Sometimes swaddled in silvery capes or attended to by ghostly minders, the android-like devices call to mind the Victorian mothers who would hide underneath blankets to keep their toddlers from squirming during portraits. Collected together, the Google-camera selfies are at turns unsettling, revealing, and absurd—unintentionally upstaging the art they’re meant to quietly document. (via Google’s Street View cameras are touring museums and taking weird selfies by accident - Quartz) High-res

Sometimes swaddled in silvery capes or attended to by ghostly minders, the android-like devices call to mind the Victorian mothers who would hide underneath blankets to keep their toddlers from squirming during portraits. Collected together, the Google-camera selfies are at turns unsettling, revealing, and absurd—unintentionally upstaging the art they’re meant to quietly document. (via Google’s Street View cameras are touring museums and taking weird selfies by accident - Quartz)

Source qz.com

The thornless blackberry, a shade form of the mountain blackberry, has mystified scientists, as it produces berries on a thornless bush when growing wild but develops thorns when cultivated.

"West Virginia: A guide to the Mountain State," 1941.

The old man was very thin, and he emitted a mildewed smell, possibly because he had few clothes and refused to buy or accept anything new. Also his eyes were constantly watering. But he would sit in the parlor and tell the boy stories from Ovid. They were stories of people who became animals or trees or statues. They were stories of transformation. Women turned into sunflowers, spiders, bats, birds; men turned into snakes, pigs, stones, and even thin air. The boy did not know he was hearing Ovid, and it would not have mattered if he had known. Grandfather’s stories proposed to him that the forms of life were volatile and that everything in the world could as easily be something else. The old man’s narrative would often drift from English to Latin without his being aware of it, as if he were reading to one of his classes of forty years before, so that it appeared nothing was immune to the principe of volatility, not even language.

The boy thought of his grandfather as a discarded treasure. He accepted the stories as images of truth, and therefore as propositions that could be tested. He found proof in his own experience of the instability of both things and people.

[…] It was evident to him that the world composed and recomposed itself constantly in an endless process of dissatisfaction.

it’s not broken, it’s just not exactly put all the way together.

dad, talking about either a bookshelf or the bookshelf as a metaphor for me. i don’t know which.