Misplaced Lens Cap
todays bird
🪼
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Show & Tell
if i look back, i am lost
Noah Kahan
Origami Around
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YOU ARE THE REASON
ellievsbear
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
oozey mess
ojovivo
KIROKAZE
Kiana Khansmith
will byers stan first human second
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
@theartofmadeline
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seen from Malaysia
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@nia--san
Christians who believe in Hell are scary. You think someone who loves you would condemn you to an eternity of torture because you didn’t meet their standards of behavior? That’s not love.
It makes me think the people the Christian claims to love are in danger. The Christian could justify torturing them to save them from Hell. Not safe! If someone believes both 1. God is good and 2. Hell is real, they should never have power over other people’s lives. Especially not children!
I am learning to imagine the future:
My sycamore tree began life in the gravel at the edge of a parking lot. If trees can feel pain, that is a painful, unlucky death. I carefully dug it up and put it in a pot I made out of a disposable cup.
Hello small one. This world may be cruel, but I will not be.
I decided to take care of it, not expecting it to survive, and when my sycamore tree unfurled one tiny leaf and then another, it chiseled a tiny foothold in my terrified brain, the kind of brain that doesn't remember a world before the atomic bomb and before 9/11.
I googled the lifespans of trees. My neurons had to stretch and expand to accommodate what I learned: My sycamore tree may live five hundred years. It's hard to think something so big. In twenty years, my baby sycamore tree will be three stories tall, and the home of many creatures. In five years, my sycamore tree will be taller than I am. In one year, it will be summer.
There's this concept called sense of foreshortened future where people who have lived through trauma can't conceptualize a future for themselves because deep down they don't expect to survive, When I look forward, all I see is fire and death, melting ice and burning sky. We were raised Evangelical. All we see is Judgment Day, except there is no heaven.
But now there is a tiny gap in the wall, a crack in the door of my cell
and on the other side, I see a tree
There is, in the future, a great old sycamore tree, full of clean winds and the stir of a thousand wings. A hundred years from now. Fifty years from now. There will be forests in that world. There will be a world.
It takes courage, but we have to imagine it.
Most tree species can live in excess of three or four hundred years. I think I'm learning something. I think there are ancient voices saying hello small one, touch the dirt and the leaves, for now you are part of something that cannot die
in 2030 I will be thirty years old and the world will not have ended and there will still be hummingbirds, and we will have photos of the stars more beautiful than we can now imagine.
I planted an Eastern Redcedar; they may live nine hundred years. There will be nine hundred years. The people in that time will remember us. Maybe we will meet the aliens (hi aliens!).
I will blow out the candles on many birthday cakes in a world where there are wolves in dark forests far from home. I am learning to imagine the future. I learned recently that elk were reintroduced to the Appalachian Mountains after over a hundred years of extirpation, and that they are expanding their range.
That tiny crack I can see through now opens a tiny bit more:
Maybe elk will pass through my hometown, maybe there will be a forest where the pasture is on the high hill that I can see from my home
say it, say it, say it: ten years, thirty years, a hundred years from now
I am learning to imagine the future. There is a crack in the wall of this prison, of this machine, of this darkness, and through it, I see a tree.
today
why don't relative humidity and wind-chill cancel eachother out?
I want to see the vampire who lives in this. I bet his name is Chad or Hunter.
And he's ready to crack open a boy with the cold ones.
What even happens in the pacific ocean
water
CLAY AND OOZE.
el niño
Reblog this photo of a käpylehmä to have a käpylehmä in your blog
It's a trick! If you reblog you get TWO käpylehmäs in your blog!
They're traditional Finnish toys, little cows made out of spruce cones, on their way to see the world from one tumblr blog to another
@elodieunderglass not horrible, but things with legs?
I’ll send them on their lovely journey, thank you!
REPRESENTATIVE OF EARTH: And as you can see, this exhibit represents the vast diversity of our species, from man to woman and black to white
ALIEN (vibrating in an entirely unique pattern of iridescent ultraviolet, swatting away several bees attempting to fuck it, trying to be polite): Mm!
I had a dream I was playing a Fallout spin-off game called Fallout: Underground that takes place millions of years after the apocalypse instead of hundreds. Humanity is treated as the ancient precursor species to a bunch of sapient mutant animals.
I was also thinking that. It's not a stretch to imagine an AU where humanity goes extinct during/shortly after the Great War and the mutant animals build their own civilization.
ooh <3 the road was baking in the sun all day, and now it’s sprinkling. Steam sprites rising from the concrete!
many people ask 'how do i know my art is good enough to start a comic'. this is a very common mistake. you do not make a comic to make good art you make comics because its fun and looked yummy
Dear everyone who is currently working on a Thing, whatever that Thing may be,
Good luck with the Thing. You can do the Thing. You will do the Thing. You just have to do the Thing.
Best wishes,
Someone who is also doing a Thing
up next, the triangle.
we know what hole that goes in, right?
that's right, the square hole!
Do not fall for the grindset mentality; jerk off and eat a hot pocket to recover spiritually
Good point. We should jerk off and *throws dart* eat some pork bao. Or if you're vegetarian we could *spins comically sized wheel* eat some samosas. What's truly important is we have to jerk off. Together.
You just don't get this on other sites
materialist-scumbag
Every few years a wellness magazine runs the same cover. Antioxidants, the little purple globe photographed with condensation on it, a coastline of blueberries under a word like SUPERFOOD. And the numbers do move. Americans went from eating something like four and a half pounds of fresh berries a head in the mid-nineties to almost ten by 2014, and the curve just kept climbing. 2011 to 2021 alone: strawberries up 45 percent, blueberries up 97, raspberries up an insane 192. Meanwhile apples moved 2 percent and oranges went DOWN 18. Fruit as a category is flat. Berries specifically detached from the pack and went vertical, and the magazines would like you to believe they did it, that they talked a nation into antioxidants and the nation obeyed.
They didn't. People have wanted ripe fruit since there were people. Wanting was never the constraint. The berry is the fruit that punishes wanting, it's the one that's gorgeous on Monday and fuzzy on Thursday, and a thing you can only enjoy in a two-week window near where it grew is a thing you never build a habit around. Consumption is habit. The magazine covers were possible because the supply side had already quietly solved the four problems that kept the berry a luxury for the whole prior history of the species: it rots, it bruises, it's seasonal, it's regional. Every one of those got engineered down to nothing in about two decades, and the health halo is just the noise the engine makes. Four problems, four different grubby little machines, and one of the machines is a piece of plastic.
Start with rots, because that's the deepest one, and the answer starts with Herbert Hoover.
In 1930 Hoover signed the Plant Patent Act, which for the first time let you own a plant, an actual specific cultivar, the way you'd own a song. This sounds like a footnote and it's the whole strawberry industry. A strawberry propagates by runner, you clone the good plant and now you have two good plants, which means historically the instant some grower bred a berry worth having so did his neighbor and the guy past him, because a runner doesn't care whose dirt it's in. Before 1930 a good strawberry was a gift to everyone who saw it. After 1930 it was property. And the company that understood this best was a couple of brothers-in-law in the Pajaro Valley named Reiter and Driscoll, whose whole corporate existence, everything they are, is downstream of that one signature.
Driscoll's is not a farm. Driscoll's barely touches dirt. Driscoll's owns the genetics, the patented cultivars, and it licenses them out to something over a thousand growers across twenty-some countries who plant Driscoll's plants and grow Driscoll's berries and hand them back to be sold in the Driscoll's package, and the growers keep the sale price minus the cut, and eat the frost, and eat the flood, and front the thirty grand an acre, while Driscoll's owns the one asset that can't be rained on, which is the patent. A senior VP said the quiet part into a reporter's tape recorder years ago: the growers, he said, are sort of like our manufacturing plants, we make the inventions, they assemble it, we market it, not so different from Apple. He's not being cynical. He really does think Driscoll's is Apple and the family farms are the Foxconn line, and the horrible thing is he's right, that IS the structure, he's just cheerful about it.
Once you see it as a software company that happens to smell like fruit, everything scans, including why they sue people. IP companies sue. There's a decade-plus of litigation against a couple of ex-UC-Davis breeders over whether they crossbred using Driscoll's patented varieties without a license, and it has the exact grain of any source-code theft case, breeding records subpoenaed, which parent plant infected which seedling, and the Driscoll's CEO keeps repeating that they don't SELL their plant material so there's no legitimate way anyone should have it, which is a sentence about berries that is entirely a sentence about intellectual property.
The berry is incidental. It was always incidental.
And the patent solved rots because a patent buys you a breeding program, and a breeding program is a shelf-life factory. You spend decades selecting for a strawberry that survives the truck to the East Coast, which was the holy grail nobody could reach, and Driscoll's cracked it around 1958, and the second you can own a shippable berry you have relocated an entire industry. Before that patented shippable variety, California was EIGHTH in strawberries. Arkansas had three times the acreage. There's a whole vanished Arkansas here, Bald Knob and McRae, box factories whose entire output was strawberry crates, cool caves where they stacked the crates to wait for a refrigerated train, and it all evaporated the moment you could grow a durable berry where the plant actually wants to live, which is the California coast, perpetual spring, no winter. Now California is 90 percent of the national crop and Arkansas is a historical marker. Rots and regional, the first problem and the fourth, both gone once the berry could be owned and shipped.
Now bruises, and this is the one I love, because the solution to bruises is a piece of garbage.
The vented plastic clamshell. That hinged transparent box your berries come in, the one you throw out without a thought, Driscoll's did that first and it may be a more important invention than any berry they ever bred.
Four jobs in one dumb thermoformed shell. It stacks, so the weight of the top box doesn't crush the bottom box, which is how the old pint basket murdered half its own fruit in transit. It vents, those little slots, so the water the berry sweats doesn't pool and rot the layer underneath, which is the thing that turned the bottom of every cardboard basket into a science experiment by the time you got it home. It's transparent, so you can see there's no fuzz before you buy, which quietly does the work that a hundred years of "trust the grocer" couldn't. And it survives the truck, it's structural, it takes the road so the berry doesn't.
And the clamshell is the perfect materialist object. Nobody feels anything about the clamshell. Nobody has ever formed a preference about it, nobody's brand-loyal to it, it has no cover story, no wellness angle, no origin myth, it is the single least romantic object in the entire produce section. And it moved more berries than every antioxidant think-piece ever printed, because it operates on the one variable marketing physically cannot touch, which is whether the thing was any good when you opened it at your kitchen counter.
A marketing campaign changes whether you reach for the box once. Whether you reach for it again next week, and the week after, that's habit, and habit is the only thing that turns a fruit into a grocery staple, and habit is decided at your kitchen counter when you open the box and nothing in it is furred with mold. You can talk someone into a first purchase. The standing order you have to earn, one un-mush clamshell at a time. The berry got a logo and the logo got the magazine covers, but the thing that turned a luxury into a standing weekly habit was the vented, stacking, see-through, road-worthy piece of plastic that got it home unmoldy.
So: rots, bruises, regional, all handled. Patent and breeding program for shelf life, the coast for climate, the clamshell for the road. Which leaves the last and hardest one, the one that no amount of California sun can fix, which is seasonal. Because even if you own the perfect berry and grow it in the perfect place and ship it in the perfect box, California goes dark in the winter. The plant sleeps. October to March the best strawberry ground on earth gives you nothing, and you cannot build a daily national habit around a fruit that vanishes for five months. A staple has to be THERE. In February. Always.
Which is where this stops being an American story and becomes a story about two other countries, and one of them had to become a certain kind of country first.
Strawberries first, because that one's just NAFTA on a delay fuse. US tariffs on fresh Mexican strawberries ended in 1994, frozen phased out by the 2003 crop, and if the tariff were the whole story the flood would've come in 1994. It didn't. Pre-NAFTA imports were about 32 million dollars; a decade later they'd only crept to 70; then they detonated to 842 million by 2019. Twenty-five-fold, but on a ten-year delay, and the delay is the entire point. The tariff coming off didn't conjure strawberries, it just opened a door, and Mexico then spent a decade physically building the thing that could walk through it: the greenhouses, the hoop houses, the licensed shippable genetics, the ejido land privatizing so the parcels could consolidate into export operations. By the time it matured, right in that mid-2000s-to-2010s window where the American per-capita curve bends upward, Mexico could put a strawberry in a US store in January. The winter half of the calendar filled in. And a shopper who used to buy strawberries in June and forget them till next June now buys them in January, and that's not a change in taste dressed as one, that's a change in the shelf.
But the strawberry is durable and grows lots of places. The blueberry is the harder, better story, which is why blueberries beat strawberries almost two to one in that decade, and to tell it you have to explain a piece of received botanical wisdom and then watch a company break it on purpose.
The blueberry is a Northern plant, and everyone knew, KNEW, that it needed winter. Chill hours, the trade calls it, a required stretch of hours below about 45 degrees, a cold dormancy the plant has to bank before it'll fruit. This was doctrine. It's why nobody thought the blueberry could ever fill the winter gap the way the strawberry did, because the places with a Northern-Hemisphere winter are exactly the places that are ALSO in winter when you need berries. The cold that the plant needs and the cold that empties the shelf are the same cold. So the gap looked unfillable.
Enter, of all places, Mississippi. In 1998 the USDA's research station in Poplarville, working with Mississippi State, released a southern highbush blueberry called Biloxi, bred for the no-winter American Deep South, engineered to fruit on almost no chill at all, under 150 hours, basically none. It was a parochial little fix for a parochial Gulf-Coast problem, ripen before the local rabbiteye berries. And then a breeder noticed something. There's a lovely first-person account of Biloxi turning up as the only variety bearing fruit in a test plot in Mexico, a place with essentially no chill, where by all doctrine it should have sat there dormant and sulking, and instead it was covered in berries. The plant simply did not need the winter everyone said it needed.
And that quiet fact, an American public breeding program solving a Mississippi problem, became the seed of an entire industry on another continent, in a desert, run by a dictatorship's leftover economics.
Because now follow the plant south. If you have a blueberry that doesn't need cold, then the ideal place to grow it is somewhere with no frost, no rain to rot the fruit, relentless sun, and a growing calendar that runs opposite to the Northern Hemisphere, so you fruit in THEIR winter.
That place is the coast of Peru. The northern coastal desert, some of the driest ground on the planet, dust and sea and nothing, is now the blueberry capital of the world. Peru grew essentially zero blueberries before 2008. It went from 80 hectares in 2012 to 17,500 by 2022, roughly 70 percent growth a year, every year, for a decade. Exports to the US alone went from 14,000 tons in 2016 to 121,000 by 2021. In 2024 the country blew past 326,000 tons, 1.7 billion dollars. About half the fresh blueberries an American now eats come from a desert that grew none of them when the first iPhone shipped.
But a desert grows nothing. That's what "desert" means. So the last question is the water: where it came from, and who arranged the country so that the water and the land would end up in the right hands. The National Geographic version soft-pedals this into a plucky-entrepreneurs story.
The berries grow in La Libertad, in the valleys named Chao, Virú, Moche, Chicama, and the reason anything grows there is a colossal state irrigation works called Chavimochic, which diverts the Santa River off the Andes and runs it 80-odd kilometers along the desert to turn sand into farmland, tens of thousands of hectares of new ground that had never grown anything because it had never had water. The infrastructure went in from 1986 to 1990. And the occupation of that new land, the handing of it out, really started in 1994, and it happened under Alberto Fujimori, and it happened the Fujimori way. He'd deregulated agriculture, rolled back the labor protections, thrown the doors open to foreign investment, and by the early 2000s roughly eleven agribusiness firms controlled most of the newly watered desert. The state made the land with a river and a canal, and then a strongman's economics made sure the land arrived as large consolidated export estates rather than as anything smaller or more distributed. Camposol, the biggest blueberry exporter on earth, is a Chavimochic company. The berry in your February clamshell grows on desert that a 1990s authoritarian liberalization turned into private export ground and a Mississippi seedling turned into a blueberry farm.
And you can see the whole cost structure if you look at who picks it. A Camposol picker makes around the Peruvian minimum, something like 275 to 310 dollars a month, and the reporting has the line that lands the whole thing: a picker's daily wage barely covers three packs of blueberries in a New York store. When a 2021 agrarian law added a 30 percent wage bonus, the reporting says the companies leaned on picking quotas, the "priority orders," to claw it back the other way. And the water that makes the desert bloom is being pumped out of an aquifer faster than it refills, in a region where the town's own drinking supply isn't guaranteed, so the whole arrangement is running partly on time it's borrowing from the ground.
Okay so, put the whole machine back together. It's beautiful the way a slaughterhouse is beautiful. I mean it works. You reach into a grocery cooler in New Jersey in February and there is a clamshell of ripe blueberries and a clamshell of ripe strawberries, unbruised, unmoldy, cheap, and you think, vaguely, that this is because berries are healthy and you've been eating better. What's actually holding that box in front of you is: a 1930 patent law that turned a plant into property; an Apple-shaped company that owns the genetics and rents out the farming and the risk; a breeding program grinding out a berry tough enough for the road; a piece of vented plastic that beat the mold the pint basket never could; a 1994 tariff schedule that took a decade to cash out as Mexican winter strawberries; a Mississippi seedling that didn't need the winter everybody swore it needed; a Peruvian coastal desert; a river diverted 80 kilometers by a state megaproject; a dictator's land-and-labor economics from the nineties; and a picker earning three clamshells a day.
The magazine says antioxidants. Antioxidants are the cover story, the part that flatters you, and they cost the magazine nothing to print because the actual apparatus, the patent office and the vented plastic and the diverted river and the picker on three clamshells a day, had already quietly done the work and asked no one's opinion of it. You were going to buy the February berry either way. It was there.
leia organa truly has one of the best bait-and-switch character introductions of all time because when you meet her she's this brave, stoic picture of elegance and justice and always knows just what to say to vader and tarkin and is clad in white like an angel and is this perfect two-dimensional archetype of pureness of heart. and then approximately half an hour later into the film she meets luke and han and she IMMEDIATELY shows her true colors as a sarcastic, bitchy control freak with a massive impulsive streak and a deep mine of hyperspecific insults. 10/10 character design i'm obsessed with her
Sound very much on.
