
shark vs the universe

titsay
noise dept.
we're not kids anymore.
Show & Tell
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
h
Monterey Bay Aquarium
d e v o n
No title available
$LAYYYTER

Kaledo Art
dirt enthusiast
Today's Document
Xuebing Du

#extradirty

Andulka
Cosmic Funnies

ellievsbear
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from Bangladesh

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Malaysia

seen from India

seen from Lithuania

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Germany

seen from Singapore
seen from France

seen from United States

seen from France
seen from Germany

seen from Canada

seen from Türkiye
@duhsquared
Friend walks into my apartment and over to the kitchen counter. Picks up the wooden bowl full of silver sequins.
“OK, you’re going to have to explain this.”
“I made art!”
“Oh! What’d you make?!”
“...a bowl full of sequins.”
"You're the first person ever to win two Olympic tennis gold medals. That's an extraordinary feat, isn't it?" Inverdale asked. "Umm," Murray said. "Well." He was indeed the first modern tennis player to successfully defend the singles title at the Olympics, he noted. But "I think Venus and Serena [Williams] have won about four [gold medals] each," the Scotsman said with a small smile. His memory was right: Each of the Williams sisters has one gold medal from the singles event, and three gold medals from doubles.
http://www.npr.org/sections/thetorch/2016/08/15/490056480/watch-andy-murray-reminds-interviewer-that-women-win-gold-too?utm_source=twitter.com&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=npr&utm_term=nprnews&utm_content=20160815
Hey I finally pushed out a new edition of my newsletter! Though this rise from the grave might have you thinkin’ it’s Easter, I promise you it’s summa summa summa time and I’m back with a few new tips and tricks.
http://us8.campaign-archive1.com/?u=eaf33992b78f63b7665b72e9d&id=85400157b0
This is a recently made movie, believe it or not! Not something made in the 70s!
She is America.
“Laurie Hernandez winking is America.”
Long time, no #whodat, you say? We agree. Call Your Girlfriend’s Aminatou Sow and BuzzFeed’s Shani Hilton are back to tell us all about what we’ve missed: the R/DNCs, Keke Palmer’s meme, Tweet and her...
Listening to Shani snip at Amina is my favorite thing. Also the long winded explanation of the Chris Paul State Farm commercial is really great.
“I bet the bone apple tea guy is a second wave feminist.”
(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztMfBZvZF_Y)
We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.
Last week, I had a bit of a work crisis. Some unexpected bad feedback, a first in my long career of highest marks on performance reviews. I completely lost my cool, in a crying jag in the office of a partner of my firm sort of way. But I found my way to a really productive solution through two methods:
1. Time: I let myself calm down and regroup over the weekend before taking any actions to fix anything.
2. I sent an SOS email to a group of lady friends where we occasionally discuss professional woman things.
This part is what this post is really about. I could go on about the specifics of my incident and the specifics of their advice -- ranging from communication tactics to ways to frame my thoughts around conversations to the importance of rehearsing important conversations to perspective and encouragement, to sticky conversations about the realities of gender dynamics in these situations and how to not let them make me want to jump off a roof, to advice I didn’t want to hear but was totally necessary. And holy crap. The level of support I was able to tap into was just phenomenal. So this is just to take a moment and, unironically say, what a time to be alive! I’m lucky enough to have two things women in previous generations didn’t. Electronic communication that can build an immediate bridge between DC, NY and SF. And a big network of close friends who I trust with my most delicate feelings who are also at high levels and grappling with these same issues.
I watched The X-Files, loyally, from age 11 to age 16: the fundamental premise of the show, it seemed, I now recalled, was that nothing — the state, people, the natural world, facts — was as it seemed. There were powers out there that could literally erase your identity, turn you into someone other than your self. That was the truth. Black fluid could crawl into your eyes and nose and control your actions, or a cancer-eating mutant could duplicate his own body.
Improbably, this is a quote from an article about whether or not Gucci Mane is a clone.
I am completely obsessed sideways with STRANGER THINGS. I watched the new Netflix series Sunday and Monday. Holy guacamole is it perfect. The reverence it has for all things 80s supernatural cinema is getting most of the digital ink on the show. And don’t get me wrong, I loved it too, it added layers and depths from a common language that starting fresh wouldn’t have achieved. But it was so much more than a nostalgia trip or an ode to Stephen King. I am a complete sucker for anything based on true friendship bonds between a pair or small group of tweens and this scratched that itch so hard. The guilelessness of the performances was amazing (also an 80s throwback), but holy crap were these kids incredible. And they let the teens have acne!!!!! Nancy is going to be a superstar and Toothless/Dustin is my new favorite human. I want to watch everything he is ever in (which apparently includes a national tour of Le Mis? OK!). I have like 33 other Why STRANGER THINGS Is So Very Great topics I want to hit on but I’ll save that for my friends who have already watched it. Go watch it, ok? it’s so very great.
BUFFY MEME / 10 scenes » #6 (3x20: The Prom)
“We have one more award to give out. Is Buffy Summers here tonight? This is actually a new category. First time ever. I guess there were a lot of write-in ballots, and, um, the prom committee asked me to read this.”
It wasn’t the hardest I ever cried at Buffy when it first aired (that still goes to Season 2′s Angel sacrifice; I was still so upset the next day I asked if I could stay home from school) (I was told no, because my parents aren’t insane), but man it was close.
ryan reynolds and his daughter
See, parenting doesn’t seem so hard.
Chafing
just went for a walk // without precious body glide // living to regret
A haiku about summer dresses
By me
7.11.16
I am inside someone who hates me. I look out from his eyes. Smell what fouled tunes come in to his breath. Love his wretched women. Slits in the metal, for sun. Where my eyes sit turning, at the cool air the glance of light, or hard flesh rubbed against me, a woman, a man, without shadow, or voice, or meaning. This is the enclosure (flesh, where innocence is a weapon. An abstraction. Touch. (Not mine. Or yours, if you are the soul I had and abandoned when I was blind and had my enemies carry me as a dead man (if he is beautiful, or pitied. It can be pain. (As now, as all his flesh hurts me.) It can be that. Or pain. As when she ran from me into that forest. Or pain, the mind silver spiraled whirled against the sun, higher than even old men thought God would be. Or pain. And the other. The yes. (Inside his books, his fingers. They are withered yellow flowers and were never beautiful.) The yes. You will, lost soul, say ‘beauty.' Beauty, practiced, as the tree. The slow river. A white sun in its wet sentences. Or, the cold men in their gale. Ecstasy. Flesh or soul. The yes. (Their robes blown. Their bowls empty. They chant at my heels, not at yours.) Flesh or soul, as corrupt. Where the answer moves too quickly. Where the God is a self, after all.) Cold air blown through narrow blind eyes. Flesh, white hot metal. Glows as the day with its sun. It is a human love, I live inside. A bony skeleton you recognize as words or simple feeling. But it has no feeling. As the metal, is hot, it is not, given to love. It burns the thing inside it. And that thing screams.
An Agony. As Now. - Poem by Amiri Baraka
When I started writing this post last week, all i got through was the title.
“So, one of my best friends is dying.”
By the week’s end, the verbs needed to changed. One of my best friends died of cancer at 35.
She’s been fighting it for a long time. Too long. First she fought for her mother, who died just a few months before she was diagnosed with some breast cancer of her very own. Ups, downs. Chemo. Remission. Back again. New treatments. Healthy living. Remission. Back again. On and on. She went from regular updates on her health to only telling a few people she was sick again at all, much less stage four and failing. I imagine I’d behave the same way if I’d been dealing with the same awful, worsening thing for my entire young adult life, my entire marriage.
But then a note from her cousin came in. A laundry list of organs it had spread to. Talk of her pain and opioid dosages. An estimate of life left measured in weeks. A request to come up and say goodbye. I knew from unfortunate experience with my dad that that meant getting my ass to suburban New York needed to happen sooner rather than later. I coordinated with two old friends -- people I love but have pretty much only been connected to through her as an adult -- and we set off. Two of us coming in from DC, one all the way from Mali.
We got there after she’d been moved to hospice. After she could speak or open her eyes. After she’d lost more weight than my worst imagination conjured. But while she could still hear and listen and react. Her truly wonderful family was there, coordinating her visitors and her care and displaying more strength than people suffering from that much grief, stress and sheer exhaustion should have been able to. We held her hand, we told old stories. We admitted to her dad about how those tire tracks in the front yard really got there that one weekend in high school. We read aloud from a notebook she and I used to pass back and forth in school, and were gobsmacked by our outrageous level of boy craziness. We took turns -- two people holding hands and talking while the other took a break to walk across the room and cry.
We got mad at ourselves for not being better friends in recent years. We got mad at the world for everything that was happening. We caught up on each other’s lives. We swam in the hotel pool. We tried to stay strong for our girl, for her family. We hugged a lot. We took solo walks away from each other and sobbed.
We went back the next day before our trains home to say one-on-one final goodbyes. Her condition was sharply declined that day. The things anyone unlucky enough to have seen end stage cancer before can’t forget had set in -- no consciousness, lots of swelling, more pain, labored breathing. And sometime around when we and her family had sat down to eat lunch, the family was summoned to come in for her final moments.
I’m afraid I don’t have a tight ending to this post or a hopeful stopping point. There’s a lot I want to do and to think about. Her life rather than her death and all that. I think I just needed to get this part out, to write it down, so I can move it from the front shelf to the basement of my memories of my friend.
Just want to make sure -- you all know the stock trick, right? It goes like this: keep a ziplock bag in your freezer. Throw all the garlic ends, onion heads, mushroom stems, nearly wobbly carrots, green tops of root veggies, collard spines, etc. you have in there from cooking as you go. Next time you need to make stock, boom. You’re all set. Just wanted to make sure we were all clear on that.