Kazakhstan

Daniel Kordan

seasoflife

Comet C/2023 A3

Credit: Mark Sansom

Biden lays groundwork for immigration prisons

Trump can only expand upon what Biden built.

Genocide Joe, as he has done with many other issues, outright lied when he said he would back away from Trump's policies in this area. He has done nothing but continue what Trump started during his first term, and now he is setting up for Trump to go even further. Also remember that Biden previously waived federal laws to speed up construction of the wall Trump started, even destroying Indigenous burial sites to do so.

Please take a moment to read this. A Canadian company wants to build a sulfide copper mine near Lake Superior, which holds 21% of the world’s freshwater. The mine would produce 98.5% toxic waste, stored in a dam just two miles from the lake. The dam can only withstand a 1-in-100-year storm, but the area has had two 1-in-1,000-year storms in the past decade. If it breaks, toxic water could flood the lake. Copper sulfide mines in the U.S. have consistently contaminated nearby water sources, and this mine could hurt local communities with lower employment, income, and property values. The company wants $50 million in taxpayer funding to move forward. The Michigan Senate is about to vote, if they don’t get the funding they can’t build it.

Sign this petition if you want to prevent this disaster by searching “Protect the Porkies, Protect Lake Superior— Stop the Copperwood Mine!” at change.org.

Source: Indian Country News

disabled people are worth whatever cost or resources is needed to keep them alive. disabled people are worth it even if they don't live long. they're worth it even if they will need extra support and resources for every day of their life. they're worth it even if they spend all they life indoors. none of it is wasted. none of it is in vain. time, effort, money, resources spent on a life are not wasted. these things have served their purpose. the joy of someone's existence is not undermined by not lasting forever. there's no meaningful point, some threshold where you can say "okay this is enough. after that it's not worth it." it's always worth it.

This is resonating deeply with me today. People have constantly been blocking the ramp out of my apartment lately and it makes me feel like I am not worth the effort. I'm glad there are still people who think otherwise

hot new challenge for 2025 called "stop putting prismatic-bell's stupid zionist ass on my dashboard," where in 2025 everyone stops putting prismatic-bell's stupid zionist ass on my dashboard. strongly encourage starting early.

not doomed by the narrative but saved by the narrative. yeah i know you'd rather die than keep suffering but the story doesn't actually care what you want. you have to keep going, even when it hurts. even being erased from existence won't stop you from being salvaged from the wreckage of un-being. get up. keep pushing. keep bleeding. keep living.

something interesting is happening

Now imagine if Biden and Harris had campaigned along these lines instead of on “we can hate immigrants and kill Arabs just as much as Republicans can!”

ladies and gents may i present you with my favorite photo of Ella Fitzgerald ft. that guy

homie was down bad, and can we blame him?

that guy is jazz trumpeter dizzy gillespie! i think it was the smithsonian which just found a second angle of this moment and .

yeah, me too dizzy

something interesting is happening

Do y’all understand how crazy this is?? His entire comment section is like this 😭

I'm mister spine twister. I'm mister curves. I'm mister scoliosis. I'm mister Sitting Hurts

I'm mister heart racer, I'm mister dazed. I'm mister low blood pressure, I'm mister going to faint

I mean this without any judgement, if you have given money to tumblr or ao3 in the past, I ask that you also give some money to a Palestinian family in need (verified, #174). I ask this specific group of people because you have some money to spare and tumblr/ao3 will continue to exist if you hold off on giving them 5-10 bucks this time around. Fandom is nothing if not resilient. But Palestinians unfortunately do not have those same financial guarantees, and they could use some of that good old altruistic fandom spirit tossed their way, especially as the winter cold creeps in. Thank you.

damascus… what are you doing to me

nizar qabbani save me

My voice rings out, this time, from Damascus

It rings out from the house of my mother and father

In Sham. The geography of my body changes.

I enter the courtyard of the Umayyad Mosque

And greet everyone in it

Corner to . . . corner

Tile to . . . tile

Dove to . . . dove

I wander in the gardens of Kufi script

And pluck beautiful flowers of God’s words

And hear with my eye the voice of the mosaics

And the music of agate prayer beads

A state of revelation and rapture overtakes me,

So I climb the steps of the first minaret that encounters me

Calling:

“Come to the jasmine”

“Come to the jasmine”

Returning to you

Stained by the rains of my longing

Returning to fill my pockets

With nuts, green plums, and green almonds

Returning to my oyster shell

Returning to my birth bed

I wander in the narrow alleys of Damascus.

Behind the windows, honeyed eyes awake

And greet me . . .

The stars wear their gold bracelets

And greet me

And the pigeons alight from their towers

And greet me

And the clean Shami cats come out… to greet me

I immerse myself in the Buzurriya Souq

Set a sail in a cloud of spices

Clouds of cloves

And cinnamon . . .

And camomile . . .

I perform ablutions in rose water once.

And in the water of passion many times . . .

And I forget-while in the Souq al-èAttarine-

All the concoctions of Nina Ricci . . .

And Coco Chanel . . .

What are you doing to me Damascus?

How have you changed my culture? My aesthetic taste?

For I have been made to forget the ringing of cups of licorice

The piano concerto of Rachmaninoff . . .

How do the gardens of Sham transform me?

For I have become the first conductor in the world

That leads an orchestra from a willow tree!!

I have come to you . . .

From the history of the Damascene rose

That condenses the history of perfume . . .

From the memory of al-Mutanabbi

That condenses the history of poetry . . .

I have come to you . . .

From the blossoms of bitter orange . . .

And the dahlia . . .

And the narcissus . . .

And the “nice boy” . . .

That first taught me drawing . . .

I have come to you . . .

From the laughter of Shami women

That first taught me music . . .

And the beginning of adolesence

From the spouts of our alley

That first taught me crying

And from my mother’s prayer rug

That first taught me

The path to God . . .

I open the drawers of memory

One . . . then another

I remember my father . . .

I remember the Damascene houses

With their copper doorknobs

And their ceilings decorated with glazed tiles

And their interior courtyards

That remind you of descriptions of heaven

Abu Khalil al-Qabbani emerges . . .

In his damask robe . . .

And his brocaded turban . . .

And his eyes haunted with questions . . .

Like Hamlet’s

He attempts to present an avant-garde play

But they demand Karagoz’s tent . . .

He tries to present a text from Shakespeare

They ask him about the news of al-Zir . . .

He tries to find a single female voice

To sing with him . . .

“Oh That of Sham”

They load up their Ottoman rifles,

And fire into every rose tree

That sings professionally . . .

He tries to find a single woman

To repeat after him:

“Oh bird of birds, oh dove”

They unsheathe their knives

And slaughter all the descendents of doves . . .

And all the descendents of women . . .

After a hundred years . . .

Damascus apologized to Abu Khalil al-Qabbani

And they erected a magnificent theater in his name.

I descend from the peak of Mt. Qassiun

Carrying for the children of the city . . .

Peaches

Pomegranates

And sesame halawa . . .

And for its women . . .

Necklaces of turquoise . . .

And poems of love . . .

I enter . . .

A long tunnel of sparrows

Gillyflowers . . .

Hibiscus . . .

Clustered jasmine . . .

And I enter the questions of perfume . . .

And my schoolbag is lost from me

And the copper lunch case . . .

In which I used to carry my food . . .

And the blue beads

That my mother used to hang on my chest

So People of Sham

He among you who finds me . . .

let him return me to Umm Mu’ataz

And God’s reward will be his

I am your green sparrow . . . People of Sham

So he among you who finds me . . .

let him feed me a grain of wheat . . .

I am your Damascene rose . . . People of Sham

So he among you who finds me . . .

let him place me in the first vase . . .

I am your mad poet . . . People of Sham

So he among you who sees me . . .

let him take a souvenir photograph of me

Before I recover from my enchanting insanity . . .

I am your fugitive moon . . . People of Sham

So he among you who sees me . . .

Let him donate to me a bed . . . and a wool blanket . . .

Because I haven’t slept for centuries

damascus… what are you doing to me

nizar qabbani save me

a friend and her family in aleppo are terrified with understandably complicated feelings. they call it the “dirty war” for a reason… there are just some countries your families are from where you feel isolated in sharing any thoughts or feelings because it is also a heated political situation, and you would like to process your feelings without also fighting for your life in justifying those feelings politically 🫠