"Quit letting her bite you."
Why would I ever do that? She needs enrichment.
Besides, if she isn't occasionally nibbling on me like an affectionate little gremlin, how am I supposed to know she's happy?
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@kohakuryu
"Quit letting her bite you."
Why would I ever do that? She needs enrichment.
Besides, if she isn't occasionally nibbling on me like an affectionate little gremlin, how am I supposed to know she's happy?

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I like biting. Whether it’s sexual or purely romantic. I like biting myself out of comfort, or to calm myself down. Sometimes I don’t realise I’m doing it until someone points out the obvious marks. I like biting others too, when cuddling, holding hands or just standing near. I like to bite.
The FBI cut the phone lines during the 1977 disability rights sit-in. Then they turned off the hot water.
They locked the doors from the outside. One hundred and fifty people were trapped on the fourth floor. Half of them used wheelchairs. The government assumed they would leave.
Kitty Cone was thirty-three. She had muscular dystrophy. Her muscles were failing, but her logistics were flawless. She knew how to organize people.
The federal government had promised to sign regulations protecting disabled Americans from discrimination. The policy was known as Section 504. They printed the promise on paper. Then they stalled. Without a signature, it was just typography.
The protesters entered the regional Health, Education, and Welfare building in San Francisco on a Tuesday morning. They took the elevators to the director's office. They brought sleeping bags and catheters. They informed the staff they were not leaving until the law was signed.
By sunset, the police surrounded the exits. Kitty sat near the windows. She organized the floor plan. She assigned committees for security and sanitation. She kept her medication in a small cooler.
According to federal memorandums released decades later, the strategy to end the occupation relied on medical attrition. The building was not equipped for long-term habitation. The FBI calculated that a population requiring ventilators, specialized diets, and daily medical aides would voluntarily evacuate if the environment became sufficiently hostile. They instituted a blockade.
The blockade went into effect immediately. No food deliveries allowed. No medical supplies permitted through the lobby. Guards stood at the main doors checking identification.
Kitty's muscles deteriorated faster under the physical strain. She couldn't walk. When the phone lines went dead, the fourth floor lost contact with the press. The government waited for the quiet.
Kitty dropped to the floor. She realized the barricades were designed for standing adults. The police had blocked the hallways at waist height. They hadn't blocked the linoleum.
The floors were covered in cigarette ash and spilled coffee. She dragged her body through it. She crawled under the barricades to reach the restricted elevator shafts and unguarded offices.
She carried notes in her pockets. She found a single working payphone the FBI missed. She called the local news desks. She called the mayor's office.
She crawled back. When her arms failed, someone pulled her by her ankles. The Black Panthers heard the news reports. They crossed the police lines with hot meals. The FBI could not stop them without a riot.
They shut off the elevators, so she crawled.
The occupation lasted twenty-five days. It remains the longest non-violent occupation of a federal building in American history. On April 28, the Secretary of HEW signed the regulations without a single alteration.
The protesters left the building the next morning. They went back to their apartments. The Rehabilitation Act regulations laid the groundwork for every accessibility law that followed. The HEW building still stands on United Nations Plaza. The elevators run on a schedule. The doors are heavy glass.
Kitty Cone: the woman who crawled under the barricades.
Source: Kitty Cone's oral history, Bancroft Library.
Verified via: National Museum of American History.
(Some details summarized for brevity.)
anjefkjdjhff
lol how they looked at each other when the song started like oh shit this our jam lolol
more rocky
and more rocky
the beach episode in my mind

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i'm getting the sense some of you are not actually forklift certified.
well damn . egg on my face
THE PLOT THICKENS @averagejoey2000 explain yourself
I can't believe this is how I'm finding out that I got a scam forklift cert.
I took the cargo ops class at school but my teacher explained that it doesn't give a certification and I'd only be okay for ship's crane and the school forklifts. she said I could take an online exam and get my cert. I paid 60 bucks.
I'm googling and I'm seeing a lot of resources saying that the online programs cover the classroom part of the exam but not the in person practical aspect.
29 CFR 1910.178 (l)(2)(ii)
but I did the in person practical shit at school.
the back of the card even had fancy numbers on it. I couldn't have known that this isn't the one. this website sounded more official than certifyme.net, and there wasn't one with a .gov address.
so, I emailed OSHA, and they said that so long as I live and work in California, there's no such thing as forklift certification. I have to be told how to do it every time I get the job.
Update: I took a certification class in shipboard Material Handling Equipment at my federal job. *now* I'm forklift certified, but only on ships and piers and only for this company, but also rated to forklift explosives and hazardous materials. Also I'm a woman now.
important reminder that most people you follow online are significantly lamer than you think they are including me. and if you feel insecure comparing yourself to someone online: DON'T. theyre probably also lame and weird. most people on the internet are
reblog if you're also lame and weird.
When I am king, we will valorize sanitation workers the way we currently valorize the military
So heroic posters showing trashmen battling allegorical monsters? I'm down.
Yeah but that's just the beginning. I also want Sanitation Worker Discounts at every business and blockbuster movie propaganda glorifying sanitation work. I want random people to salute garbage collectors and thank them for their service. I want drivers who get impatient with the recycling truck and honk at it and swerve around it to become social pariahs
I remember my first eagle ceremony when I turned nine. The first eagle you get is always declawed, which I always thought was pretty inhumane, but it was a good way to ease into caring for the birds. My eagle (named Baldy, because I wasn’t a terribly clever child) was already quite old when I received him (he was a rescue eagle, luckily) but I did have him until I was 16. I don’t know if I was more excited about getting my drivers license that year, or my new eagle! You should have seen the party we had when I got him, too! Grilled hot dogs and fire works and lemonade…. obviously I named my beautiful new eagle Freedom. He’s too big to keep inside anymore, unfortunately, but we’ve got a pretty comfortable roost for him on our apartment’s balcony.
Ah, yes, the eagle ceremony! My Justice and I remember his quite well. (They had just come out with telepathic link transplants when I got him, which is how I know he remembers it.) Our celebration was quite modest, compared to Freedom’s—apple pie under a cloudless summer sky as we signed our Declaration of Interdependence. I still have the inked and talon-pierced document hanging on my wall.
what is this
Get out Canada
I was so scared during my pet eagle ceremony I almost threw up. But Stonewall Jackson and I have been best friends ever since. My dad and grandfather built a really massive roost behind the house for my eagle and my sisters’ eagles. Stonewall always waits for me when I get home from class since schools are getting so over protective and strict these days and won’t allow eagles indoors. Which just goes to show how much we’re bubble wrapping kids today. Back in the day, if you couldn’t handle a few stitches because you pissed off the wrong kid’s eagle, you had to just man up and learn your lesson!
Ooo, I never miss a chance to tell this story! I had a rather unusual first eagle ceremony. The traditional giant American flag that you wave around to summon your eagle had been severely damaged the week prior (a ceremony that had not gone according to plan, but the child only suffered minor talon wounds. The flag took the brunt of the attack). Anyway, I couldn’t use the normal flag so we had to search ALL OVER for one suitable for eagle summoning. Unfortunately the stripes weren’t the correct shade of patriotic red so everyone was worried an eagle wouldn’t show up at all. I had to stand in the middle of that wheat field, the wind creating amber waves out of it, shaking that flag in the air for over three hours. Everyone was just about to give up when suddenly Patriot appeared out of nowhere! He came to me so quickly it was like he was apologizing for being late. And we’ve been together ever since.
Some people think it’s excessive to have two eagles. But what can I say, I’m a two eagles kind of guy. Well, I can say, “You must be a terrorist to call me out over my excesses,” but I digress. We don’t have many open fields around here, so I got Liberty by waving my flag atop a decommissioned WWII aircraft carrier. I was kicking a couple of boxes of tea into the harbor for good measure, and there she was. I loved her so much I repeated the process a year later and got young Colbert here. It’s hard work, raising two eagles, but I have two shoulders, after all. Besides, I know that the secret to happy and healthy eagles is plenty of Bud Light.
Oh man, the eagle ceremony. I was a weird fucking kid, okay, so I was totally sure that the eagle ceremony wasn’t just going to net me my eagle and deepen the mystical bond between a citizen and their country, I thought I was going to get to turn into an eagle too. So me and my mom and my dad and my little brother are all standing in the old civil war battleground, surrounded by the ghosts of our fallen soldiers, and all and the problem here — it’s not usually a problem because I make sure to shave my beard off twice a day, three times on sundays — was that I am, actually, born on the fourth of July. So it wasn’t just one eagle that showed up, it was pretty much every big old patriotic warbird in Missouri, all flapping around confused and pissed off, their innate senses of direction completely fucked up by the way firecracker babies warp America’s natural system of ley lines. And I was six, so grabbed the flag and ran with it over my shoulders, rippling in the wind, thinking it was going to turn into wings for me and I would go be an eagle with all the other eagles. Instead I just got mobbed by a freaked-out mess of nationalistic avians who all weighed more than I did. I lost half my nose and my whole left arm and spent most of fourth grade in reconstructive surgery getting machine guns welded on to the shattered remains of my ulna. Completely missed my little brother’s eagle ceremony, which I will always regret, but it was all worth it to have met Columbia. I never did turn into an eagle on the outside, but I like to think those long hours in the hospital, feeding her rubbing alcohol and my own blood, have made me an eagle in my heart.
I usually never reblog long things, but this is worth reading, I swear.
Ah, see, in Canada things are very different. In Northern Ontario, for example, you never quite know what you’re going to get. Ralph, my beaver, is a very standard 20 lbs, and she came to me quite easily during my Oh Canada Calling. A friend of mine, though, ended up bonded to an 800lb bull moose (she named him Bambi, she was a weird kid).
You’re so lucky you got Ralph! I had such issues during my Oh Canada Calling, and wound up with a pair of grice.
My eagle ceremony was weird. First of all, my parents felt I was too young to get my first eagle so I was the last one of my classmates to get an eagle. My parents are hippies so they got really into the spiritual aspects of it. Like, with my first eagle, I wasn’t allowed to get the telepathic implant, they wanted me to do it “natually” so I had to sit and meditate with Artemis for the entire morning. Luckily she was awesome and creating a natural telepathic bond pretty much happened organically. Of course we had some of the traditional parts of the ceremony, the waving of the American flags while the guests chanted “USA USA USA”. But other than that it was a pretty relaxed eagle ceremony. I’m glad my parents gave me the opportunity to develop a natural telepathic bond with my eagle because it’s good experience, but with my current eagle, Brunhilde, I went ahead and got the implants because I’m so busy with school that I didn’t have time to do the proper meditation. Brunhilde is a scientific type so she thinks the implant was a good call.
Ugh growing up in New Zealand is worse. You just stand outside and yell Xena war cries until a Hobbit pops their head up over the nearest hill and politely tells you to keep it the hell down. If you’re lucky, a Kiwi ambles up, but it’s basically like having a football with a handle for a pet. This is why I moved to America…
getting my american citizenship was both amazing and a bit traumatic. you have to do a lot of work before they will let you have an eagle ceremony, and the older you are the more difficult it can be. but after I passed all the tests and received my flag, my canada goose, laura secord, and I went to a shut-down auto plant and waited. eventually uncle sam, my eagle swooped out of the sky, and after a brief struggle, killed laura secord. it was sad, as we had been together for so long, but everyone knows canada geese are assholes, so I got over it quickly. because of my age we had to get the implants, but uncle sam and I are quite happy together.
Our family, well, the common word you’d have for us is “hillbillies,” but I don’t mind. We’ve been living in our part of the Alleghenies for a long, long time, and my Pa’s family in particular holds to the old values. Of course, this was a while back, so we didn’t have the link, but I don’t think the old man would have approved if they’d been around. Anyway, he was determined that I would do things the right way, even though we both knew he was pretty sure I would be a disappointment to him. I didn’t like to fish or hunt (to his shame, I was gunshy); I hated camping, and I wasn’t good at swimming. Still, I was bound and determined to go for my eagle like our family had always done it.
He took me up into the Laurel Highlands, past where stupid old British General Braddock got himself shot in the back and where George Washington built and surrendered his first fort to the French and their Indian allies (though the enemy never got his cannon because George hid them). We got to the end of the track our family had always taken up into the mountains, and Pa gave me a panic button if I wanted to quit. He’d come and get me then, but he’d give up on me, too. That was another thing we knew without saying.
Long story short, I was coming down a hill my second day, worn out because I’d gotten little sleep in the cold, and upset because I hadn’t seen or heard any birds or animals let alone an eagle (I wasn’t what you would call an observant kid) when I tripped and fell. Down I went, and tumbled. I stopped on the bank of a stream,
I had my first aid badger from Girl Scouts, and supplies in my back pack, so I soaked my sprained ankle in the icy creek, then bound it up. By the time I found a branch long and strong enough to lean on, it was coming on sunset. I had two more days before Pa started to track me. I wanted at least to be partway back before he found me.
I had given up on that eagle. He’d have to wait for my sisters Kim and Dani to get big enough. They’d find theirs; they were better in the woods than me already. I was just a daydreamer, someone who never had any sense. Put me to shelling peas or doing dishes and I’d take twice as long as anyone else, because I’d be telling myself stories. That’s what I did that night, to keep my mind off my pain. I told myself stories of brave girls who found their eagles and went off to be soldiers (girls weren’t allowed to be in the Army then) or joined the FBI (we weren’t allowed to be agents, either). If the owls who hooted or the deer who drank at the stream liked the story, that was good, too.
I must have dozed off sometime before dawn. When I woke, a golden eagle stood by my hand. Not a bald eagle, like all those in my family, or like my friends’ parents had, or like people had on TV. A golden eagle, a big fellow with a trout in his beak. He dropped it on my knee.
At first I couldn’t breathe. When I could talk, I said, “Thanks, but I have jerky, and peanut butter, and celery, and … things. You eat it.” And he did.
When Pa saw me limping on the track three days from where he’d dropped me, dirty and crazy-looking with twigs in my hair and no eagle on my shoulder, he stopped and looked at me, his weathered face like stone. Then Anthony Wayne, his eagle, began to raise hell on his shoulder as Tecumseh glided down from his tree top. We’d found it was easier for him to fly ahead and wait for me than for him to ride on my shoulder, at least while I had one bum foot. This time, though, for the purposes of meeting family, he settled on my shoulder.
I describe things all the time, but I can never describe the look on my Pa’s face. I only know that he reached a hand out to Tecumseh, who stretched out and touched his fingers with his beak. Finally Pa said, “It’s been right in front of me all along. I’ve been trying to make you a strong member of the family, and you are strong, but you’re also a medicine woman. A dreamer. And this is a dreamer’s eagle.”
“His name’s Tecumseh,” I said.
Tecumseh fluffed himself up with pride.
Pa grinned. “Now let’s see if I can get you two home. Your mother is going to read me out for letting you into the woods alone.” He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. One of my uncles and two of my aunts walked out of the woods, their own eagles on their shoulders. Tecumseh and I were going home like royalty.
Did Tamora Pierce just fucking add her own ‘how I got my pet eagle’ story?
What a time to be alive, folks.
Omg! Omg!
Guys. Oh my gosh, guys. You think your childhoods were difficult?
I have a freaking gryphon.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my darling Goldeneye to bits, but seriously, growing up was hell.
First of all, even though she was small when she came to me during my eagle ceremony, “small” for a gryphon is not actually small. I live in the suburbs, and public high school was a nightmare. I was pretty much an outcast, called a freak basically every day. Because, of course, everyone else had eagles perching on their shoulders and looking cool, and here’s little ol’ me, running along late for class with a huge lion-bodied animal tromping along, trying to get into my bag for fish.
Second, I am tiny. I scrape 5′3″ with my arms up. I jump to fool the doctors into thinking I’m 5′5″. My half-eagle picks me up regularly to groom me and I’m stuck there between her paws until she decides she has had enough. She’s honestly got the worst personality traits of both cats and birds and it’s insane.
But, to be honest, flying is awesome. And nobody tries to beat me or my friends up anymore.
(I still blame my brother for this though. He needed the good flag for Boy Scouts that day and left me with the wholey-cat-hairy-flag. I guess nobody should be surprised at the outcome.)
I see all these country folk are telling their eagle ceremony stories, so let me tell you how we do it in the city. There are specific days, every one or two months (depending on the population of your city) where all the kids who are looking for their eagles meet up in the local park. The park rangers make sure to put out apple pies around the park perimeter to alert nearby eagles that a ceremony is upcoming. Then, on the designated day, all of us kids walk to the park, outfitted in various striped and spangled clothing. Everyone sits in a circle, and waits until the park flag is raised, at which point veritable hordes of eagles will descend upon the seated group. At this point, it will become hard to see, but you’ll know when your eagle picks you, as it will land on your shoulder. (Those of us who wish for a deep bond with our eagles often forgo a shoulder pad, so that the first blood on their talons will be ours.) Then, you can stand up, and, using the caws of your eagle as a guide, navigate towards the park entrance where a vet will be standing by to outfit both you and your eagle with the psychic implant.
We moved twice in the space of eighteen months around the time I was nine and ten. The cutoff age for what grade you were in was different in all three cities, and I was always too young or too old for eagle ed classes and never got a ceremony.
We don’t have eagle ceremonies in my community. We go out, we chant “I’m Black and I’m proud” a dozen times or so, do the necessary offerings, and we bond with a nearby falcon. It’s the pride that’s key, but really why not make sure the kid learns to love themselves early. A positive message never goes astray. Like all raptors kestrels love high perches and cities are great that way, plus there’s lots of food sources. The best part of having a kestrel is that they will follow you anywhere and don’t need much in the way of direct care if a child is skittish or a family has a lot of kids who have already done the ceremony. The only downside if your kid befriends someone who called a pigeon the first time their kestrel might decide that sucker is lunch and that can really make new friendships harder to maintain. Some kids are stronger than you would expect and bond with two kestrels, a coyote, and a murder of crows. The last kid to do that ended up the First Lady.
This is really fascinating! I never knew there was a whole ceremony for calling your eagle. In Italy, you just walk outside one day and the cat is waiting for you. You know which one is yours.
I gotta tell you, the ceremony I had was a giant pain the ass, but totally worth it. I’m from the Midwest and live on the Mississippi River, and our ceremonies are always in early January on Bald Eagle Days. You have to go out on the dam, in freezing-cold weather with the wind whipping up the river, so the eagles can see you. And trust me, we always make sure the apple pies we bring are fresh so we can use them as hand-warmers. One of the guys from the Army Corps of Engineers puts up flags for us, and the we hold up the apple pies, wait, and try not to die of frostbite. I made my pie myself, and felt so lucky when Betsy chose me! She and I have been together since, and I have a fantastic nest for her. Which is lucky, because my husband is British, so he of course has a swan, and Bitey (cut him some slack, he’s had her since he was a tyke) does NOT get along with Betsy, but since their nests are separate, we work it out.
Between 1971 and 1972, Swedish artist Sten Eklund created a series of 53 hand coloured etchings that he called Kullahusets hemlighet (the secret of the Kulla house). The etchings are a work of fiction, presented as the work of botanist J. M. G. Paléen, who in 1849 discovered a strange area surrounded by magnetic fields. He encountered no people in the area, but plenty of evidence of human-like activity: agriculture, mining, etc. When later on he tried to return to the area to do further research on it, he was unable to find it again.
The images range from maps to technical drawings to plant, mineral and insect studies. They are enigmatic, familiar the way a recurring dream is familiar. Looking at them, I feel like I'm about to reach a sense of understanding at any moment - but it remains just out of grasp.
A now out of print book with all the images was produced in 2016. I found an incomplete list of the titles on an auction site and the titles of the images are so evocative that I wanted to translate and share them. I think not having an image for every title adds a new layer to the artwork. Understanding is fragmenting and slipping between my fingers.
List of motifs:
The Kulla house, overview.
The Kulla house. Blueprint.
Overview of the Kulla house area. 3:1&2: Cross section with variations in elevation.
Possibly a device for energy transformation or communication.
Detail from the above.
The screens. Occurred all over the area. Probably intended for the uptake of solar energy.
The screens. Technical drawing.
Technical drawing of different wagon types. The upper wagon open, the lower hermetically sealed.
Communications central (?) with strange vessels, "ferries", controlled by the stones placed in a row in front of the building. 9a. The stones in front of the central.
The treatment plant. Seems to be designed not to allow emissions through the magnetic curtain.
The engine room inside the treatment plant.
The wagon area at the top of the Kullait mountain. 12a. Detail of the wagons.
Geological map of the Kulla house area.
The rock at the entrance of the Kulla house area.
The open-pit mine (2 in fig. 3).
The type of rock by the "Kulla house" (1 in fig. 3).
Mineral I. Slightly larger than natural size.
Mineral II. Slightly larger than natural size.
I-III. The Kullait quarry.
Botanical map.
Horsetail plant from the farm (fig. 20/3).
Algae (fig. 20/16).
Fruit from bush grown by no. 4 in fig. 20. 23a. The same as the above.
Consequences of the rising temperatures.
Overview of the until then prevailing type of vegetation.
The trees by the yellow dots in fig. 20. A kind of peculiar overgrown lichen, or possibly stunted palm species.
Silphium connalum.
The hotbeds.
The hotbeds, technical drawing.
From the lichen cultivation.
One of the houses by no. 4 in fig. 3.
Stool from the house area.
Table.
Box (storage).
Vessel.
Meteorological map. One can see that the heat development shows a kidney shaped characteristic starting from the Kulla house (1).
Flying device (soundless).
From the interior of the Kulla house. Stand with pipes.
The wall. In front of the wall we can see one of the frames (stands).
Some of the machines in proximity to the wall.
The storage building by no. 11 in fig. 3.
"The white spot", one of the heaps of white powder found in multiple locations within the area.
The insect.
The greenhouse by no. 3 in fig. 3.
Seed dispersal area.
Moss.
From the interior of the Kulla house (Camera Obscura).
Images nicked from here.

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Cronological retrospective of my embroidery "back catalogue". Incomplete but fairly comprehensive. Just because I'm trying to get back into embroidery and thought it might be motivating to see the progression.
Conservative beauty standards are back with a vengeance which means it's especially important to go out this summer with bellies out and bodies unshaved. Also be unapologetically disabled with mobility aids and wearable medical devices and stim toys and ear defenders and all that stuff. You need it. People need to see it. Everyone needs to be reminded that life is unquestioningly more enjoyable when you're not living inside an arbitrary set of rules created by people who are offended by all the wrong things.
Edgin: Guess who just found out the difference between wax paper and parchment paper the hard way?
Holga: Wait, what’s the difference?
Edgin: One you can use in the oven safely, and the other you can also use in the oven... if the thing you are trying to make happens to be fire.
my cat bit me with a mouthful of water once

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A fairly quick study from yesterday. Sadly I am not sure anymore, where exactly I got the reference from. It was very likely from https://www.fatphotoref.com I just really adore the regality and elegance of her pose.
Regality and elegance says it all!
goodnight :)
Fuck brb tearing up a little
(image id: 5 gifs stacked vertically. they all have a black background, white border, and white text, all of which look like they could have been sketched and are shifting slightly. the first gif reads "hey,". the second, "you did a lot today". the third, "time to rest, it's okay". the fourth, "you did good today". the fifth, "you're okay". /end id)