and some states can be resolved rhythmically right @invenuos - Tumblr Blog

Hii! While I'm taking a break after uni and looking for jobs I would love to take some commissions for some sort of income rn! i will do any fandoms, and ocs and also shipping comms for canon/canon or canon/oc or oc/ oc or self inserts or literallyyy anything ^^

Here's a link to my VGen! - https://vgen.co/zoppzoop

And my Ko-Fi if you'd like to support me! - https://ko-fi.com/zoppzoop

Even sharing the word helps a lot!

sp1ritb0x

Kirishima ^_^ Eijirou

#bnha

patrochilles-or-bust

Shout out to all the Black ppl that can no longer participate directly in the fandom they love because of the stresses of racism 👍🏾 you contain multitudes of value and I'm sorry that the color of your skin and the power of your voice makes people not want to acknowledge that.

patrochilles-or-bust

Yes, nonblack people can reblog. I'd appreciate it, in fact, if y'all took the time to vocally support your Black friends/fans in fandom.

Hello, how are you? I hope I am not bothering you.

I am writing to you as I am living through the hardest moments of my life. Hashem is slowly dying in front of my eyes and our children. He needs an urgent surgery, and I am helpless to save him.

Please, your donation and sharing of our story could be the reason my husband's life is saved. Our children deserve not to lose their father.

Verified by @/gazavetters #53

@qamar2026

I am sorry you have to work so hard to reach out and hear back. I hope the best for your famile, and pray everything turns around for the good very soon. For everyone,

Here's the link for donation: https://chuffed.org/project/180579-samars-urgent-plea-save-qamar-and-omar

Please please consider donating however small amount you can, to save Hashem's life. Please click here to know the details of his medical condition at the moment, and please reblog this post so that more people are able to see and donate.

#asks

ghostofava

god i need something so bad. but what is it

Bone

MARY OLIVER

Understand, I am always trying to figure out what the soul is, and where hidden, and what shape and so, last week, when I found on the beach the ear bone of a pilot whale that may have died hundreds of years ago, I thought maybe I was close to discovering something for the ear bone

is the portion that lasts longest in any of us, man or whale; shaped like a squat spoon with a pink scoop where once, in the lively swimmer’s head, it joined its two sisters in the house of hearing, it was only two inches long and thought: the soul might be like this so hard, so necessary

yet almost nothing. Beside me the gray sea was opening and shutting its wave-doors, unfolding over and over its time-ridiculing roar; I looked but I couldn’t see anything through its dark-knit glare; yet don’t we all know, the golden sand is there at the bottom, though our eyes have never seen it, nor can our hands ever catch it

lest we would sift it down into fractions, and facts certainties and what the soul is, also I believe I will never quite know. Though I play at the edges of knowing, truly I know our part is not knowing, but looking, and touching, and loving, which is the way I walked on, softly, through the pale-pink morning light.

#poem #m #FAVE

da-janela-lateral

Oh, what is the greatest smile in the world, you say? *Looks at you fondly* Louis Armstrong

da-janela-lateral

I think he is a pretty good contender

frownyalfred

Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:

Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.

You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.

When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.

A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)

Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)

The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.

Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.

Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.

panakina

As someone who spent over a decade catering luxury events, let me add some back of house info:

These events are almost always open bar. They're not trying to make their money back on alcohol. They want you to drink and eat and donate generously.

If there are cocktails, there will be at most two on offer, pre-made in large tubs. You cannot order a different version, it is what it is.

There are two types of events: cocktail style or seated. The first includes roaming hors d'oeuvres or a fancy buffet with tiny plates called a grazing station. For a long night, the roaming food will get a little bigger throughout the evening and have a 'main' at some point based around a protein.

A seated event will usually be more structured and may include multiple courses. Silver service is not in vogue anymore. You are likely to get either alternating meals brought to you like at a wedding, or served banquet style. A good caterer can get a plate to everyone in a 300 person event in about three minutes.

Drunk people are the same no matter how expensive their suits. They still laugh too loud, spill their drinks and slip on the dance floor. They are usually less embarrassed about doing coke in the bathrooms.

A full scale event that starts at 6pm will have staff arriving at noon to begin setup. Earlier if there's a light show or pyrotechnics. Typically venues don't just have 30 tables and three hundred chairs lying around, let alone table cloths, chair covers, etc. It's all rented and brought in on the day. Bands and DJs will be running audio tests in the background throughout.

Most heritage buildings that host these things, like museums and manor houses, aren't really designed for them. They might put down mats so you're not walking in stilettos over two hundred year old wooden floors, the kitchens are weirdly far away, and there are not enough taps. There is never anywhere for staff to sit, so if you open the wrong door you might find half a dozen waiters sitting on upturned milk crates in a room full of million dollar paintings, eating the left over bread.

Really old buildings don't have enough bathrooms, which means the staff will be sharing with the guests.

Clean up starts the second the event ends, if not sooner. Unattended glasses will start to disappear first, then table decorations. When the timer ticks over, the lights come back on and exhausted staff strip the tables, pack up dirty glasses and unopened wine bottles and have to Tetris it all into the back of a van. The venue is booked for that day only, so everything has to be gone before anyone can go home. A large event that finishes at midnight might take until 3am to be cleared away.

These are very long and physically demanding nights for anyone working them. The staff all get to know each other, and will absolutely notice someone trying to sneak in wearing a borrowed uniform. They are not being paid enough to care.

THE SCARE

One year before I knew I was sick, I was twenty-one and one week late, I squatted over a stick bought down the street from my first apartment, my first live-in boyfriend stationed in the doorway gnawing at his cuticles, both of us nodding, dazed, as I wiped away piss from my shaking hands, saying if yes, then yes, meaning okay and being okay with it, waiting and waiting and only realizing after the apparition—no—we might have been half hoping for it,

and so, a year later, when I am sick and squatting and feel something slip from me so big, I scream—(I am sure I have lost an unbearable thing)— but when he runs in to find me howling, hysterical, in the bowl there is nothing but blood, a gelatinous clot enormous enough to fill it, my body throbbing, me wailing Oh God, Oh

God, I thought it was— my face in my hands as the hour passed slowly and I waited, emptying, still something like empty.

— Leila Chatti

#m #poetry

MUBTADIYAH

(Arabic) beginner; one who sees blood for the first time.

And indeed, appointed over you are keepers, Noble and recording;

They know whatever you do.

the Holy Qur’an, 82:10–12

Hidden in a dim stall as the muezzin called all worshippers to prayer, I touched privately the indelible stain. And watched, with a nascent sense of kinship, the women washing through the interstice of the door, their veils slipping off like water, water spotting their clothes like rain. I thought the thought only children and the pious believe, that I was, just like that, no longer a girl: the blood my summons, blot like a seal, a scarlet membership card slid from my innermost pocket. I was newly twelve and wise enough to be frightened. I had read the Book and so understood my own was now opening, alighting onto my shoulders like some ethereal bird flapping briefly immaculate wings, and understood, too, that I myself engendered the ink with which, on its pages, my sins would forever be written (not literally, but this was how I imagined it, metaphor, as the blood brought God’s recorders like sharks to me, menarche a bright flare, a matador’s crimson cape) —I had not been good all my life but until this first vermilion drip I lived unobserved, my sins not sins because no one looked. And now, above like a lamp suddenly ablaze, God’s reproachful eye turned my way, a searchlight eternally searching, and seeing and seeing— I was as good as I would ever be. In the dark, the ruddy iris stared back at me.

— Leila Chatti

#m #poetry

mohammedhaboubs-blog

Can you donate 10$?

Yes , I can

No , I can’t

Voting ended onJul 20

Deadline 20 July

Subject : Collecting money for my mother's operation in her back

Current process:

USD 2,855 / $3,563

Vetted by @sar-soor

Vetted by @opencommunion

Vetted by @el-shab-hussein

I am raising funds to support my elderly parents who are currently living in extremely difficult condition… Mohammed H needs your support f

💔 My Mother’s Life Depends on Your Kindness

My mother is in Gaza, where every day is a struggle to survive. Some time ago, she was injured when shrapnel from nearby shelling struck her back. She tried to endure the pain for as long as she could, but now her condition has become critical.

She has now been admitted to the hospital, and her condition is very serious. She is suffering from unbearable back pain, extreme exhaustion, and every passing day brings more suffering. Watching my mother fight through this pain while I can do so little is heartbreaking.

The doctors told us that she urgently needs emergency back surgery. They warned us that the operation must be performed within the next 6 days to prevent her condition from deteriorating further.

The cost of this life-saving surgery is $1,000.

Thanks to the incredible kindness of compassionate people, we have raised $292 so far ($188 from our previous appeal and $104 from our latest one). We are deeply grateful for every donation.

However, we still need $708 to give my mother the surgery that could save her from worsening pain and complications.

I am begging you from the bottom of my heart: please don’t scroll past my mother’s suffering. Time is running out, and every hour matters.

Every donation, no matter how small, brings us one step closer to saving her. Even $5 or $10 can make a real difference when many people come together.

If you are unable to donate, please share this post with your friends, family, and community. Your share could reach someone who is able to help save my mother’s life.

Please help us raise the remaining $708 within the next 6 days. My mother’s condition is very serious, and she cannot wait any longer.

Thank you for your kindness, your prayers, and for standing with my family during the most difficult time of our lives. ❤️🙏

@alylaq @oceanblue971 @judithchopsley @lemon13th @turnaboutmerri @nyan-binary-moths @asheanomhominem @eremest @random-autie-fangirl @underneath-the-oak-trees @judelaws-hairline @reduxskullduggerry @lesboverse2 @aprikose @lesbiancube @pastry-promos @sweetsinnerboy @reallyverynormal @watercolormagicalgirl @410757864530deadcops @peoplepuncher @monstermashpotato @riverlady @omegaversereloaded @criminalizemoney @ahthefreedomofbeingbacteria @mmmmmyeahokayso @smallkidneyjoe @charmsandchurros151 @wildberrylavender @whorcerous-origin @reggie-trying-thier-best @goatmattersinc @kliuspo @scientistman @beanbagprincesssammy @sillyseasides @guineapigwitch @pastry-promos @shrimphatchery @seasoning-city @bodaciousboyfriend @spruce-fox @malleableplatypus

mohfamilysstuff

Please, my friends, help me, my mother was hospitalized yesterday, my mother suffers from severe pain in her back 💔💔

Photograph of my Room

after Walker Evans

Thirty years from now, you might hold this room in your hands. So that you will not wonder: the china cups are from Serbia where a man filled them with plum wine and one night talked of his life with the partisans and in prison, his life as a poet, Slavko, his life as if it could not have been otherwise. The quilt was Anna’s. There are swatches taken from her own clothes, curtains that hung in a kitchen in Prague, aprons she never took off in all her years in America. Since her death, the stitches, one scrap to another have come loose.

The bundle of army letters were sent from Southeast Asia during ’67, kept near a bottle of vodka drained by a woman in that same year who wanted only to sleep; the fatigues were his, it is she whom I now least resemble.

In the trunk, the white eyelet and cheap lace of underthings, a coat that may have belonged to a woman who approached me on a street in April saying, as it was spring, would I spare her a smoke?

Under the bed, a pouch of money: pesetas, dinar, francs, the coins of no value in any other place. In the notebooks you will find those places: the damp inner thighs, the delicate rash left by kisses, fingers on the tongue, a swallow of brandy, a fire. It is all there, the lies told to myself because of Paris, the stories I believed in Salvador and Granada, and every so often simply the words calling back a basket of lemons and eggs, a bowl of olives.

Wrapped in a tissue you will find a bullet, as if from the rifle on the wall, spooned from the flesh of a friend who must have thought it was worth something. Latched to its shell, a lattice of muscle. One regime is like another said the face of a doctor who slid the bullet from the flat of his blade to my hands saying this one won’t live to the morning.

In the black cheese crock are the ashes, flecked with white slivers of bone, that should have been scattered years ago, but the thing did not seem possible. The rest of the room remains a mystery, as it was in the shutter of memory that was 1936, when it belonged to someone already dead, someone who has no belongings. ……………………………………….. Carolyn Forche (born 1950)

#m #poetry

fuckyeahmarxismleninism

The first photo is from 1956. It shows a Black woman watching members of the Ku Klux Klan (a terrorist, racist, far-right organization focused on white supremacy) walking along a sidewalk in Montgomery, Alabama (USA). I couldn't find the photo's author, but most sources state that it was taken in 1956.

The second photo shows members of the Patriot Front group (a white supremacist and nationalist group, formed in 2017, that openly advocates what they call "American Fascism") traveling on the subway during the 250th anniversary of the U.S. independence in Washington D.C., while a Black woman watches them. The photo is by photographer Cheney Orr, taken on July 4, 2026, 70 years after the first photo.

Via Jurunense

#ph

Richard Grossman

Plants

The animals were captivated. We want the soil, they said.

We want silence: We want to sift light and elements

silently. We want peace and good looks. We are sick,

sick of eating each other, and we feel guilty, meek, abused.

We were hoping survival could be a question of our location and seed.

These plants are so smug, they can afford to breathe.

The shepherd replied: Inside plants the same struggle rages.

Each leaf sweats. Every root crawls down, confused.