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Something very wonderful about a miniaturized life. Delightful… everything within a few square blocks. You have to savour it while you can! Your mid-20s, before a relationship gets serious, or you become permanently soured to relationships, and you have so much mobility and hope. Huzzah! Tiny life 4ever. 

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It appears that Essence magazine used to be much cooler. This excerpt is fascinating. I find that considerations of gender have so much more weight when you are in a real fleshly relationship, and not just abstractly considering the ideas. I definitely think about gender differently in my current moment, being in love with a man who really cares about being a man… ongoing thoughts. 

mocada-museum:

baldwin-lorde

JB: One of the dangers of being a Black American is being schizophrenic, and I mean ‘schizophrenic’ in the most literal sense. To be a Black American is in some ways to be born with the desire to be white. It’s a part of the price you pay for being born here, and it affects every Black…

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After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

"

Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” (via oliviacirce)

(via gotochelm)

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cabinporn:

Lighthouse Keeper’s Cottage, Nova Scotia by Ezra Caldwell

cabinporn:

Lighthouse Keeper’s Cottage, Nova Scotia by Ezra Caldwell

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cabinporn:

Fishing Shack in Blue Rocks, Nova Scotia.
Submitted by Brock Jackson. 

cabinporn:

Fishing Shack in Blue Rocks, Nova Scotia.

Submitted by Brock Jackson. 

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THE TAKE-HOME FINAL

whatshouldlawbroscallme:

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vladislava:

 myownbody replied to your posti’m not kidding when i say that the only thing…

why are you keeping this gif to yourself??

(Source: fuckyeahnickiminaj, via gotochelm)

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As I reach the age where my friends get engaged,

I find that I am experiencing sexism in a whole new way, vis-a-vis internalized feelings of shame being a single - i.e. incomplete - woman; one without a partner. Perky friends try their hand at reassurance. “How is it that you’re single?” An endictment paraded as a compliment. 

People aren’t supposed to be single. Women aren’t supposed to be single. Pretty friendly hetero women aren’t supposed to be single. How is it that you’re single/why are you single/what is wrong with you

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"I have argued throughout this book that an optimistic attachment is cruel when the object/scene of desire is itself an obstacle to fulfilling the very wants that bring people to it: but its life-organizing status can trump interfering with the damage it provokes. It may be a relation of cruel optimism, when, despite an awareness that the normative political sphere appears as a shrunken, broken, or distant place of activity among elites, members of the body politic return periodically to its recommitment ceremonies and scenes. Voting is one thing; collective caring, listening, and scanning the airwaves, are others. All of these modes of orientation and having a feeling about it confirm our attachment to the system and thereby confirm the system and the legitimacy of the affects that make one feel bound to it, even if the manifest content of the binding has the negative force of cynicism or the dark attenuation of political depression."

— Lauren Berlant - Cruel Optimism (via effusionofbiopower)