I was having a little peek at my tumblr dashboard yesterday when I saw that Stephanie had found the most amazing house in Iceland on Airbnb. I nearly died when I clicked on the link and looked at all the pictures.
A gorgeous modern house in the middle of nowhere? A living room from which you can sit in comfort and see the Northern Lights? A house that has Icelandic ponies in the surrounding fields? So inexpensive it’s practically free? Is this actually real life?
SIGN. ME. UP.
24 hours later and we are booked for two nights in April with another 2 nights in a boutique hotel in Rekjavikljhykdu (still figuring out the spelling of that guy).
Many thanks to neffsays:for this magical findl!!
To do list:
Go to Iceland
I am here for all end-of-year book lists.
there are so many chapters,
we still get to write.
reblogging for future use. this looks amazing.
Francophiles and cartographers would probably agree that it’s impossible to adequately convey the magic of Paris on a flat, lifeless map. But French designer Antoine Corbineau has come close in his newest print—a neon vision of the City of Light that resembles pop-art stained glass. With a tangle of streets in white against buildings in bold pinks, yellows, and reds, you can try to use this map for navigation, but you’d probably be better off hanging it on the wall.
My mom died on July 18, 2013, of pancreatic cancer, a subtle blade that slips into the host so imperceptibly that by the time a presence is felt, it is almost always too late. Living about 16 months after her diagnosis, she was “lucky,” at least by the new standards of the parallel universe of cancer world. We were all lucky and unlucky in this way. Having time to watch a loved one die is a gift that takes more than it gives.
Psychologists call this drawn out period “anticipatory grief.” Anticipating a loved one’s death is considered normal and healthy, but realistically, the only way to prepare for a death is to imagine it. I could not stop imagining it. I spent a year and a half writing my mother a goodbye letter in my head, where, in the private theater of my thoughts, she died a hundred times. In buses and movie theaters, on Connecticut Avenue and 5th Avenue, on crosswalks and sidewalks, on the DC metro and New York subway, I lost her, again and again. To suffer a loved one’s long death is not to experience a single traumatic blow, but to suffer a thousand little deaths, tiny pinpricks, each a shot of grief you hope will inoculate against the real thing.
A boundless black terror is how I imagined life without my mom. The history of grief, or what we know of it, is written by its greatest sufferers and ransacked with horror stories, lugubrious poetry, and downward-spiraling memoirs plunged in sadness. For some people, the death of a loved one is truly life-stopping, and I worried it would stop mine.
Picasso Nature morte avec chat et homard. 23-October 1962
even in art
|—||Jamie Tworkowski (via thatkindofwoman)|