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annniekate

@annniekate

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TUTTI (out of print) wanna make a book? 🗺️ pls say hi! hello@indigoannie.com 🤍 by @annniekate

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5 years ago

goude fiets op de street by @annniekate

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4 years ago

We made a yearbook! First of many. Basking in @honeybee_schoolhouse warmth … this gorgeous tome of memories, recipes, rituals, games, and more … Helping my soul sister @midwest_marypoppins consolidate her decades-worth of early childhood magic & wisdom into a tangible time capsule for this sweet community will remain a core memory. Every detail born from scratch and mess; mud and laughter. Presence is the backbone of any timeless work. Thank you Honeybee & Sierra for sharing your world with me. You can find me at my east-facing desk whittling away at books for the rest of time. Yours and mine. Self-publishing is the future! #indigopress #selfpublishingauthor ample gratitude to @mollyollyglutenfree & @everleafy for your photo storytelling 🥚 by @annniekate

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2 years ago

the watched watches back by @annniekate

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3 years ago

gay by @annniekate

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2 years ago

taken in Fristaden Christania by @annniekate

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3 years ago

making god blush by @annniekate

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3 years ago

by @annniekate

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5 years ago

by @edward_wichard and me taken in Canal Saint-Martin by @annniekate

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5 years ago

Mural from Project Hope inspired by ‘A Map to the Next World’ by Joy Harjo:

In the last days of the fourth world I wished to make a map for those who would climb through the hole in the sky.

My only tools were the desires of humans as they emerged from the killing fields, from the bedrooms and the kitchens. For the soul is a wanderer with many hands and feet.

The map must be of sand and can’t be read by ordinary light. It must carry fire to the next tribal town, for renewal of spirit.

In the legend are instructions on the language of the land, how it was we forgot to acknowledge the gift, as if we were not in it or of it.

Take note of the proliferation of supermarkets and malls, the altars of money. They best describe the detour from grace.

Keep track of the errors of our forgetfulness; the fog steals our children while we sleep.

Flowers of rage spring up in the depression. Monsters are born there of nuclear anger.
Trees of ashes wave good-bye to good-bye and the map appears to disappear.

We no longer know the names of the birds here, how to speak to them by their personal names.
Once we knew everything in this lush promise.

What I am telling you is real and is printed in a warning on the map. Our forgetfulness stalks us, walks the earth behind us, leaving a trail of paper diapers, needles, and wasted blood.

An imperfect map will have to do, little one.

The place of entry is the sea of your mother’s blood, your father’s small death as he longs to know himself in another.

There is no exit.

The map can be interpreted through the wall of the intestine—a spiral on the road of knowledge.

You will travel through the membrane of death, smell cooking from the encampment where our relatives make a feast of fresh deer meat and corn soup, in the Milky Way.

[cont] taken in Living Arts of Tulsa by @annniekate

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6 years ago

by @annniekate

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3 years ago

taken in Oklahoma by @annniekate

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