"But I have promises to keep..."

A little bit southern. A whole lot of boom shocka locka.

You got questions? I got answers!

Patiently Awaiting Flowers

My heart is heavy this time of year.  It’s the time I think on levee breaches and bloated bodies, a beloved city failed by her sons and daughters and my mother’s crepe myrtle tree.

Things can be destroyed, so I don’t really attach myself to them.  So when I lost my mother, I didn’t look for her rings, or a piece of her handmade wedding dress.  I looked for her tree.  The one she begged her mother for, for so long.  As my grams’ health failed, her tree began to wither, so she finally acquiesced and gave Mama a branch.  Supposedly, that’s all you need for a crepe myrtle to flower.  So Mama cleared a spot in the middle of the garden, placed the tiny little branch in the middle, and waited.  

It still hadn’t flowered in the fall of 1988 when my grams passed away.  There were no flowers in 1989 or 1990 either.  It reminded me of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree:  skinny, bare, but endearing in its hopefulness.  My mother was unmoved.  ”The branch has to take root.  A little sun, a little water.  We’ll have a tree when it’s time.  Be patient and it will flower.”

In 1991 we saw a bud.  Then two. Then suddenly, there was a tiny tree with an explosion of bold, pink blossoms.  It was nothing to me at 15.  It was everything to my mother.  She shrieked.  A little branch, a little sun, a little water, a lot of patience and unspoken hope changed her world.   The tree grew stronger and my mother didn’t.  One of her few pleasures in her last years of life was the beautiful garden she built around her mother’s tree.  Nothing was allowed in that garden that didn’t complement it.  By the time my own mother died in 1994, it stood taller than my head. 

Once my mother was gone, I got it.  Through our mothers’ gardens, we were given the opportunity to cultivate legacy.  It was like bringing a part of her back.  I’d drive past my house and daydream.  I envisioned purchasing my own home.  I’d ceremoniously break a branch, explaining the significance of this third generation tradition.  Then as time passed, I’d patiently wait for flowers.

In the past nine years, I’ve replaced things twice over.  But as for my mother’s tree, Katrina left nothing but a round patch of dirt, reminding me that there was once life there, blossoming with pink promise.  That’s what the levee took from me:  the only tangible manifestation of my mother’s legacy I’ve ever wanted.  Sometimes the sadness of it turns me inside out.  I know what it means to miss New Orleans.  This is the story for so many scattered sons and daughters, who will forever feel the beat of the second line in their hearts.  It’s not always easy, but I’ve made it this far.  What’s a little farther?

Plus, now I have my own yard.  It’s small, but there’s just enough room to plant my own legacy.  Experience tells me I don’t need much.  A little sun, a little water and a branch.  Then all I need to do is wait and cultivate a legacy.







some guy on facebook tried to tell me that kat dennings’ boobs aren’t good because she’s overweight. like if that isn’t the most perfect rack/bod you’ve ever seen then get the fuck out of my face.

I never understood jerkoff dudes who think big boobs “don’t count” if the person attached to them is overweight. Like…what do you think big boobs on skinny people are made of? Air? Cotton candy? The souls of the innocent??

Hoooow is she even overweight? !?!?!??÷? Even if she is by the backwards measurement that doctors use, LOOK AT HER!

she isn’t overweight

and it’s all good. he couldn’t even begin to get in touche with her or a woman like her in the first place

Fuckboy nonsense.

I’m a fan of Kat Dennings’ boobs. Seriously. I love her cleavage.

(Source: whorshipment, via neauxbodee)

Death's Bobby Hackney: "We Never Thought We Would See This Kind of Appreciation"

Your favorite punk band probably sounds like these guys. 

(Source: blackrockandrollmusic, via blackamazon)

I long so much to make beautiful things. But beautiful things require effort and disappointment and perseverance.

—Vincent van Gogh   (via vintagegal)

(Source: larmoyante, via meowmanifesto)

Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It’s all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand. Everything is a self-portrait. Everything is a diary.


Mind = Blown

If the creator of this does not tell me that the actual reason is because Princess Leia was a double agent, one of the Ewoks is Jesus or that the Storm Troopers are blinded by midichlorians and science, I am going to find him/her and physically fight them. Don’t nobody wanna read your logical shit about Star Wars.

(via geekscoutcookies)