#a.e.

[aregebidan]

Nothing like you will ever happen again

[musingsofadrunkensailor]

A dream of flying

Oh, how I would love to write about her, but I can scarcely find the words. For she is poetry in a language that I haven't yet learned, some distant tongue that didn't exist until she came to be. All I know is that if I were Icarus, and she the sun, I would take to the skies and soar to meet her even if it meant the downfall of me.

[swan2swan]

Whoever conceived and animated this moment, I hope they're doing well and thriving. This is S-rank romance stuff here.

[data-reel]

Titan A.E. - (2000) dir. Don Bluth, Gary Goldman, Art Vitello

[apoemaday]

Oh Stay at Home, My Lad, and Plough

by A.E. Housman

Oh stay at home, my lad, and plough The land and not the sea, And leave the soldiers at their drill, And all about the idle hill Shepherd your sheep with me. Oh stay with company and mirth And daylight and the air; Too full already is the grave Of fellows that were good and brave And died because they were.

[thoughtkick]

Today I am in control because I want to be. I have my fingers on the switch, but have lived a lifetime ignoring the control I have over my own world. Today is different.

A.S. King

[llovelymoonn]

osip mandelstam from a swamp, evil, viscous (tr. a.s. kline) (via @metamorphesque) \\ @stuckinapril \\ julie myerson sleepwalking \\ @kosmogrl \\ rainer maria rilke duino elegies: the first elegy (a. poullin, jr.) (via @bones-ivy-breath) \\ @postnuclearophelia \\ joshua turek (via @girlfictions)

kofi

[silicon-katydid]

[animations-daily]

Hey, for your information, I happen to be humanity's last great hope. I weep for the species. TITAN A.E. (2000) dir. Don Bluth, Gary Goldman

[soracities]

"Persephone Writes a Letter to Her Mother", by A.E. Stallings

First – hell is not so far underground – My hair gets tangled in the roots of trees & I can just make out the crunch of footsteps, The pop of acorns falling, or the chime Of a shovel squaring a fresh grave or turning Up the tulip bulbs for separation. Day & night, creatures with no legs Or too many, journey to hell and back. Alas, the burrowing animals have dim eyesight. They are useless for news of the upper world. They say the light is “loud” (their figures of speech All come from sound; their hearing is acute).

The dead are just as dull as you would imagine. They evolve like the burrowing animals – losing their sight. They may roam abroad sometimes – but just at night – They can only tell me if there was a moon. Again and again, moth-like, they are duped By any beckoning flame – lamps and candles. They come back startled & singed, sucking their fingers, Happy the dirt is cool and dense and blind. They are silly & grateful and don’t remember anything. I have tried to tell them stories, but they cannot attend. They pester you like children for the wrong details – How long were his fingernails? Did she wear shoes? How much did they eat for breakfast? What is snow? And then they pay no attention to the answers.

My husband, bored with their babbling, neither listens nor speaks. But here there is no fodder for small talk. The weather is always the same. Nothing happens. (Though at times I feel the trees, rocking in place Like grief, clenching the dirt with torturous toes.) There is nothing to eat here but raw beets & turnips. There is nothing to drink but mud-filtered rain. Of course, no one goes hungry or toils, however many – (The dead breed like the bulbs of daffodils – Without sex or seed – all underground – Yet no race has such increase. Worse than insects!)

I miss you and think about you often. Please send flowers. I am forgetting them. If I yank them down by the roots, they lose their petals And smell of compost. Though I try to describe Their color and fragrance, no one here believes me. They think they are the same thing as mushrooms. Yet no dog is so loyal as the dead, Who have no wives or children and no lives, No motives, secret or bare, to disobey. Plus, my husband is a kind, kind master; He asks nothing of us, nothing at all – Thus fall changes to winter, winter to fall, While we learn idleness, a difficult lesson.

He does not fully understand why I write letters. He says that you will never get them. True – Mulched-leaf paper sticks together, then rots; No ink but blood, and it turns brown like the leaves. He found my stash of letters, for I had hid it, Thinking he’d be angry. But he never angers. He took my hands in his hands, my shredded fingers Which I have sliced for ink, thin paper cuts. My effort is futile, he says, and doesn’t forbid it.

[venriliz]

Leif.

crooked teeth appreciation! <3

[funstealer]

Airstep 98 Studded Fold Over Flap Boots

[haveyouseenthismovie-poll]

[resqectable]

I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.

A.S. Byatt, Possession

[animatejournal]

Titan A.E. | Directors: Don Bluth & Gary Goldman Studio: Fox Animation | USA, 2000

[apoemaday]

Because I Liked You Better

by A.E. Housman

Because I liked you better Than suits a man to say, It irked you, and I promised To throw the thought away.

To put the world between us We parted stiff and dry; “Good-bye,” said you, “forget me.” “I will, no fear,” said I.

If here, where clover whitens The dead man’s knoll, you pass, And no tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass,

Halt by the headstone naming The heart no longer stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word.