d e v o n
almost home
RMH
#extradirty
Andulka
Cosimo Galluzzi
dirt enthusiast
Sade Olutola
Origami Around
No title available
Not today Justin
h
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Mike Driver
$LAYYYTER
KIROKAZE
occasionally subtle
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
@theartofmadeline
seen from United Kingdom
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seen from South Korea
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@eameswrites
I’ve been offline for most of today, but I do want to say, if there’s anything I can do for any of my Jewish or Muslim followers, any of my followers of color, any of LGBTQ+ followers, what with what’s going on in cville please let me know. I’m here for you.
God wants you to stop using masculinized God-talk to oppress non-men, also suck it Augustine.
Religious Studies, University of Chicago
Hermeneutics, Himeneutics, Themeneutics: Toward a Trinitarian Theology of Gender Equality
This is an academic thing i wrote
Meet the woman who put 50 million stolen articles online so you can read them for free
Alexandra Elbakyan is a highbrow pirate in hiding. The 27-year-old graduate student from Kazakhstan is operating a searchable online database of nearly 50 million stolen scholarly journal articles, shattering the $10 billion-per-year paywall of academic publishers.
The American Library Association strongly opposes any actions that limit free access to information, undermine privacy or discriminate on any basis. This includes the temporary suspension of visas and entrance to the US based on anyone’s nationality or religion as well as the increased scrutiny of any individual’s communication such as mobile phone and/or social media activity. “Our nation’s 120,000 public, academic, school and special libraries serve all community members, including people of color, immigrants, people with disabilities and the most vulnerable in our communities, offering services and educational resources that transform communities, open minds, and promote inclusion and diversity. “ALA believes that the struggle against racism, prejudice, stereotyping and discrimination is central to our mission. We will continue to speak out and support efforts to abolish intolerance and cultural invisibility, stand up for all the members of the communities we serve, and promote understanding and inclusion through our work. “We will continue to speak out and support our members as they work tirelessly for access to library and information resources on behalf of all of their community members, while advocating for privacy, intellectual freedom, critical global research, information literacy, ongoing access to scientific research, and fair and equitable treatment for everyone.
Julie Todaro, press release “ ALA opposes new administration policies that contradict core values” (via libraryadvocates)
Found this on Facebook 😢📚
Just want to tag some more popular booklrs to get the word out!! @books-cupcakes @buttermybooks @mariethelibrarian @dukeofbookingham @mariesbookblog @trinareadsbooks @books-and-cookies @bookwormboutique @bookavid @octoberreads @readthebloodybook @bookphile @tilly-and-her-books
FYI! You have to be able to go to the warehouse in Red Lion, PA. I hope some of you internet peoples live near there!! If nothing else you can go get a ton of books and then donate them!
I was ready to pull out my credit card and find about about the shipping process but you have to actually be able to go to the warehouse…… any of y'all who live around red lion, PA please help!
Hey! Anyone around Red Lion, PA!? We’ve got some books to save!
Themes
bridging gaps;
-God and Creation
-Text and The Page
They may be decades apart, but the women organizing the Dec. 12 strike have their eyes set on one prize: getting the electoral college to change their votes.
Strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike strike!
Seriously, Monday the 12th, strike.
I want to strike so badly but I can’t afford to because I have two weeks unpaid this month for my client to celebrate Christmas. Fuckkkkkk I hate this season and I hate this country and most of all I hate Christmas and capitalism. Solidarity comrades!!!
It’s also a general boycott! You can participate by refusing to buy anything on the 12th!
Found Poetry: Fortune Cookies
(from the “learn Chinese” word and fortunes from 7 fortune cookies)
To come: You are talented in many ways.
You are a bundle of energy, always on the go -
hear: stop searching forever. Happiness is just next to you.
Elder Brother, Discontent is the first step in the progress of a man or nation.
here, platform, breakfast, please: hear -
The only way to have a friend is to be one; Keep your feet on the ground even though friends flatter you, like oil.
So one of my friends from university set up a site to find her books good homes. She’s “funemployed” right now, so there is a cost (living expenses are a thing after all) but she has a great collection and it’s totally worth it
My books should be arriving at the end of the week :)
Light Log 1
No dreams dreamt that I can remember upon waking.
3:45AM
From my window on the south wall of the room, a dull redish glow rises from the alley between Broadview and the apartment building adjacent to us. It rises from the west end of the alley and seems to die on the windowsill, failing to make it into the room. It casts some interesting, though weak, shadows from the line of coffee mugs I keep on the ledge. Almost no light enters from my roommate’s window as she keeps the shad down on hers when she sleeps and much of the ambient light of the night is blocked by the eastern arm of the Broadview U. Most of the light in our room at this hour comes from the WiFi router located on the west wall. This bright, steady blue provides enough light for me to move about the room with ease, yet not so much that it is disturbing to those who sleep here. Although studies have shown that blue light in particular is disturbing to sleep as it is similar to the daytime sky, so perhaps my sleep has been disturbed more than I know. As I move about the room I also notice the ¾ outline of our door starkly made by the light of the hallway. Like the light from the alley, it does not really enter the room instead lingering around the frame giving it ¾ of a golden halo.
I return to sleep. It is restless and dissatisfying. No dreams can be remembered.
7:35AM
From my roommate’s window to the east a gorgeous, golden light bursts in despite of the still-drawn blind. I cannot look outside as she is still asleep directly under the window and I do not want to disturb her so early. This light illuminates primarily her half of the room which is complimentary especially to her artwork. For my half of the room, I get a much weaker strain of this light which has been bounced off the apartment building to the right. The bricks are a bleached tan color some of which still have snow clinging to them even with the wind. One of the windows across the way has been covered with frost which was not illuminated by the red alley light but which I can see now. Beyond the wall of the apartment building I cannot see much. The alley is about as illuminated as my desk by the cooler, weaker morning light.
Night Driving
I used to have a friend that always took surface streets at night, so that he could look in on people. Even at 2 AM when he’d been on the road for three hours already, he took surface streets. Every once in a while we’d pass a silhouette of someone hunched over a mug of something in their window or someone reading next to a sleeping partner. Once he said he saw a teenager about my age sneaking regretfully back in through a window. I don’t believe him. It’s a principle.
He likes to invent stories for these nighttime snapshots. Writers, lonely wives, lovers, arguments. I don’t know how he has time to invent all this, although it might have something to do with his penchant for driving five miles per hour below the speed limit in his father’s Porsche just to piss people off. His favorites are kitchens. He loves it when people put their kitchen at the front of their house. He drives by this one place on his way home, he says, that always has the kitchen light on at midnight. There’s always this woman, he says, who just stands there looking out at the night – totally unable to see anything of course – utterly without purpose. He thinks it’s the only time alone she gets. I drove by that house once, and I think he’s probably right judging by the array of toys scattered in her yard for a range of ages. Checking on her was one of the first things I did when I could drive. I’d like to say she had curlers in her hair and a ratty, terry bathrobe, but she didn’t. As far as I could tell, they were just regular pajamas.
This friend of mine, he’d also chat up a storm while he drove. Maybe it’s because he didn’t feel comfortable with me. Not enough to let it be quiet in the car anyway. That’s where I learned about night driving and how to do it right. He’d talk my ear off about all these different houses that he’d hit on his way home. I don’t know if I ever agreed with him. I like looking out at an empty black road on an empty black night and simply driving. It’s peace that way. It embodies the concept. My friend couldn’t be peaceful. He couldn’t just sit. But, again, I don’t know if he was comfortable with me. Or if he was comfortable with anyone for that matter. I’ve never seen anyone more nervous in traffic. It wasn’t ever because he was going to be late – lateness never bothered him – or because he didn’t like going slow, but because there were too many people around. He always felt obligated to them somehow. At night, there are fewer people on the roads. We both liked it that way.
I don’t like houses so much. I like train stations. Stamford lights up at night, you can see it from the highway all rainbow. And the office blocks are always on. Those lights never go out, they never sleep. I like the idea of the people who come in to Harrison around 12:45 because I know they’ve caught the last train out of Grand Central for the night. It leaves at 11:49 and if you miss the one before it you have to wait an hour to get that last one, so you get all sorts of people getting off the train. Especially on a weekday. But Harrison doesn’t light up the same way. It’s dark, lit by work lights that were supposed to be replaced ages ago but never were. My friend always laughed at our train station, but he laughed at most train stations. He much preferred cars – even busses – to trains. You learn a lot about someone if they won’t shut up.
I had to take the train for a long time before I could drive. I’m fine with them, but I prefer a car now too. Not only can you see more, but it’s quieter. Well, It’s quieter with the right people. True quiet is the kid of quiet that doesn’t need to be broken. I drive this one friend of mine home and we never have to talk. We can be in the car for half an hour in total silence. It’s comfortable, like a blanket, our quiet. Once he gets out of the car I have to turn on the radio or something, but I can be quiet with him forever.
Connection
My chest actually tightened. I breathe heavier. I flush. I am confused. I feel lost.
I feel I should inform you that this is not some cliched expression of love at first sight. There is no one with me. I can contact no one. I am painfully aware of how alone I am.
I forgot my phone.
Don't laugh; you've felt it too. Your Ice Cream Sandwich iPhone is just as much a part of you as it is a part of me. Bloggers speak equally of the democratization of news via Big Brother 8 megapixel smartphone cameras and of the fall of civilized society at the hands of teens too lazy to write out even their abbreviations. But the fact of the matter is that there is a documented phobia now of being disconnected from these tiny devices and loosing that connection is painful. One becomes painfully aware of this connection - or lack thereof - and it strikes fear into the hearts of men.
I'm standing on a train station platform trying to think how I could meet my train and get someone to bring me this infinitely and infinitesimally important device. But I can't of course. I can't do both. So I get on my train painfully alone and hope I can communicate to someone somehow when I need to come home.
If you were to lie next to me,
in bed,
And if you were to run your finger up my spine,
like I were a book and you were flipping my pages
- though being touched still startles me -
You would ask again:
"Who were they? What did they do?"
I might answer.
I would want to say:
Read me. I am a map. It's all there. If you look.
I broke against these rocks, these here. See?
They led me here.
To bed.
But perhaps you are one of them.
Perhaps you will not bother to read.
And you will lead me to someone else.
Regret
No matter how many times I look over,
You aren't there.
This bed is empty.
When all I want is your arm around my shoulders,
the bed is empty.
And you are laying with another girl.
Gallery Talk
…As shifting forms become clarified through studious and critical practice, the viewer is left with a summary of the inaccuracies of existence.
Bullshit.
The high white walls of a defunct factory make the small, black-and-white description shrink into an idiotic footnote to a piece of art that, in reality, constitutes a mess of swirling colors that does not in fact become clarified through studious and critical practice. She skims some more text on the ephemeral nature of the human condition being represented in the conflict between red and blue. Dominant and passive forever in conflict. Jealousy being the sublimation of sexual desire (Although that one seemed legit, she had heard about it in Psych 101. Or maybe an English class. Somewhere reputable anyway).
“What do you think?”
She turned around. A thoroughly nondescript man stood. Was there something in the curl of his lip? She couldn’t remember now. For now, let’s say he stood. Simply that. She doesn’t look at him.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. You think something. Everybody does.”
He moved a few steps to her side. He looks up at her. She’s not that tall.
“I think the description’s interesting.”
“Don’t look at the description. Everybody does.”
“Where do I look?”
“At the art.”
She looks. It’s red and blue. And probably bullshit.
“It combines emerging sexuality and UFO sightings.”
He laughs in response.
“That’s where you’re going?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“It’s about Jesus.”
She looks again for the cruciform. All she sees is a beam of light and a confusion of squiggles.
“It’s not about Jesus.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“You don’t know. No body does.”
Who is this guy? “Who are you?”
“Come to lunch with me. The café has good sandwiches. We’ll get coffee.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Get to know me.”
“Does this ever work for you?”
“Rarely.”
“Why try it then?”
“Because I got you to look at the art. And you seem nice. And life is short.”
She says nothing.
“And I’m an idiot.” He finishes.
She does not go to lunch with him. This is probably smart. There was definitely something in his eye. At least there was in the newspaper the next morning. He slashed a cross in bright green into “Subliminal, Extraterrestrial, Crystallization”
Chickens
Chickens out-number humans 3+:1. There are 24 billion of them. I look at their beady little eyes in a new light now. They all look the same. An ocean of shiny, emotionless pin heads. I see them pecking me to death with no remorse.
Fights
No one knows when it erupted. Fisticuffs over gasoline. Stations all around are empty - men congregate there in baseball caps and work boots because there's coffee and they have no where left to go - of gas. All I know: there was a fight. Two men in suits, insisting on driving to a obsolete job, fought. Over the last few gallons. Or over a spot in line. or nothing at all.
