the contrabass saxophone is such an absurd instrument
talk dirty to me
Have ya’ll seen the double contrabass flute before???
reblogging my own post because what in the fuck
i give you the contrabass tuba. Why is it real. I dont know.
Know what’s even better?
The Japanese cherry blossom, known as the Sakura in Japanese, is the flower of a cherry tree that is cultivated for its decorative features rather than for cherries (it doesn’t bear fruit). The overwhelming beauty of the cherry blossom bloom has been known and adored for ages. The blooming period is associated with Japanese traditions, culture, aesthetics, and is a bittersweet metaphor for the ephemeral nature of life itself.
The blooming cherry blossoms herald the beginning of the centuries-old Hanami festival – the traditional Japanese custom of picnicking under trees rich with flowering Sakura branches and enjoying this short but striking first breath of spring. The blossoming wave usually starts in Okinawa in January or February and progresses through all of Japan until April or May. The cherry blossom front (Sakura zensen) can be conveniently tracked every year using this calendar.
You had your mother worried sick.
And you had your sister worried sick an’all.
I were going to call the police.
You would have been right to.
Because I was concerned, son.
Yeah, I understand that. I understand that now.
'Cos… you know why.
Go on, Dad. Come on, harder. Go on!
'Cos I was worried sick!
David Almond (via l-oo)
Perhaps the most terrifying moment of my life
was the discovery of my parents’ fallibility,
when my father ceased to be a hero and
my mother a queen and
something vile and cruel writhed in my throat,
something they could not vanish,
something they could not eviscerate
with militaristic commands and gentle coaxing,
for this was not a monster under the bed,
this was not an over-zealous imagination;
this was real, this was growing deep
into their daughter’s bones.
And I saw them, finally, as they really were,
stripped of the golden armor
of childhood naivety that had given them
immunity to the failures of humanity
in my too-wide, too-innocent eyes.
My father aches for control,
craves it in the softness of his
He doesn’t know how to be without;
he is a scared, small man
who doesn’t realize that his hands
are made for destruction,
made for ripping out hearts and
crushing them into dust.
My mother is a child,
with an unnecessary temper
that could rip teeth out of the skull.
She fears change,
fears it like death,
and she has reached the end
of growth in the middle of her life.
These were my beginnings,
these are what I have stemmed from,
and I love them, I do;
I love them with the decaying tenderness
that is owed to them,
that will weather over time,
for it is the stone and they are the sea,
and the ocean is unyielding,
even to the frailty of the human heart.
I love them in a different way than I did once-
no longer god-fearing and awed,
but the love of camaraderie,
of those trying to scrape by,
of those trying to make it out alive.
Emily Palermo, The Age-Old Story of a Daughter Outgrowing Her Parents. (via her0inchic)