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Shmi in tpm always has dignity, and her agency is emphasized, it's noteworthy. She's still not a main character- she's a role and a messenger more than a person in some ways- but her words and her choices are given respect by both the narrative and the main characters. She conveys several of the central themes and messages of the movies- and the entire series, bookending Vader's eventual choice. When Anakin wants to race, she is the one one who's permission he needs. She and Qui Gon speak quite extensively about Anakin going to the temple, and it's only with her permission that he asks Anakin, and then it's only with her encouragement that agrees. She's constricted by the harshest of circumstances, but her choices are some of the most important of the movie.
AotC's presentation of her feels absurd as a contrast. We receive our update about her from Watto, and by the way he tells it, things just happened to her. Our next update is a story of a kidnapping which is an homage to a racist caricature. She is tortured for no apparent reason, a brutal narrative tool to drive anakin to rage. She gets one single scene of her own, and can barely speak. Her death fuels her son to a fate we know she did not want for him. She has no choices and her words do nothing.
It's sort of remarkable to get these two stories back to back.
and then in RotS, Anakin's dreams about Padme are a crystal clear echo of the ones he had of Shmi. This trigger sets his downward spiral in motion, driving the climax of the trilogy. She is never mentioned at all. Anakin has no memory of her words, her lessons.
Second Mines Monday still kinda nervous because I wrote most of this at 11pm 😬😁 last time you all got sad old man Sifo-Dyas who survives far into the Clone Wars, this time you get grumpy teenage Sifo-Dyas and his wonderful Master Lene.
Lene had a lot of good ideas, but she also had a lot of bad ones. Sifo-Dyas wasn’t yet sure which category their current adventure would fall into. Which was funny, he thought to himself, incredibly ill-humoredly. Wasn’t he supposed to see the future? After all, that was why they were here. His problem. The whole seeing-the-future deal.
Over the past few weeks, he’d been attacked with visions and nightmares at a frequency he’d never experienced before. Now, they were coming less often, but the headaches and exhaustion still lingered. He felt as though he didn’t exist in his body, but rather that he existed around it — a ghost floating through a void, a hyperspace channel opening around a ship. Hollow and painful and reality-twisting. Sifo-Dyas was a cranky teenager when at his best — lately, Lene hadn’t been able to convince him to eat anything or even leave his room. Naturally, as soon as he showed slightly fewer signs of displeasure at her suggestions, she’d dragged him out to a dead rock in the Outer Rim, with the goal of meditation. That was what she had told him. Meditation, peace, and quiet.
Quiet was all he’d gotten so far. All he could hear was the soft crunch of dust and dirt beneath two pairs of standard-issue Jedi boots and the occasional whispers of the breeze. They were approaching a mountain, or rather, a small mountain range. Stark and tall against the horizon, the mountains reminded Sifo-Dyas of Coruscanti skyscrapers — if all the life were drained from them and all the luster scraped off of them and all of their lightbulbs shattered. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
When they arrived at the base of the mountain, he saw no marked trail, no signs of settlement or past visitors. Gray and beige rocks littered the incline, along with pale brush and broken twigs. It did not seem to Sifo-Dyas that any disaster had occurred here. Only winter after a brutally hot summer, perhaps. He thought the Force might echo back at him if he spoke into it, with no creatures or sentient beings to receive his message. Even the plants and the ground they were growing from were muted.
When he looked back at Lene, he saw that she had already started making her way up the slope, nimbly climbing over the stones and avoiding the loose ones as if she did it every day. If he was feeling more like himself, he might have groaned at her agility, or made some comment. Today, he followed her in silence, picking up his feet one after the other and one after the other as if lifting them like anchors from the bottom of the sea — and yet totally and completely unattached.
He wasn’t sure how long their ascent took. He struggled to keep track of time, swallowed as he was by the months and years and decades in front of him. This particular inability of his had also worsened recently. That was no surprise.
“Here.” Lene stepped into the shadows underneath a slight overhang. Upon following, Sifo-Dyas realized that it wasn’t just an overhang, but the entrance to a cave. Once his eyes adjusted, he could see the path in, which Lene was already taking. It was narrow, and the walls smelled very old and very unwelcoming. The air was stale, but further ahead he felt that there was an opening. He hoped they would reach it soon. He didn’t want to be suffocated or entombed like a mummy between two stone walls on some desolate planet, where likely nobody knew his whereabouts.
Caring about his life again. Despite it all, that was a good sign, which he distantly recognized as he crossed the threshold into the cave.
The space was dark and wide-open. He glanced up, trying to gauge the height of the ceiling, but Lene was already sitting cross-legged on the ground. Ah. So this was the meditation aspect of her plan. That would lead to peace, he thought, with a small degree of sarcasm. He’d been struggling lately with his meditation. In the Temple, he was constantly surrounded by a swirling current of thoughts and emotions that didn’t belong to him. It made focusing on himself and the Force harder. He knew other Padawans struggled with this, for the most part the younger ones — but most of them didn’t have visions of a disastrous future constantly scratching at the edges of their consciousness, either.
He lowered himself onto the ground next to her, folding his legs beneath him and adjusting his robes. The rock underneath him was cold but not uncomfortable, and some of the tension in his shoulders began to unwind.
Master and Padawan sat for a while in silence. They were so far away from everything, Sifo-Dyas knew. They were in a pocket of the galaxy far from anger and violence and love and joy, far from any kind of war and or celebration. He almost felt guilty for how much he welcomed the emptiness. It gave him space to come back to himself.
He felt Lene’s eyes on him after a time, and turned to face her.
“When I was your age,” Lene began, a distant look in her eyes, “at the end of the frontier days, the older Jedi would take us to places like this. Places that are quiet and open, empty in a way Coruscant could never be, where the chaos of the galaxy seems to have passed by. There are no societies here, no hierarchies. No sunlight or moonlight ever reaches this cave — hasn’t for a thousand years. I am in no way resentful at the Republic, or at exploration, or at the ingenuity of life, Padawan, but I am old enough to remember that places like this still exist. Where the presence of billions of hearts and minds ceases to exert so much pressure.” She looked at him then, her violet eyes sharper than ever. “Where time is still, and the past does not matter, and the future cannot speak.”
Rarely did he hear her so poetic. He did not meet her knowing gaze, but he couldn’t ignore the swell in his chest, the first real connection to himself he’d felt in weeks, the emotion rising from being so deeply understood.
“You cannot remain here forever. You cannot remain anywhere forever. Not in joy or not in suffering, not on Coruscant and not in space. But you should never be afraid to return to the people and the places that you love.” A pause. “Especially the ones that allow you to step back from it all.” She went quiet, but he could hear her breathing, so steady. Something — not a vision and not the Force, but pure human intuition — told him they would have many moments like these over the years. He would get worse, yes, and then he would get better, and then worse again, but he would have Lene. Lene, and the memory of peaceful silence, the promise of his world righting itself again.
On July 3, 2026 crowds in Gaza gathered to watch the World Cup match between Egypt and Australia. With the long history between Palestine and Egypt, and with many Gaza residents displaced to Egypt, fans rooted for their North African neighbors and celebrated their victory. Ahmed Younis captured the celebration in these photos.
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July 2, 2026 - Lasair Dhearg members renamed streets dedicated to the memories of British imperialists in Dublin, Ireland.
"Bedford Lane", named after the British administrator Thomas Russel, the so called "Earl of Bedford", was renamed to Mairéad Farrell street, after Óglach Mairéad Farrell, who herself was murdered by the British while fighting for Irish freedom. [video]
June 26, 2026 - People Against Genocide break into and damage equipment inside Ametek's Muirhead Avionics in Berkshire, England. The weapons factory is a supplier to Israel's biggest arms firm, Elbit Systems, making it a key link in the genocidal supply chain. [video]
For those of you who aren't familiar, I live in an exceptionally flammable part of the United States, and despite the fact that every goddamn year multiple parts of my state catch fire, destroy homes and kill people, the local assholes insist on getting drunk and setting fire to a bunch of illegal explosives anyway.
In 2023, God granted me a Miracle that prevented my house from burning down.
Last year, I had to resort to Psychological and Chemical Warfare to keep the patriotic arsonists at bay.
This year is apparently An Important Birthday for the clusterfuck we have the nerve to call a nation, so despite the fact there is so much smoke in the air that the sun has literally been blood red for the last week, the pyrotechnic fetishists are out in force.
Last year, I hit upon the concept that if my neighbors were going to act like problem animals, it would make sense to use the management techniques on them that you might use on say, a Bear that was doing serious property damage. Thusly, I created The Stench, a nontoxic but FOUL smelling concoction that I could discretely spray around the flammable gatherings and render the area extremely uncomfortable to occupy for the rest of the night, forcing them to give up or move on.
If this seems harsh:
There is no story from 2024 because a grass fire was started by fireworks less than 12 miles from me and the high winds put me in the evacuation zone in under an hour.
Over fifty people lost their homes.
Errant fireworks burning my house down is a very real possibility, and I pay the price in anxiety and insurance premiums.
The Stench is noxious but harmless, and also very effective at building a buffer zone around my home. But sneaking up to parties on foot in this heat is both exhausting and nerve-wracking. There have to be more effective ways to do this
-And there is!
It involves Weeds and Business Cards :)
All of this spring, I've been battling Bindweed and my City Code Enforcement Officers.
The city code people have been professional, but the truth is that one of my neighbors is calling them on use because one of my housemates is transgender. It's extremely grating to get these notices, having to explain repeatedly that I *AM* working on the weed situation, I just have a heart condition and No Money. It's also deeply paranoia-inducing to know that the city is regularly coming by and photographing my house.
The Solution to the Bindweed is 1 gallon of high-concentration vinegar, half a cup of Borax, a quarter cup of salt, and a couple tablespoons of dish soap. Get one of those weed sprayers from a hardware store and mix it up in there. Spray it on your thistles, bindweed, kudzu, garlic mustard or whatever your local herbaceous invasive is on a day with bright sunlight, and in a few hours the entire part of the plant above the soil is Deceased. It's non-toxic to insects, pets and wildlife (just wait a few months before trying to plant anything in the area for the traces to wash out).
The only real downside to this stuff is that it smells HEINOUS.
Sure, The Stench is nauseating, but WeedFucker 5000 is genuinely painful to inhale. Again, it wont hurt people- even my asthmatic housemates can use the stuff- but boy howdy it sure smells toxic. I've got the ingredients for about 40 gallons of WeedFucker 5000 prepared and ready to go.
I've also got a disposable hazmat suit, rubber boots and gloves, respirator, goggles and a shitty little golf cart from the free section of craigslist to haul my shit around in.
I also have Business Cards!
See, the very nice officers from the City Code department left some Very Nice business cards so that I may contact them about "the fucking bindweed is gone, get off my back".
So I scanned the business card into my computer, fired up Clip Studio, and made my own business cards. I've turned my City's Abstract Triangle Logo into an Eye of Providence and the slogan of "E Pluribus Unum" to "E Plurbis Anus", Changed my city's name to a dumb pun, and stated the card originates from "The Department Of Public Nuisances".
Crucially, where the name and contact information of the real city employee has been replaced with the name and business email of the neighbor who has been bragging on facebook about calling the city code department on my home because he hates my housemate :)
It looks, at a glance, very much like the business cards of city employees. If you look at it for like 5 seconds though, there's no way it could be mistaken for the real thing.
I've printed out 500 of these bad boys and will have them on hand as I, a put-upon employee, am forced to work overtime on a national holiday doing weed mitigation, because my boss can't manage deadlines for shit.
You're mad about it? I've been out here since 5 AM! But if we don't finish by the deadline we lose the contract and I could get fired. You know what the economy is.
Here, this is my Boss's Business card- how about you send him an email about how this has ruined your barbecue?
It's golden hour now, so I'm Suiting Up and preparing to embark on some civil service in the form of Noxious Weed Eradication, and by coincidence, Fire Mitigation.
I'll report back later Tonight🫡
(If you'd like to support your local disabled storyteller in their Acts Of Public Service, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or supporting me on Patreon)
I was raised agnostic and tend to remain ambiguous on theological matters.
-but my house has a porch on the second story that affords me a terrific view of my neighborhood and the Colorado Front Range and I was partaking of some peace before the 4th Of July Finger-Loss Festivities begin, and I have had a
~*Spiritual Experience*~
I just watched my neighbor try to unload an actual wooden pallet that had to have been forklifted into the back of his insecurity pickup worth of fireworks.
Except that he does not have a forklift in his garage.
He does have so much sports memorabilia and cardboard boxes of unsold MLM Merchandise and patriotically themed camping gear and posters of women in bikinis and flags of suspect political organizations in his garage that there is only
BARELY
enough space for the fireworks
and certainly none for his truck.
So he had to unload the individual boxes of recreational explosives from the back of his truck and stack them in the minimal space he had cleared by hand.
This is a tedious and time-consuming process as this neighbor has purchased a wide variety of recreational and locally illegal explosives instead of many of just a few types, so the individual boxes are rather small.
He begins,
and this is crucial to what happens next,
by cutting apart the industrial-grade saran wrap his explosives dealer had so carefully wrapped his merchandise in, and discarded it
unsecured
on his lawn.
Where Outdoor Conditions sometimes happen.
His process for unloading the fireworks is to
1. Climb up through the gate into the bed of his pickup truck (a feat made unusually difficult due to the slope of his driveway, and this man's fascinating decision to wear the world's Siffest and least Flexible Denim Overalls.
2. Once in the pickup bed, he selects ONE (1) box from the pile
He is apparently from a niche religious institution that doesn't believe in stacking things.
3. Carries it awkwardly around the palette that barely fits in the truck bed
4. His wife yells "Be careful!" when he nearly falls out of the pickup.
5. He Yells "SHADDUP!" back at her.
6. The Large German Shepherd barks from inside the house.
7. He yells "SHADDUP!" back at her too.
8. He sets the (1) box down on the gate
9. Slowly and awkwardly climbs out of the pickup bed
10. picks the box back up, and carries it into the garage.
Question: Aren't you going to help this poor man?
Answer: Absolutely Not.
There's four military veterans, MANY dogs, and several people with dementia in this neighborhood, all of whom are terrified by this chicanery every year and many neighbors have repeatedly asked him to maybe do the fireworks somewhere else.
(This is the Eighth Year Running he's held a major demolition event in his driveway, and for those of you who can do math, you may be able to guess the precipitating incident to this little ritual)
Additionally, I live in Colorado, a state marginally less prone to spontaneous and catastrophic conflagrations than a rotting grain silo, but only marginally.
Our recreational explosives laws are written accordingly.
I am in fact calling the Non Emergency line to report Fireworks violations, and reading off the brand labels to someone named Dorothy, who is gleefully totaling up a SPECTACULAR fine for my oblivious neighbor.
However, while I'm on the phone with Dorothy, I notice the wind begin to pick up.
and by "Notice" I mean "The Industrial Saran Wrap he left on his Lawn earlier is suddenly swept up about 100 feet into the air by an updraft intense enough to make my ears pop"
And by "Pick Up" I mean "I look up to see the sky has turned a fun and exciting shade of glass green, and the bottoms of the clouds are bumpy and rounded, and the overall effect is not unlike looking up through the bottom of the cup at God's Matcha Boba Tea."
For those of you who do not live in places with Inclement Weather, these conditions mean "You have about 30 seconds before a Major Meteorological Event Occurs."
I move under the eaves.
"Hang on Dorothy." I say, nose filling with Petrichor. "The show is about to be cancelled."
"Oh, that doesn't matter!" Dorothy cheerfully informs me. "It's illegal for him just to possess those, no matter if he actually gets to set them off or not."
"Terrific, because he's gotten maybe five boxes out of a hundred inside."
Sometimes,
the weather gods are Merciful and give you a verbal warning, typically in the kind of thunderclap that makes your ears ring.
The Gods were not merciful today.
It's not often that I am in the time, place, correct angle or in a properly observational frame of mind to see this,
But I got to see it today.
Huh. I thought. I've never seen a cloud just DIVE for the ground before.
Oh. I realized as it got closer.
That's RAIN.
Sometimes, a thunderstorm will form in such a way that the rain that would normally be distributed over an area of say,
five to tent square miles,
is instead concentrated into an area of say,
my neighborhood exactly.
So today, I was granted the rare privilege of being able to actually see the literal wall of water descend from On High and DIRECTLY onto my porch, my street, and my neighbor's truck, and his pile of unwrapped fireworks.
The sheer impact force of the downpour immediately scatters the teetering pile of fireworks boxes in the back of the truck, like the wrath of God striking down the tower of Babel.
Boxes tumble, then are washed out of the bed of the truck by the deluge.
Smaller Boxes are carried down the road in a little line by the stream forming in the gutter, like little impotent explosive ducklings.
My neighbor was definitely yelling something, but I could not hear what over the DEAFENING noise several million gallons of water makes upon high-speed contact with the earth's surface, but there was a lot of arm-waving and faces turning red as he went looking for the saran wrap that had probably blown to Nebraska by now, while his wife started disassembling the complex three-dimensional puzzle of interlocking material goods in search of a tarp.
They do not have a tarp.
They have one of those wretched Thin Blue Line flags though, and my neighbor jogs out in a futile effort to cover what's left in the truck.
Which is when the hail begins.
"HELLO?" Yelled Dorothy.
"HI!" I shouted. "WE'RE HAVING SOME WEATHER!"
"OH GOOD!" she shouts back. "WE NEED THE MOISTURE!"
I watch for a minute longer, but the loss was immediate and catastrophic- the hail is the size of marbles and dense and cares not for your pitiful cardboard and cellophane, ripping the boxes asunder and punching holes in the few things covered in plastic.
The colors on the Thin Blue Line Flag are seeping all over the remains of that it was supposed to protect in a particularly apt visual metaphor.
Not even the few boxes that made it into the garage are spared, as the German Shepherd escapes from indoors, and in an attempt to assist her humans, jumps directly into the small stack of not-yet-ruined boxes, scattering them into the driveway and deluge. She even picks one up so her humans will chase her around the yard, before dropping it in the gutter to be swept away.
So.
I was raised Agnostic
-but even I can recognize when God slaps someone upside the head and shouts "NO!" at them.
---
(If you laughed, please consider supporting my Ko-fi or preordering my book of Strange Stories on Patreon)
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So my beta reader for the Big Fics is an astrophysicist, right. Who is currently also writing a hard sci-fi novel about the exploration of Phobos (more power to them, I cannot with the physics required for that, best I can do is soft sci-fi/fantasy and that reminds me I should finish that story).
Anyway I was bitching about how hard it is to come up with feasible planets in Star Wars because sometimes you need a new planet from scratch and sometimes you need to know more about a planet than the 'has jungles, is probably a moon technically' than Wookieepedia will give you, and they're like 'oh yeah I can do something about that'.
So they've written (in Matlab but they swear it will run as a .exe as well and I may be conscripted to embed it as a web tool at some point) a star system generator.
You input what you know about the planet (ecosystem, population, sun colour, does it have liquid water, does it have a moon or moons, is it a moon or moons, temperature averages, atmosphere, you get me) and it will give you the... everything else about the star system, in obedience to real-universe physics. And if you input nothing you get a randomly generated star system.
And I’m like oh I know people who will be into this with a vengeance, and they're not on Tumblr, so this is me seeing who exactly would be keen on, and I cannot stress this enough, a real-physics comprehensive star system generator.
It's still in the debugging phase (last error fixed: every planet wants to have a population of exactly 5000 regardless of other factors, turned out to be a missing equals sign somewhere), but I'm psyched for this and trying to gauge interest for how high a priority 'make this an accessible web tool' needs to be.
Tehanetorens (also known as Aren Akweks or Ray Fadden)
Native American
1- An Answer To A Question Asked Of Joseph Brant, An Educated Mohawk (1803).
2- De Graffenreid, One Of The Leaders Of The North Carolina Settlers...
3- We, Akwesasne Warriors, Dedicate This Chart To A Friend Of Our People...
ca. 1940s
black-and-white prints (prints on paper)
Owen D. Young Library Special Collections
Ray Fadden was a member of the Wolf Clan of the Mohawk community of Akwesasne and founder of the Six Nations Indian Museum of Onchiota, New York. As an educator, Fadden painted and drew educational charts to convey elements of Haudenosaunee history and culture to audiences from around the world. Many of the charts “comment on the larger power dynamics, missing stories, and loss of oral traditions that originated due to the invasion of White settlers between the seventeenth and twentieth centuries,” according to research done by SLU student Berit Brecke. Early on, the artist enlisted the help of his son, John Fadden. Later, others were brought in to assist, including Bob Gabor (Sagotaoala), Guy “Buck” Spittal (Hahaka Sapa), and William "Bill" Loran (Kaheroton)
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If there is any way to leave Gaza, I implore anyone with reliable information to guide me. The situation is extremely dangerous, and survival seems almost impossible. I have tried every available opportunity, but to no avail.
Whoever cannot afford it should help me reach an amount of money that I can use to travel.
This option is almost impossible, but I will not give up trying it.
My name is Mohammed ayesh from Gaza Recently, I started a new chapter in my li… Shelley Gordon needs your support for Support Ayesh’s family
Go to paypal.me/MAyesh674 and type in the amount. Since it’s PayPal, it's easy and secure. Don’t have a PayPal account? No worries.
If you tried to donate and the link didn't work, please let me know in the comments because I haven't received a donation in a long time and this is unusual.
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