#melting clocks

[elitsa-27]

I think this turned out great if we have in mind that this was made for an assignment and I did it against my free will :D

Anyway , if you have any preference of what you'd want to see more in my profile , don't worry to tell me (I mean stuff I can do more than just draw , like I have theories about different shows , I am good at magic specifically tarot and I can play ukulele) 🖤

[chaoticgabby]

Sabrina Harrison wearing a Salvador-Dalí-inspired dress

[hennethgalad]

aargh the clocks changed today

i hate you clocks i hate you watches i hate you timetables i hate you deadlines i hate you nanoseconds i hate you seconds i hate you minutes i hate you hours i hate you days i hate you weeks i hate you months i hate you decades i hate you centuries i hate you millennia i hate you eras i hate you aeons i hate you time

[smokefalls]

We’re in these skins for all sorts of reasons. This is mine: not to be right or to be accepted, not necessarily to belong or even to be worshiped, but to wring my heart out properly, to happen to life as it happens to me, to be transformed from the inside.

Eloghosa Osunde, “Walk Worthy” from The Paris Review

[phonte]

CARTIER CRASH WATCH

PHONTE

[anthonyspage]

🕰💦🦋🧚‍♀️✨

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

NAUDLINE PIERRE, LEAD ME GENTLY HOME, 2019, OIL ON CANVAS, 96 X 120″. PHOTO: PAUL TAKEUCHI.

* * * *

Naudline Pierre’s work is a place like that. Have you ever met a painting you immediately wanted to climb into because you were sure—you could bet on it with your life—that nothing painful could touch you there? When things get too tiring on this side, I project her work onto the wall in my home, close my eyes, and move to the edge of my body, readying myself from the inside. To live in this world is to have the body be the loudest thing. But there are—and have always been—other just-as-true realms in which we have form. Pierre’s work is a spiritual reality that’s happening right now. It helps me take breaks from whatever hurts, whatever has crushing weight. It helps me remember that to think of the immaterial world, the Other World, as my first address is not escapism, it’s fortification, strength making, muscle memory. 

Pierre’s work wakes my memory of my inside self, my spirit self, my body beyond flesh, my love with echoes surrounding it. I enter the world she centers and turn immediately celestial. More than myself. Bloodless but multilimbed and massive-winged. I’m spiritually present and cared for. And not just that, but I have kin, people who brush through my heavenly hair, who link their careful arms around each other’s ankles, who cover their loves with full and lush feathers. Hot beams of light pour out of all our heads, our faces haloed by complete love. Inside there, we’re visible, outrageously colorful and unmasked, boldfaced, touching and unsorry. It’s not quite the heaven I grew up believing in, even though that place has its own glorious music, a score. People fall down still, we stumble. I know. We float off into weightless clouds. I see that. But I notice how we’re hardly ever alone. We’re always being caught, upheld, hallowed in this place that goes beyond respite and right into the heart of pleasure for its own sake. I’ve been wondering, then: What if the most exciting thing about that heaven isn’t the colors, or the wings, or our other-bodies, but the relationships, the togetherness, the touch?

[Oh, Heaven: By Eloghosa Osunde March 8, 2021: MELTING CLOCKS]

Paris Review

[adirabennett]

SALVADOR DALÍ

[wirwarenhier]

Vergänglich

Wie Vergänglich Die Zeit

Wenn nur mir die Erinnerung bleibt

Erkenn ich vielleicht

Das ich genießen sollte was mir der Moment

so wie nichts anderes schenkt

Zufriedenheit

[panoramas-de-placer]

[violeteyedvampiremolloy]

//Venice: Melting clocks ~ Salvador Dali inspired home accessories. Shops off of St Mark's Square towards Rialto Bridge - a labyrinth of high end wares.

[splendidchapette]

You know it's bad when the clocks start melting

[smokefalls]

I’m my longest-standing witness, the keeper of all my archives, the one who knows all the roads inside me—which leads to shame, which leads to rage, which leads to peace; I am the town planner of my internal landscape.

Eloghosa Osunde, “Walk Worthy” from The Paris Review

[maya-tl]

The Persistence of Memory

"The Persistence of Memory", painted by artist Salvador Dalí, 1931. One of his most recognizable works. Sometimes referred to by more descriptive titles such as "Melting Clocks", "The Soft Watches" or "The Melting Watches".

Picture chosen for the first prompt of @scribuary: Choose a famous historical photo or work of art and write your own interpretations or fictionalized story based on the picture or painting.

***

Drip, drip, drip, flows the passage of time, like a fine stream of sand over the steep edge, every stream a river alone and yet as one they all cascade, down where the light reaches no more.

And they fall until they hit rock bottom, and then the bottom breaks and they gather in the clouds only to fall again, and again, and again.

Though the sky is bathed in golden light, the sun bright over faraway cliffs, trying in vain to slow down its end, and the heat burns and burns and it smells like burning ocean blues, the golden glow devouring at once the evening sky.

It smells like freshly pounded dough left to melt down the edge of the table, like broken numbers and misplaced pointers and metal that feels like glue in your hands, it smells of scorching summer heat and harsh desert treks under the midday sun.

Something has already eaten away at the wheels, they no longer spin.

One of them has gone bad, rotten by the unforgiving nature of constant, constant ticking. The river has turned into a trickle, that trickle into a drop, that drop to something that we can no longer see.

How strange, I say, for these to lie here unattended. Freshly washed and hung to dry, for surely in this heat they will do so?

Ah, but the ocean of time never dries out. Hear the trickle of fine sand by your feet? The desert, too, is an ocean of sorts, and always in the ocean even a single drop will keep the current flowing strong, no?

Drip, drip, drip, sound the melted clocks. And they fall and hit the bottom, again, again, again.

And the fine stream of time flows like sand over the edge.

[keats112-blog]

Help. Me.. Help. Me.. I'm melting! Exterminate..

[hozierarthistory]

The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali // Arsonist’s Lullaby by Hozier