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@positivitypeeps
"The America I loved still exists, if not in the White House or the Supreme Court or the Senate or the House of Representatives or the media. The America I love still exists at the front desks of our public libraries."
-Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country
There's worse to come, folks. Strap in and stay strapped.
All news posts are stronger with receipts:
Eight people accused by the Justice Department of having ties to antifa have been sentenced to decades in federal prison over a shooting out
You can support imprisoned people by sending them letters of support and money to use for the commisary and phone calls. Being in prison is expensive. Don't write anything that would get them in trouble. Prisoners' mail is read by guards.
The Stranger Who Loved Me: An Eldest Daughter on her Dead Dad
A Poem (?) of Rambling Thoughts
I didn’t know my dad.
Not in the traditional sense that I didn’t know him.
He was always present in my life.
We lived in the same house until adulthood urged me out.
He loved and cared for me in his own way.
He snored like a six-foot-tall duck.
He liked his eggs with spam or corned beef hash.
He was frugal to the point of nearly being a cheapskate.
His formal wear was a cerulean blue button-up, steel-toed boots
And a cowboy hat.
He liked sci-fi and fantasy.
He watched a lot of conspiracy docs and doomsday movies -
History Channel shit.
He wasn’t a religious person - in fact
He tried to convince my sister and I that Jesus was an alien,
and that he himself was Thor, who’d come down from Asgaard.
His argument was compelling.
It always was…back then.
Facts.
I know facts about my dad.
The things he let people see.
Let me see.
The things he actually talked about.
Which was very rarely about himself.
He was a very intelligent person, and
He had a bad habit of shoving it in people’s faces.
He was glad to be right.
He had to be right.
“Uneducated” people frustrated him.
That was something I had to unlearn from him.
Sorry, I guess that’s not a fact.
Much of what I had learned about my father,
I observed.
I guessed.
I projected.
He never told me those kinds of things.
He never got into the nitty gritty of his mind or his heart.
Like many other dads, I’ve discovered.
Like many men have been taught to move through life.
A shame.
“Men don’t think like we do.”
“Men don’t feel emotions like we do.”
I cannot count the times I’ve heard my mother say that.
She would say it in front of him too,
usually after they had some disagreement.
There are reasons she’s come to that conclusion.
Trauma. Societal conditioning. Heteronormativity.
Even before I had an understanding of these things,
I never really liked when she said it.
I couldn’t believe it to be true.
The one time I ever saw him truly blow up and scream at her,
She had said it again
in the middle of some unrelated argument.
“I DO FEEL THINGS!”
He stood from the dinner table with a slam and stormed off.
She started crying like a victim, and I was angry at her.
I was scared of him at that moment, but I wanted to go after him.
I wanted to tell him sorry.
But I stayed glued to my chair, my mouth shut
And I began to cry too.
In the hospital, when he died,
I cried more out of sadness for him
than out of any sense of loss.
We barely talked as it is.
Not out of malice, but lack of things to say.
We’d grown more apart.
Adulthood had shown me that
He did not know all, as my younger self believed.
And my worldview no longer meshed with his.
I don’t think he had trust in people.
Everyone was out to get something or take advantage.
Certain people made things worse -
Who those people were, we disagreed on.
It would have been easier if his thoughts were out of hate or harm.
It would have made the conflict within me less of a burden.
But my dad was a protector, and he was honest and good.
And he was stubborn, and he wanted to be right.
I kept my distance those last few years,
And all the while, I pitied him.
What a lonely life he led.
That’s the one thing I observed,
something he never told me,
that I know must have been true.
He was lonely.
I saw it in the tired mechanic
who saw his family, the fruits of his labor,
for one brief, early dinner between
the end of the school day and the beginning of the night shift.
I saw it whenever he looked at my mother,
who carried a similar solitude - a love faded.
I saw it the day my uncle, his brother, was discovered.
My grandmother, his mother, was sobbing,
calling this person and that,
as we all sat around the table in somber silence.
I looked across and saw him staring into the distance.
For the first time in my life, that I could remember,
I swore that his eyes were glossy.
I walked around the table and hugged him from behind.
He gripped my arm tightly.
Him and Uncle Mike were the closest.
Quarantine was a strange time
where I got unique glimpses like that.
In the early pandemic, he laughed himself to tears
at a Bert Kreischer special.
I’d never seen him cackle that hard.
The rest of us laughed in shock -
A rare instance of family unity.
We were all going a little crazy.
My sister took it harder than I did.
She organized the celebration of life.
She got a really nice urn for his ashes.
The aftermath for me was more logistical.
I answered questions for organ donation.
I talked with the probate lawyer.
I now needed my own insurance.
I had already been self-sufficient.
His absence from my life was already normal.
It didn’t leave as large a wound.
His ashes are still in the box the funeral home gave me.
I’ve become the keeper of my parents’ marriage.
Mom had this souvenir book to record
their engagement, their wedding,
their first year together.
And I was bewildered at her descriptions
of the stranger she was married to.
The romantic gestures and joy she wrote about
did not resemble my father at all.
I was smacked with how little I actually knew.
He never shared.
He never mentioned dating anyone before my mother.
He never told any stories from his childhood.
He never divulged how he felt when I - his first child - was born.
He never said he loved fatherhood.
Maybe he did say something every now and then
Offhandedly, on a drive
But I didn’t pay attention or was too young to care.
He never told me, but I never asked anything either.
Some things I never really thought to ask.
Why did you go to Australia? Or Hawaii?
(He went in the 90s and always mentioned wanting to go back)
Why drag racing?
(Cars, not queens. That would have been a sight)
Who did you see Star Wars with when it first came out?
(He would have been 14 at the time)
Did you ever like reading?
(I never saw him pick up a book, but he raised very literate daughters)
Some things I was too afraid to broach.
How did he really feel about his weight, his health?
What drew him to my mom in the first place?
I saw time and age and life wear him down
and knew I was partially the cause
Indisputably
He cautioned about making careful decisions.
Did he regret his life?
How the hell could I ask that?
I honestly don’t know how he would have answered.
He never coddled me.
Perhaps he would have been truthful.
No bullshit response.
In the end…did you want to die?
I forget that he’s dead sometimes.
Dad’s just minding his business
Not bothering me.
He knows I’m busy.
Even when I do remember,
I can’t say I miss him.
He raised me so
I could live without him.
So I wouldn’t need him.
Without that dependence,
there isn’t much else
to fuel my mourning.
Until I look at pictures.
Him leading my sister and I,
four and five, or five and six,
hand-in-hand down a dirt road,
our backs turned to the camera.
He and I bundled up in winter coats.
I must be two-years-old.
We both smile cheekily at the camera
with a blanket of snow behind us.
The later the photos become,
the less frequent his smiles.
Those that are there
are weaker and forced.
But he is still always in the shot.
My birthday in elementary school,
back when they let your parents
come have lunch with you.
He’s in his shop uniform.
Middle school graduation.
High school graduation.
His smile is very joyful in that one.
The silly pictures of him I would take for my Snap story in college
whenever he drove up to have breakfast with me on Sunday
only to drive right back home.
I have several of those.
I then naturally drift to moments I couldn’t capture.
While I went to school for acting,
He did his best to come to every show I was a part of.
I see him in the audience laughing.
I see him filming my cast mates and I
singing in the lobby during A Christmas Carol.
He always donated to the department
even when he got a free ticket.
He never tried to talk me into a “smarter” path,
which I think surprised some people.
When my sister got her Master’s,
there were maybe fifteen of us at the dinner afterward,
I sat next to him as he paid for the whole table.
That was four months before he died.
I think of two weeks before he died,
the first time he was in the hospital.
The prologue.
The conversation was a little awkward.
But I remember the last thing he said as we left.
He was on a ventilator in his final days,
so he never spoke then.
But that day, when he was fine,
and it was still just a crazy incident,
the last thing he ever said to his eldest daughter
was “I love you.”
And if there’s one thing I do know
about my father
is that he loved me.
It was flawed.
He was flawed.
Our relationship was flawed.
But that, I never doubted.
And when I left his room that final time,
so they could take him off life support,
I kissed him on his feverish forehead
and made sure to tell him I loved him
twice, for good measure.
I’m crying,
and I’m not even sure
what exactly I’m mourning.
I mourn when he was just Dad -
When he wasn’t a person yet.
Just Dad
who was super smart and strong and could do no wrong.
I mourn Jim
whose life perhaps wasn’t what he wanted,
who was too…scared? unwilling?
to share the deeper parts of himself,
who was probably taught to never dissect or reveal them.
Whose daughter was too young and afraid to ask him,
And now sometimes forgets about him entirely.
I mourn what he’s missed.
There’s some things I am glad
he knows nothing of.
I would dread to know his opinion.
But I’ve written a book since then.
It was always a half-serious, half-joke between us:
“Where’s that play?”
After graduation, he wanted a return on his investment.
All the loans and acting classes couldn’t be a total waste.
He was my supporter, but he was practical.
The book is dedicated to him,
and though not a play, I think it counts.
I had a signing,
And so many friends and loved ones came
to cheer me on.
I didn’t realize it at the time -
that there was a hole in the crowd
where he should have been.
Where he undoubtedly would have been.
I don’t know if he would have actually read it.
I don’t know if I would want him to read it.
Grief really is a fucked up thing.
I never knew my dad.
He never let me.
And I never let him know parts of me either.
Too scared of what the other would say.
But that doesn’t change the fact that
Last night
I desperately missed his hugs.
if you don't do anything else today,
Please have a moment of silence for the people who were killed instead of freed when news of emancipation finally reached the furthest corners of the american south.
have another moment for the ledgers, catalogs, and records that were burned and the homes that were destroyed to hide the presence of very much alive and still enslaved people on dozens of plantations and homesteads across the south for decades after emancipation.
and have a third moment for those who were hunted and killed while fleeing the south to find safety across the border, overseas, in the north and to the west.
black people. light a candle, write a note to those who have passed telling them what you have achieved in spite of the racist and intolerant conditions of this world, feel the warmth of the flame under your hand, say a prayer of rememberance if you are religious, place the note under the candle, and then blow it out.
if you have children, sit them down and tell them anything you know about the life of oldest black person you've ever met. it doesn't have to be your own family. tell them what you know about what life was like for us in the days, years, decades after emancipation. if you don't know much, look it up and learn about it together.
This is Juneteenth.
white people CAN interact with this post. share it, spread it.
it makes me so sad seeing people in my life who tell me they think they might be trans but they’re too scared to confront that reality because the transgender experience just seems to be filled with terror and misery. trans people please never stop talking about the joys of being transgender. please never stop talking about your excitement and joy and happiness. maybe you think that the trans experience is all doom and gloom, too. I promise it’s not. focus on the joy and you will feel better I promise.
For those who have missed it, a tourist in Hawaii decided it would be fun to chuck a rock (a BIG rock) at a monk seal. He missed, but he was captured on video, and when told it was illegal to interfere with them, said "I'm rich, I can pay the fine."
Is the best part that he got doxxed? No.
Is the best part that he got tracked down by a local and beaten? No.
Arrested on state at federal charges, looking at up to 5 years and 50K? Nope.
The best part is the local city council's reaction.
And the best part of that is the look on the attorney's face.
CRITICAL ROLE CAMPAIGN 1/VOX MACHINA FINALE SPOILERS
A devastating idea just occurred to me.
Imagine that they go beyond Campaign 1’s ending for the final season of LOVM. What if they instead end on Dalen’s Closet?
Obviously, they’ve already been making some changes in adaptation - some tiny and some large. What if they tweak how the final battle goes, the goodbye between Vax and the group? So that way Scanlan’s final wish and Vax’s appearance at the wedding is the bookmark to it all and JUST as heartbreaking.
These last two seasons are gonna ruin me. That’s all I know
Critters who are also anime fans, hear me out.
I’m the kind of person who imagines a whole animatic in my head whenever I listen to music, but unfortunately I do not have the physical talents to make any of it, so I can only tell of ideas and hope someone acts on them.
I think the Season 2 OP for Frieren: Beyond Journey’s End goes SO HARD for C4.
So, the whole thing is focused on Thjazi. The verse contains glimpses of just small everyday moments he’s shared with most or all of the PCs individually (dinner at Hal’s place, teaching Thimble to write, wartime campfires with Teor and Kattigan, etc).
Then we get to the bridge. With Frieren, it jumps forward in time with each beat, showing her party members growing older while she stays the same. With Thjazi, I imagine similarly seeing his back as it flashes through VASTLY different portions of his life: the War of Axe and Vine, standing at his wedding watching Aranessa walk down the aisle, facing Julien as he’s arrested, threatening Bolaire in the museum, and ultimately ending with him on the execution platform, a noose around his next as he faces most of Dol-Makyar. And in the final ramp up the chorus, it cuts to Hal’s back as he stands in front of his brother’s body adorned in candles and trinkets.
Then we get to the epic and heroic sounding chorus, and it’s where we see the legacy Thjazi left. We see flashes of the villains, sure, but we mostly see all of his allies and adversaries, the people that came together because of him, working to finish what he started. The Schemers at the Seven Stars, the Soldiers with the King’s Hounds in Timmony, the Seekers riding through the Eternal Night.
I just think there’s something to be compared between a physically immortal character (Frieren) and a character who lives on through memory and haunts the narrative.
I guess Thjazi is much shadier Himmel? 😅
The Artemis II crew naming two previously undiscovered lunar craters (one after Commander Reid Wiseman's late wife).
"The horrors persist but so do libraries, books, iced coffee, sunsets, trees, the word 'fuck', the moon and the sea."
Okay, but I need a Thjazi Fang novel like ASAP
(if we do, it probably won’t be till much later in C4 but I need the love story with Aranessa, growing up Hal and their father, Uncle Thjazi, shenanigans with Thimble. I NEED IT)
Okay, but hear me out:
If Fjord and Jester have a daughter, there’s a high probability of her skin being green, and thus we would have an EMERALD of the Sea, born from a Sapphire who was herself born from a Ruby.
Three beautiful gems. Three generations of badass women.
Hell, that could be her name. Emi could be such a cute nickname. Or something adjacent like Emilia, etc and still called Jester’s “Little Emerald.”
(Has anyone else said this? I feel like someone has to have and I’m just hella late.)
LATE CRITICAL ROLE CAMPAIGN 2 / MIGHTY NEIN SPOILERS
I know we are several seasons away, but I am so excited for animated-only people to experience the Vilya reveal in Mighty Nein. Because there’s gonna be so many more instances of “…Wait a minute.”
In the campaign, the cast and audience figured it out pretty much RIGHT before the reveal was made in game, because Vox Machina had obviously never met Vilya in Campaign 1, there was no official art of her, and it was so long ago both in and out of game.
In the animated canon, there will still be that separation of time. They seemed to change her disappearance from during her Water trial to her Earth trial in LOVM S3 EP10, so they may or may not touch on it again in the final seasons. Either way, that’s still MULTIPLE years before she’s gonna show up in MNA.
But show-onlys have that benefit of the LOVM flashbacks. They’ve seen and heard Vilya. And I’m sure there’s gonna be a lot of people who, even if they haven’t revisited Vox since initially watching it and she will look slightly different, will have their subconsciouses triggered and be like, “This lady seems familiar…”
There’s also an amazing opportunity they have for sneaking in Keyleth’s “Wind”/“Pass Through Fire” musical motif as an extra little brain worm.
Some may guess as soon as she shows up. Some may get it when Caduceus restores her memory and she mentions Tal’Dorei and the Ashari. And there may be some people - bless their souls - who don’t get it until we get a glimpse of Keyleth. Either way, I will be sat for the reactions.
when she says she doesn’t send nudes
when guys objectify women and expect them to send nudes
when someone asks you about your nuclear plans for russia
When Russia sends you nudes
#what the fuck happened here
This is my favorite post in all of tumblr
reminder that this post is now illegal in Russia
reblog it, because Russia can´t
Thanks Obama
When Russia makes this post illegal
I HAVE ONLY SEEN THIS IN SCREENSHOTS
I will reblog this every goddamn time I find it on my dash
I have a piece of tumblr history on my blog now
String identified: atgctactttaatcaaaaattcaTattattatttgaagtcaacatTaaataattgaATCTgtgattaaacttg
Closest match: Bombyx mori BmN4 cell DNA, chromosome 24, sequence Common name: Domestic Silk Moth
(image source)
When the domestic silk moth sends you nudes
Domestic silk moth is just being friendly
Now the moth is banned in Russia
…well what the fuck is this
Art.
What if we win?
What if the children go to schools unafraid of tear gas and bullets?
What if the birds come back, and the bees are healed, and every species moves from endangered, to threatened, to thriving?
What if the rainforest ADVANCES?
What if every parking lot had solar panels? What if every structure had solar panels? What if we built climbing gyms and terraced gardens in the skeletons of old coal power plants?
What if you baked your neighbor bread, and they shared their home-grown blackberries?
What if every person who needed a home, had one? What if every person who needed healing was healed?
What if every body was treasured for what it was, not what it should be?
What if every trans child's parents attended their graduation, their wedding, their new-name-day?
What if every warehouse became a closed-circle repair station? Goods flowing out, and back, and out again? What if landfills started to SHRINK?
What if the water and air were clean? What if there was enough public transit that the cars dwindled, leaving the streets safe for kids on bikes, evening deer, midnight cats and foxes?
What if we win?
How would you win?
the power of this image ❤️
