Whims

(via akillerwhaleofatale)

suck so much. 

thedailywhat:

Look At This Resilient Dog of the Day: A Welsh Corgi named Ole, who managed to survive the avalanche that killed one of his owners, surprised his family by showing up four days later at their motel room in Cooke City, Montana.

“I just saw it outside sitting by the room, which is pretty amazing,” said avalanche specialist Mark Staples.

Dave Gaillard of Bozeman was killed after being buried by an avalanche southeast of town in Hayden Creek. His wife Kerry managed to escape by clinging to a tree.

“His last words to me were, ‘Retreat to the trees.’ I think he saw what was coming from above, that I did not see. That reflects Dave’s amazing quality — thinking of others,” she told the Bozeman Daily Chronicle.

Ole was believed to have been buried under the snow as well, but must have tunneled his way out. Still, the trek back to Cooke City was likely treacherous, with temperatures below freezing, and deep snow that would be taxing for the dog’s short legs.

“How in the world he made it, I don’t know,” said Kay Whittle, the wife of a local businessman who returned the pup to his family. “If he could just talk — who knows what he did from the day of the avalanche until today?”

[billings / photo: photoblog / thanks abby!]

(via theanimalblog)

Tell me about it. 

(via thingssheloves)

My love, you are dreadful. 

but I don’t know where home is. 

lucidly what exactly I meant, I probably would be unable.  And yet I feel strongly enough the need to say: I really hate people acting entitled. 

is overrated, and in any case, will dissipate once the love-in-idleness is wiped from your lids.  As all things.

My mom called today.  She said it was raining over there, and that it made her miss me.

“No one’s there?” I asked.

She said everybody was there, but that I wasn’t.  I felt silly for a second for having asked such an inane question.  

This picture was my object of fancy for the better part of my early childhood.

I don’t know what it is about worn, faded black and white photographs that captivate me so. For as long as I could remember, however, my mother’s torn vinyl photo album from the 80s was my Wardrobe, my gateway to another world where I wandered lost for hours.

Removing each of the soft, delicate snapshots and turning them over to read my mother’s memos, I would imagine a time and place in which life was slower, bonds more meaningful, and emotions richer. I would picture my mother and her friends walking for miles to town to pick up pictures from their photographers, returning over the hills in a flurry of laughter over one another’s half-closed eyes and awkward poses forever recorded on paper. My own life inundated with excessive noise and gaudiness in all its perfection, I took refuge in the black and white serenity and romance of my mother’s photographs.

I eventually came to understand that my mother’s life was more black and white than romance. She could not afford school supplies if her hen did not lay eggs that month, could not eat if the harvest was bad, and could not attend school if her older brothers chose to further pursue their education.

Nevertheless, I know that she rode her home-made sleigh on the frozen lake every winter, sang in the church choir, made lifelong friends while in uniform, and fell in love. She wrote poems for him and he songs for her, sent them one another’s way and waited - for days, for weeks, for months. And when the earnest words finally arrived - well, I wonder what that felt like.

Waiting . Perhaps that is what I yearn so much in the present, in which everything is express, overnight, one hour, instant.  Possessions become many, and satisfaction, nil. The more we surround ourselves with objects and people, the hollower our insides become.

So at the end of each day, an epilepsy of noise and color, I still find rest and magic in the faded photographs - each of them not an event, but a moment, a reward for waiting, a piece of life for an individual, my mother.

Our ever-growing megapixels snap thousands of images every day. But I wonder what more we capture than they did back then. If our thousands of high-quality pictures can move us so poignantly. If the quality of our emotions and experiences has kept pace with the means of recording it. If anything in our lives has become as clear as these photographs. If, rather than a tool with which to capture moments in our lives, we now use images from cameras to convince ourselves that we live.

And as I mull over these questions, I again become nostalgic for an era that was never mine to have.