighting is common among hens because of the stress they experience; to alleviate this problem, the beaks (which are full of nerve endings) are sliced off with a hot blade. After just two years (out of their ten year life span), the hens bodies are worn out from stress. All “spent” hens (even cage free and organic) are slaughtered. In order to replace them, chicks are hatched. The male chicks cannot be used; therefore they are tossed alive into grinders, suffocated in plastic bags, or thrown into garbage dumpsters.

On most dairy farms, cows live in stalls filled with excrement. They are mutilated through branding or their tales are cut off. In order to produce milk, the cows must have babies; they are repeatedly impregnated on a “rape rack.” The baby cows are taken away from their mothers days after birth. Mother cows often cry for days because they miss their baby. On vela farms, the calves are chained by the neck to crates. At 12-16 weeks old, they are slaughtered. After 4-6 years of the mother cow’s 20 year life span, she is worn out and sent to slaughter.

*Information taken from Action for Animals

Aug 2
Helping Animals

"The joy of life consists in the exercise of one’s energies, continual growth, constant change, the enjoyment of every new experience. To stop means simply to die. The eternal mistake of mankind is to set up an attainable ideal."

- Aleister Crowley (via lazyyogi)

Jul 29

Duccio di Buoninsegna: Madonna col bambino e Angeli, Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, Perugia (early 14th Century)
Jul 29


Duccio di BuoninsegnaMadonna col bambino e Angeli, Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, Perugia (early 14th Century)

"Peace requires us to surrender our illusions of control. We can love and care for others but we cannot possess our children, lovers, family, or friends. We can assist them, pray for them, and wish them well, yet in the end their happiness and suffering depend on their thoughts and actions, not on our wishes."

- Jack Kornfield (via lazyyogi)

Jul 27
Jul 15


The Beach Boys - God Only Knows

I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I’ll make you so sure about it
God only knows what I’d be without you


Elie Nadelman, Tango, 1920–24. Painted cherry wood / Whitney Museum Nyc
Jul 15


Elie Nadelman, Tango, 1920–24. Painted cherry wood / Whitney Museum Nyc

"Six mistakes mankind keeps making century after century: Believing that personal gain is made by crushing others; Worrying about things that cannot be changed or corrected; Insisting that a thing is impossible because we cannot accomplish it; Refusing to set aside trivial preferences; Neglecting development and refinement of the mind; Attempting to compel others to believe and live as we do."

- Cicero, 106 BC - 43 BC (via lazyyogi)

Jun 17

Light compounded, and the universe noticed me. I was red in the face; really, quite embarrassed. The attention was unnerving. Unaccountable amounts of space, all turned in my general direction; cosmos’ tingling with anticipation for my next move. I held my breath for what seemed like eons [then my cheeks blushed even more thinking about what my audience would think if they could read my mind… I could just hear it, all of them laughing at me “EONS! Ha! You think you know EONS!?; and the worst part would be that the laughter would echo for millions of years, as the sound waves traveled like snails through the blackness and the space, expectantly awaiting the day when they finally crawled into my ears and then made themselves into a memory].    

And then I did let out my CO2.

And then I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I just stood there.

And then I was born.

“The universe will be full of spinning,” I was told once by a distant relative with a name so long it’s hardly worth pronouncing, so, for all intents and purposes, I called him [Planet Zeta].

I remembered this only when I was twelve and I had the spins for the first time. I laid in bed next to my brother Muhammad, who was six, begging that I wouldn’t have to leave the room and puke again. I thought it was because I didn’t want to wake him, but it was really that I couldn’t bear to watch him curl up towards the wall again as I opened the door, the sickening florescent light flooding over him. The movement was somehow beyond impulse. It was clean and predictable, yet desperate; the arch in his back became severe, and his head disappeared into the darkness, worst of all, by his choice. So I just laid there and closed my eyes, trying to picture something steady like an anchor. But an anchor drops through water which is always moving and flowing and surely an anchor must spin, spin, spin on its way down.

I felt something hot on my cheeks and then I realized that I was crying. Mostly because I felt guilty but also because sleep was lost to me. Through gun shots and shouting, I’d managed to descend into the darkness with great ease. Now, I was descending but in a motion far more violent. The loss felt tremendous. I felt a tug at the sheet and looked over as Muhammad turned over, further away from me; his hand, clasped around the crumpled yellow edge of the sheet, looked so small and yet wicked. I turned away too and spun until I fell asleep. In my deepest hour, I was Muhammad’s grave. 

“You will never die,” Zeta had promised me. “You’ll just keep on traveling. Don’t fear or dismiss the wanderers. They know what they are; they know what we all are.”

I heard these words in my dreams for years after Muhammad died. They came back to me like an inner ritual nearly every night. I would often wake covered in sweat, weeping and screaming, as I watched Muhammad walk across a meadow of stars, then collapse into Allah’s arms. The scents of foreign flowers filled the air and choked me; the two of them walked onwards.

I made a garden where Muhammad was shot, which I tended for the rest of my life. Right there, in the middle of the projects, between two rectangular slates of ugly concrete. The first year, I planted tomatoes. They had been his favorite. He would hold one in his hands like a prayer and bite into it like an apple. The juice would spill over onto everything and he would laugh and wipe his covered hands onto my sleeves, despite my protests.

The second year, I laid down ten stones; one for each year of Muhammad’s life. On the first, I painted a green lamb. On the last, a Z.

Jun 17

Every day my greatest struggle is to live, 


To live, 


Jun 7

"All natures, all formed things, all creatures exist in and with one another and will again be resolved into their own roots, because the nature of matter is dissolved into the roots of its nature alone. He who has ears to hear, let him hear."

- Jesus, The Gospel of Mary (via lazyyogi)

Jun 5

Nicolas de Largillière, Portrait of a Woman (Detail), 1696
Jun 5


Nicolas de Largillière, Portrait of a Woman (Detail), 1696

(via thegoldeneternity)

"Train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose."

- Jedi Master Yoda (via lazyyogi)

Jun 5

"And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in."

- Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility  (via thatkindofwoman)

(Source: happinesslists, via thatkindofwoman)

Jun 4

Nolstagie Lê Phổ 1938
Jun 4


Lê Phổ 

(Source: jambo-rosa, via thegoldeneternity)

What a fool I was to think that I could escape time!

I thought that all the time that I’d been moving, and traveling through the distances inside myself, and expanding like pupils in the darkness [though infinitely], I was on some sort of abstract line [Euclid’s kind made up of points: ‘that which has no part’] moving forwards! Onwards! Beyond to the Great Unknown!

Because of course that’s how I see time in the realms of my [buried] mind. I see it. Clear as day in my deep-dark-super-secret imagination which of course we all trust and rely on and are restricted by and expanded by whether we realize it or not.

But oh was I proven wrong. Time must be the space through which I am falling through always. And all my feelings and my experiences, they must be threaded through the vast expanse of all space. Because there’s no way to escape what once was felt [neither by ourselves nor by all of humanity]. There’s no such thing as moving on past experience and memory. We are all falling through realms filled with the scents of past flowers and gazed upon by the pair of eyes of our past lovers. Just like meteors, we fly and gather about us pieces and shards through which we grow and are soon made up of, before we even have a say in the matter. All that which we observe is scrawled hastily into us and then bade to dry quickly. It’s all a rather messy matter- this life.

I ‘let go’ again and again. Every day is releasing my grip. Every hour is filled with unsurfaced tears and attempts at freedom. The chest opens and yet I have no say over what stays and what leaves and who knocks and who moves on and never will again. Every orgasm reminds me that there’s no release; I am, in my warmest way, welcoming and folding.

And so I shiver and I shake with the weight of the darkness of past-ness; stale, festering pools of damp and liquid memory birth mosquitos every summer. The pests themselves they gather round and watch me and all that I’ve built up [inside & outside myself], their bellies full of poison.

I go on gathering flowers. I go on reading and listening to the crickets and the old voices [clear as day, calling from a space far above my falling-spot] which provoke me. I go on mourning. I go on loving. I go on breaking my God’s heart. I go on begging. I go on, alone.

And with every turn of the stomach; every leap of the frogs & of faith, I see perhaps more clearly the threads and the fabric of humanity and universal memory spread out before me. The colors blind and leap and descend below and rise above, covering me in unimaginable light.

This is my Journey and my Fall; this is my Voice and my Instinct.

Watch me blossom; watch me fade; look on with the eyes of a lover as I do upon all living things; unclench your fists; faithfully fall. 

Jun 2
Faithfully Fall