Skin the biggest worry.

It is the thing we scrub and put lotions on daily looking for ways to make us look better and better like there is no limit. Skin reveals all and so does our culture. How we eat, spend time, a little bit where we come from, tiny bit our age and wealth. The biggest organ is a nonverbal communicator. Looks like the best views get concentrated on best skin hacks? One thing is to remember sunlotion.

How far staring at skin has gone gets worrying when kids do anti-age routines. On Instagram I get recommended shorts that show what to put on skin and how to work skin endlessly. Instagram and YouTube have mastered the art of what our eyes should see and brain receive. They are 98% women who do this influencing on beauty, at least those I see, since I am a woman. The colors, ingredients, prices, how fabulously something covers all irregularities. Swaps really turn me on. Look at the shimmer. Mezmerizing.

One begins to wonder importance of skin and where are we at when someone declares on newspaper not reading literature by white men and having extended the ban on white women too https://www.hs.fi/kulttuuri/art-2000011365909.html. That will be the day one stops reading anything by wrinkled old people. I think 40 could be the limit when no one writes anything interesting anymore. The brain just withers away. Who writes anything interesting and what skin has got to do with it? Do black people write about their struggles only? They only struggle because white people cause them to struggle still and one likes to tell black vs. white relationship issues on white media in continuum because that is what black people do? How boring.

What we see is the most important influencer and manipulating the viewed things is going unbelievably out of control as is the grudge against white people. Anything done by white people getting banned could be an interesting test or media stop doing activism, you are out of date.

Language of turquoise

Excavator on a star looks lonely and abandoned. A horse called Flight was difficult to handle. The animal was sizeable and white. Only one who it let ride was a girl and I thought she was the bravest person I had ever met. I use to like to watch them work together in perfect harmony. The abused and hurt horse, beautiful and enraged, and the only one who could touch its white. How are we the same? What is the same? Why do you seek similarity? Why do you want to be safe with people like yourself?

Puta Madre conceptual garden sub specie Aeternitatis, where every deed happens: truth is a bitch.  Say the truth and you will be smacked around. Out-of-place, naturally dislocated.

Nymphaea looked for her earring on living room floor carpet. She said she has bad eyes. Great Horned Owl in her, in her bra was tightly pressured against her skin. Wanted to study her pressure marks, sunken bloodless steps on her, leaps of red. I thought it must have hurt to wear such bra. To wear underwear she did shaping her form. She always had a nightgown for me with a cartoon figure. I loved her furniture. She hung her jewelry on corners of her dressing table with oval shaped mirror. Smelling her bottles, her sheets, her plastic pearls, her things, her and valuables, details, piled magazines in her closet. Hers, language of her. I looked for it through her hanging clothes sitting on the floor. I poured everything that was in the box on the floor. Language of clichés,
language of beauty
language of trauma
language of banality
language of architecture
language of aggression
language of being a child
language of being alive
language of acting out
language of close
language of an old woman
language of dust
language of turquoise.