Steam floats like a cloud
Hot water hugs my cold bones
I sink into warmth
About the Creator
Tamara Jacobs
I love to sing and my birthday’s in the Summer🌻.
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More stories from Tamara Jacobs and writers in Art and other communities.
"Quarantunes"
Most things are closed right now. But you know what's not closed? MUSIC! Whether you're making your own, driving with the radio on full blast, jamming with your vintage 1990's boombox, zoning out with headphones on, or having Alexa play your favorite songs on demand- MUSIC IS OPEN! Open and essential. It keeps me sane, hopeful, and can change my mood for the better in an instant!
By Tamara Jacobs6 years ago in Beat
Digital art and artificial intelligence: a new era of creativity
Digital art has moved far beyond its early status as a specialised practice used mainly by designers, illustrators and experimental creators. It now occupies a central place in contemporary visual culture and shapes the way images are produced, shared and understood across society. Its influence can be seen in advertising campaigns, films, fashion collections, books, architecture, video games and social media. What was once viewed as a technical niche has become a major creative force, changing not only artistic tools but also the meaning of artistic production itself.
By Mark Senegal4 days ago in Art
Captain De Cuellar and His Adventures
The Spanish Armada set sail to land ashore on English soil. 100 galleons with 1,000 Iberian sailors on each to land in England, in the belly of the beast. They were foiled at sea and fled journeying around the Hebrides, the last survivors were dogs, washed ashore on the West Coast, terriers that would over the centuries be westies named “Jock” posing for shortbread tins. The rest of the crews landed at Streedagh Beach, Sligo. The Gallowglass enlisted by the English took their claymore to the Spanish swines and let the beach wallow in their blood, bespectacled with Latin bodies. Few were saved for being Catholic and the rest were on the run, they ventured north and it was Captain De Cuellar who ventured to Connaught and Ulster, precariously not knowing when each night might be his last. The souls he lost on his watch haunting his every step, their spirits and blood soaking into the land and people, the black hair of the west, the strength to repel the English on the rocks and ground, through famine and purposeful pain and passing. The millions of skeletons that would perish and the language that would fervently remain; the shadow of the nation would be seeping with blood of sacrifice like a bog of an ancient bard, or a fighter who was a Milesian sparring with the supernatural force, the Tuatha De Nannan. As the clock would be covered and the death would be celebrated with a wake - De Cuellar was petrified by these lands, and he wrote his journal, begging for help from the king abroad.
By Karl McBeatha day ago in Art
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