if u won’t listen to me, won’t u listen to erykah?
"knowledge, wisdom, understanding like King Solomon's wealth. you're a player but only because you be playin yaself."
"14 Times Keith Haring Was Cooler Than You’ll Ever Be"
^That article is a better summation of this great man than I could give.
J.M.W. Turner is a British artist from the Romantic period and although that era typically bores me, I was very moved by this man’s paintings. His work is a precursor to Impressionism, and I admire the skewed line between reality and fantasy that he walks. It gives the viewer’s mind amble room for imagination. Turner’s striking use of color also greatly impacts me. The sun seems to be a strong influence on his work, and his landscapes can be blinding. The strong red tones and white tones fill me with emotion, and I don’t really understand why.
This is “The Slave Ship,” painted in 1840.
here is a tribe in Africa where the birth date of a child is counted not from when they were born, nor from when they are conceived but from the day that the child was a thought in its mother’s mind. And when a woman decides that she will have a child, she goes off and sits under a tree, by herself, and she listens until she can hear the song of the child that wants to come. And after she’s heard the song of this child, she comes back to the man who will be the child’s father, and teaches it to him. And then, when they make love to physically conceive the child, some of that time they sing the song of the child, as a way to invite it.
And then, when the mother is pregnant, the mother teaches that child’s song to the midwives and the old women of the village, so that when the child is born, the old women and the people around her sing the child’s song to welcome it. And then, as the child grows up, the other villagers are taught the child’s song. If the child falls, or hurts its knee, someone picks it up and sings its song to it. Or perhaps the child does something wonderful, or goes through the rites of puberty, then as a way of honoring this person, the people of the village sing his or her song.
In the African tribe there is one other occasion upon which the villagers sing to the child. If at any time during his or her life, the person commits a crime or aberrant social act, the individual is called to the center of the village and the people in the community form a circle around them. Then they sing their song to them.
The tribe recognizes that the correction for antisocial behavior is not punishment; it is love and the remembrance of identity. When you recognize your own song, you have no desire or need to do anything that would hurt another.
And it goes this way through their life. In marriage, the songs are sung, together. And finally, when this child is lying in bed, ready to die, all the villagers know his or her song, and they sing—for the last time—the song to that person.
You may not have grown up in an African tribe that sings your song to you at crucial life transitions, but life is always reminding you when you are in tune with yourself and when you are not. When you feel good, what you are doing matches your song, and when you feel awful, it doesn’t. In the end, we shall all recognize our song and sing it well. You may feel a little warbly at the moment, but so have all the great singers. Just keep singing and you’ll find your way home.
The deep, red shade of this woman’s skin is so phenomenal, so beautiful… I’ve never seen anything like it.
Above is a picture of Omar Khadr, abducted at 15, now 25 years old, he has spent a third of his life at Guantánamo Bay for a crime he never committed.
“Khadr is accused of throwing a grenade that killed a U.S. soldier in 2002 and conspiring with Al Qaeda. There is no credible evidence to substantiate the charges, some of which date to when he was 11 years old. Charges were not even brought against him until 2007. If convicted, the Obama administration will seek a life sentence for Khadr, prosecutor David Iglesias indicated.
Army Col. Pat Parrish, the tribunal’s presiding judge, on Monday denied defense appeals to bar confessions Khadr made under torture. In hearings held in May an unnamed U.S. military officer admitted that his interrogation unit threatened to gang rape and kill Khadr if he did not cooperate with an interrogation session at Afghanistan’s notorious Bagram air base in 2002.
A U.S. military psychiatrist has said that Khadr, who has now spent a third of his life at Guantánamo, is under extreme psychological stress after years of living through torture, abuse and appalling conditions. He has been subjected to stress positions, beatings, humiliations—including being used as a “human mop” to clean up urine, threatened attack with dogs, long periods of extreme isolation and sensory as well as sleep deprivation. (Read more here)
How come we barely hear about cases like these in the news? If it happend to a white christian male, we would constantly hear about it, but when it happens to a muslim from Afghanistan, silence.
Omar Khadr has himself said:
Khadr wrote to his Canadian attorney Dennis Edney, on May 27. “And if the world doesn’t see all this, to what world am I being released to? A world of hate … and discrimination.”
Lt. Col. Frakt has said:
“It is appalling that the Obama administration is allowing charges to go forward in the military commissions against Omar Khadr. Clearly, Omar Khadr, as a juvenile of 15 at the time of his alleged offences, could not be tried as an adult in federal court, so they are allowing him to be tried as an adult in the military commissions, potentially making him the first child soldier to be tried and convicted as a war criminal in world history.” (Read more here)
Is this flirting???
This is my mom. This is my mom on YouTube. I found a video of my mother on YouTube and it has completely destroyed my day.
I inherited a genetic disorder from my mother. It causes muscular atrophy. You see her fingers? It’s like she’s got some kind of permanent, fucked up looking, kung fu fist made of petrified wood. I’m supposed to avoid coffee and drugs and alcohol to spare myself. Too late for that. I will be like my mother. Standing on deformed feet that cause agonizing pain. “You’re going to end up like Ramona,” my dad told me often. I will end up like that crackhead looking, tooth rotting, homeless woman. My stepmother echoed him. I recently found out my parents weren’t married, or even living together, until I was 2. They divorced when I was 6. So much for a good example, concerning love or otherwise. Somewhere between 6 and 8 my mom caused a scene at my dad’s house and he made me run to him, in his house, and I wasn’t allowed to come out. My brother was still in the car (he was around a year old, yet no car seat) but police retrieved him later. My grandma tells me I had super lice in my hair and it took them weeks to kill all of them. I was 8 years old and living life with a pest infestation on my head. Like a concentration camp victim. My dad gained full custody, but spent almost all of his retirement, something he still won’t let me forget.
Perhaps it was for the best that I left one kind of abuse for another. This world conditions us for trade-offs; it’s a capitalistic staple. I always had lice when I lived with mom because I had extremely long hair, and I was neglected. She told me recently that one time she figured if she left the extra strength shampoo in twice as long it would work twice as well. I ended up with near kidney failure. I almost died and finally, at eighteen, my mom tells me, “Careful with those kidneys! They’re subject to cancer,” of course, with the slur that accompanies drug use and abuse.
I remember terrible things about mom… I remember finding needles in her drawer at the age of 8 or 9. I remember mom and dad’s terrible fights. Throwing things, the usual. I remember HRS coming to our house, mom teaching me what to say and what not to say. I was terribly nervous that day. These stiff women in suits and frightening heels entering my house, taking notes and evaluating my life. I saw them whisper when they looked in the fridge and found nearly nothing but a few expired goods. By the time they reached me, I was significantly shaken by the idea that these people could shatter my maternal model. When interrogated, I blurted out stupidly, “I’m worried she might die and then I don’t know what I will do.” Mommy got mad at that. I made sure not to tell them of what I remember. I made sure not to tell them of being up until 3 in the morning on many school nights, crying in bathwater turned cold after hours with lice shampoo in my hair, mom passed out on the couch (remember: kidney cancer). But I also remember mom saying it’s okay to miss school often. In fact, I remember having no importance for personal hygiene. No motivation to brush my teeth or hair. After my dad got custody, I had dentists scolding me like it was my fault. But it’s alright, I remember her stealing SO many clothes from Target so I may be appeased. So I may also be the lookout. I asked her why she was stuffing things in her purse but she told me to be quiet like I should have already known. The paranoia when we left gave me a funny feeling; why would red and blue lights be following?
When did I develop this mechanism for self-destruction? Is it a defense mechanism? One could say it’s a social evolution theorists would call a failure. It was birthed here. Its basis is being hurt so many times that I reject love. Simple? I would think so. Why would anyone want to accept love when they’ve seen, 9 times out of 10, that it’s a bunch of bullshit. I’ve been teased with it, destroyed by it, ridiculed by it, but it’s never made me completely satisfied with who I am. What pain could cause someone to rebuff something as beautiful as love? The rejection from a human’s first encounter with love: the mother.