Anne Magill
Storm. 2022
Not today Justin

oozey mess
One Nice Bug Per Day

Product Placement

shark vs the universe
Claire Keane
hello vonnie
almost home

pixel skylines
todays bird
Sade Olutola

PR's Tumblrdome
d e v o n

Love Begins
$LAYYYTER
Aqua Utopiaļ½ęµ·ć®åŗć§čØę¶ćē“”ć

Kiana Khansmith
i don't do bad sauce passes
Xuebing Du
seen from Canada
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seen from Israel
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seen from Germany
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seen from United States

seen from Brazil
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@sufjcn
Anne Magill
Storm. 2022

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Mongolians are cool because theyāve merged their traditional and modern ways of life so rather than having poverty due to losing all their important skills they just live in their yurts with their cows and 827474874mbs internet
sure their GDP in dollars is low but when you can survive like your anscestors did it doesnāt mean anything, nothing wrong with adding a motorcycle and wifi into the mix
Everyone should live like their ancestors did 1000 years ago but with the addition of wifi tbh
Adapt. Survive.
this is the single most inspiring piece of information I have yet to come across in all my moments in this world
where is that picture
ah here we go:
Sufjan Stevens was born in Detroit, Michigan, and grew up in the chilly upper reaches of the Lower Peninsula. A self-taught musician, the young Sufjan pounded out elaborate Mozartian sonatas on a toy Casio, and by college became proficient on the oboe, recorder, banjo, guitar, vibraphone, bass, drums, piano, and other instruments too numerous to mention. Somewhere along the line he also started to sing, though at the time his friends didnāt encourage it. He bought a 4-track tape cassette recorder and painstakingly composed 90-minute concept albums for The Nine Planets, The 12 Apostles, and The Four Humors. He read William Blake, William Wordsworth, and William Faulkner. At that time, in college, the world loomed large and daunting, and Sufjanās music came to sound like a medieval woodwind ensemble waving swords and torches at the twelve-headed dragon of death. During his last semester in college, Sufjan pruned, picked, and assembled a selection of these songs to produce the inaugural release āA Sun Cameā on Asthmatic Kitty Records, a home label Sufjan initiated with his step-dad Lowell. A thousand copies were manufactured and shipped to a dark, dank closet somewhere in the vacuous black hole of the universe, where they shifted and snored in their sleep for several years to come. Sufjan then moved to New York City and lived bohemian style, with three other college graduates, in the unfashionable financial district, commuting by bike to The New School for Social Research, where he was enrolled in the masters program for writers. There he met Jhumpa Lahiri, harassed Philip Gourevitch on the telephone, and tried unsuccessfully to complete an epic collection of stories and sketches about backwoods Midwestern kinsmenāChristian Fundamentalists, Amway salesmen, crystal healersā all set in a small rural town in Michigan. Hmmmm. No one seemed very interested. Sufjan went back to the 4-track, tired of āwords, words, words,ā and set out to complete his most ambitious project to date: a collection of programmatic, symphonic songs for the animals of the Chinese Zodiac. There were no lyrics, but more than a few cymbal swells, flourishes on the oboe, and ambient organ drones, all accompanied by computer-generated techno beats, and digital noise. The result was enterprising, but not quite flattering. He sent a few copies to press, which fell on confused ears. āā¦A hyper-modified Atari battling a souped-up Colecovision in a chess match/battle royal,ā one writer noted. Feeling inspired, Sufjan dropped off a copy at New Yorkās favored record store, Other Music, only to find it in the used section, reduced price, two weeks later. Sufjan took this as a compliment. His label did not. Write songs, his step-dad insisted. Write something with words and melodies. Sufjan went back to the books, mainly his own unwritten one. Taking bits and scraps of unfinished stories (character sketches, plot lines, penciled diagrams) Sufjan began to arrange his misshapen fiction into the bold mechanics of song, making friends with line breaks, meter, and rhyme scheme. These things led to melody, odd time signature, and a litany of jingle jangles on the drum kit, which had been taken out of storage once and for all. Here and there, on weekend trips, in quiet gasps of free time, Sufjan carried around his 8-track, recording songs in peopleās homes, in cinderblock basements, in barn houses and rehearsal rooms. The vibraphone in Massachusetts, the electric organ in New Jersey, his sisterās husbandās grand piano, upstate Michigan. Word by word, note by note, everything came together like one great cosmic shuffle, the Big Bang. The result was a lushly orchestrated road trip through the backwoods of The Great Lake State, from motor-city to the winter beaches of Lake Superior. Now this is more like it! his step-dad said. This sounds pretty good! They decided to release it to the public, to act like a real record label. They found a distributor, a publicist, a booking agent, a make-up artist, a mime. Things were looking good. People lent an eager ear. The critics lowered their knives and their critical brow. Other Music put it in New Releases, top shelf! Europeans werenāt offended! Sufjan began to feel gallant and bold and confident about this great place called Planet Earth. This is just the beginning! he proclaimed over loudspeakers. This is just the tip of the iceberg! Galvanized by tourist brochures, road atlas maps, and the spirit of Walt Whitman, Sufjan began to intimate at other songs for other states, the American Dream, the national anthem, the continental rigmarole, the Delaware shuffle, Florida flamenco, California swing, all dramatized in song, the great epic symphony, in 50 movements, in 50 years! Lord help us! Once the clang and clamor of patriotism subsided, Sufjanās musical inquiry fell fast on the Land of Lincoln, stirred, perhaps, by sentimental recollections of his rebellious young adulthood on Clark Street in Chicago, Wrigleyville, the beachfront parks, the homeless kids with their pets, the abandoned school house, where he slept on a desk. During the winter of 2004, Sufjan spent four months in isolation, reading books and biographies, memorizing the unfashionable poems of Carl Sandburg, laughing and shuddering through Saul Bellowās novels. He uncovered police blogs and books on tape. He solicited correspondence from old friends, Illinoisans once lost or estranged; he studied travel guides; he quizzed chat rooms; he made stuff up. All research, he decided, begins with your imagination and with your intuition, relying heavily on the convictions of the heart. During those long winter hand-clapping, piano-playing, drum-rolling months, Sufjanās heart began to expand, leaving its fist-shaped mark on a series of songs that not so much pay homage to the Prairie State, but rack and rend its characters through potato farms, steel factories, street fairs, marching parades, convoluted rivers, and centuries past and present. The result was something bold, flashy, and ripe with advertisement, like the Goodyear blimp, but not without Sufjanās tender rendering of the imagination. When all was said and done, Sufjan felt irrevocable changes taking place within his body, like a second puberty. His shoulders broadened, his mind quickened, his heart began to beat with quiet, patient thumps in a rhythm as fluid and faithful as the Chicago River. And so on and so forth. Sufjanās other interests include graphic design, painting, running, knitting, crocheting, weaving, quilting, cleaning, photography, haircutting, and dry wall installation. He collects stamps and wheat pennies. He cooks legendary omelets and can whip up a sushi feast at the drop of a sake glass. In high school he played second string guard on a district champion basketball team and created his own language, now spoken by only two other people. His brother Marzuki is a nationally recognized marathon runner, elite status. His sister Djohariah has the most complicated, most whimsical, most monumental laugh in all of mankind.
you know what? fuck it (unproblematics your fave)
how dare you thats my emotional support war criminal

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diversity win! horrible fucked up immoral fictional character confirmed lgbt in a vaguely homophobic manner.
āb,ā dick says, clambering up the railing with only half his usual ease. he has strawberry ice cream on his cheek. āb. look. iām taller than you now.ā
bruce looks down at him. heās short by about a foot, and beaming.
āare you.ā he says.
dick wrinkles his nose and glares back defiantly. āyes. obv-i-ous-ly.ā he puts careful emphasis on the syllables, puffing out his chest to look more intimidating. it doesnāt succeed very well. āokay fineā maybe a little suspension of belief is needed here.ā
āyou mean suspension of disbelief.ā
āno. i mean suspension of belief. which of us is in acting beginning right now.ā
bruce reaches over and rubs a bit at the ice cream, trying to get it off. āsure.ā
āwhat- b. stop that. stop. weāre in public.ā he squeaks, batting at the hand with both of his small ones, and any projection of adult intimidation vanishes in the face of a classic ten year old boy.
bruce smothers his smile in time only through years of ninja training. āam i embarrassing you.ā
āyesā
āhmā he pretends to think. ātoo bad.ā
āthe perfect text doesnāt exiāā
from @m_hushki on instagram
I hope to one day be a slutty shirtless jogger that causes men to ignore traffic safety

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if you think showing ur kids harry potter will radicalize them u are wrong and u should just instead watch a bugās life and chicken run. there are gays in there, even. no not ācanonically,ā shut up, iām old and in my day we simply UNDERSTOOD when a chicken was a lesbian or a stick bug was a gay man with the telepathic connection between our massive gay brains like the baby geniuses. i took a benadryl
the longer Iām parenting-aged the more I realize how disciplinary oriented parenting styles are significantly more deranged than initially assumed
me as a teen watching a parent storm across a room to scream at a child for accidentally spilling paint: hm. This is not good.
me as an adult watching another adult storm across a room to scream at a vulnerable and still developing child for accidentally spilling paint: This is my villain origin story
as a parent now, it blows my fucking mind how terrifying, abusive, and straight up ineffective that parenting is. Iāve got a 2 year old. sheās a smart little fucker. when she does something wrong, I tell her, ābaby, that wasnāt okay. hereās the reason it wasnāt okay - (hurt feelings, hurt other peopleās stuff, etc). I know you donāt want to (hurt feeling, hurt stuff, etc), so next time, letās (insert appropriate behavior) and that way, we wonāt hurt people accidentally.ā and you know what happens?
90% of the time, that behavior stops.
when the behavior continues, itās when sheās extremely frustrated that sheās not getting a communication across. while sheās incredibly smart, thereās going to be some lapse in understanding between the two of us, and she lashes out by doing the things that she knows creates frustration in me, almost like sheās trying to make me understand sheās frustrated just like that.
so, I sit back down on her level. ābaby, I can see that youāre mad/frustrated/upset/sad. letās work this out together. I really want to understand what is bothering you.ā if itās something that canāt be done (stay awake from nap, eat sugary things before bedtime), then we find a compromise: you want to stay awake from nap to play with toys? letās dig out an old toy you havenāt played with in a while after your nap! weāll do it together and have lots of fun. you want something sugary right now? that will keep us awake for too long, but hereās some *really tasty favorite fruit* for now, and tomorrow, letās bake cookies together when you wake up.
sheās two fucking years old. and she understands that shit. and now, often times, when she climbs into bed and she still wants to play, sheāll tell me, ātomorrow can we play with these toys, Mommy?ā. she already understands compromise, and her behavior is fucking phenomenal.
I totally understand that it can be frustrating to parent. sometimes it feels like youāre hitting your head against a brick wall. BUT KIDS DONāT HAVE THE FUCKING ABILITY TO TURN ON THEIR LOGIC BRAIN WHEN THEYāRE HURTING EMOTIONALLY. WE, AS ADULTS, DO. and it is our fucking RESPONSIBILITY to help them turn their logic brain back on, and help them work thru that strong emotion, instead of punishing them by letting out our anger on them.
you know what would happen if I were to yell at my kid? sheād yell back, louder, and now know that this is an acceptable way to react now, and Iād effectively have made it hypocritical to tell her not to yell at me. bam.
you want to express extreme anger at a child for not having the emotional control that you arenāt capable of even showing right now? not gonna help. at all. my kid comes to me to find compromises now. sheās amazing. and sheās not even 3 years old. if you, as a grown ass adult, are not fucking able to see your children as developing humans that need GUIDANCE, not BRUTAL, AGGRESSIVE ANGER, then you prob shouldnāt have a goddamn kid.
So first I have to say again how privileged I was in retrospect; I was never yelled at by my parents, or āpunishedā for anything in any way, partly because I didnāt do anything that ever pissed them off, or wanted to, but also because whenever there was a conflict - like I was bored at a department store - they listened and showed that they cared even if they had to tell me they really needed to finish up what they were doing. Just knowing that they acknowledged my feelings was enough for me to feel a whole lot better. Teachers, though, when I still went to public school, just thought I was a ābadā kid because of my non-stop fidgeting, distraction and inability to listen to their droning lists of numbers and names, while most of my aunts and uncles were downright abusive to my cousins so I still got pretty up-close experience with how clueless adults are. What they always forget is that children naturally have ENORMOUS amounts of energy to burn off and a brain that is absolutely insatiable for fresh information and enrichment. Almost everybody knows what itās like to be cooped up or stir-crazy. We all understand when we see an animal going ballistic in a small cage. We all think it would be terrifying to be locked in a cell with nothing to do for extended periods of time. People need to understand that a kid can have SO much energy, SO much craving for mental stimulus that, yes, sitting in the backseat of your car or waiting hours for you to shop for new pants is genuinely the same effect as you having to sit in a little cage with nothing. Nine times out of ten a kid āacting upā doesnāt even realize that they feel trapped or forgotten about but that is exactly what it usually is. Even engaging them in a little idle chit-chat like you would any bored adult friend can make a huge difference. Once I was a teenager with littler toddler-age relatives they always wanted to see me because Iād talk to them like they were people and show them games or books I thought theyād find cool - this was all before the internet era, mind you - while our parents would sit in the kitchen spending up to six hours yammering about some shit Iām sure Iād still find unbearably tedious to listen to today. The few times they visited each other and I wasnāt there, sure enough, Iād hear some way in which the kids āgot into troubleā or āmisbehaved.ā I mean, obviously. Who the hell wouldnāt act up if they had nothing to do but roll around on a couch or watch afternoon TV shows while the adults in their life spend hours not even fucking looking at them?
I hate this mindset people have that when someone complains about something related to their religion or about their religious community, everyones immediate assumption is that theyāre going to deconvert.
Like itās āHe who wrestles with Godā, bro Iām just wrestling
the idea of being vague & mysterious is appealing to me, but i overshare every day

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Shohat: We speak in our new book of āintercolonial narcissism,ā the idea that all the colonial powers, and too often their intellectuals, want to see their colonialism, or their slavery, or their discrimination, as better than that of the others.
Stam: So the American form of narcissism is to say: āwe are not colonialistsā like the others. Apart from the obvious colonialism of conquering the indigenous west of the country, apart from the āimperial bingeā of the 1890s, Ā the US practices and imperialism of military bases, it can invade country after country and always say: āWe do not want one inch of Korean land, Vietnamese land, Laotian land, Cambodian land, Grenadian land, Iraqi land, Afghan land, etc..ā But it keeps invading and maintaining bases. So that is the US exceptionalist narcissism. And then you have the French āmission civilisatriceā narcissism ā āwe only care about culture and educationā ā the British āits just about free tradeā narcissism, and then the Luso-Tropicalist Portuguese Ā āwe are all mixed and love mulatasā narcissism, so every country has its exceptionalism.
Ā Ā Ā We make the point that the intellectuals of empowered countries love āother peopleās victims,ā thus the Germans historically adored indians (Native Americans) but were not so fond of the Jews. So they would supposedly never have dispossessed the Native Americans, but they killed the Herero in Africa, exterminating them in 1904. The French loved American blacks but not Algerian Arabs. Everybody feels good by thinking so. This is very much a white debate: āwe are less racist than those other racists.ā
āBRAZIL IS NOT TRAVELING ENOUGHā: ON POSTCOLONIAL THEORY AND ANALOGOUS COUNTER-CURRENTS