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Karmastew

"I just rolled my eyes so hard I gave myself a headache" -Angst
.............................................................................................................................

What you can expect: Puppies, hilarity, angst, a lack of fandoms because of a lack of coolness, awkwarding, queer this and queer that, feminism blah blah blah, Snark, Swank, Snogging, half-assed alliteration, random capitalization, oxford commas, and szexy szexy empathy.
Jul 21 '14
ghostpastry:

communism

ghostpastry:

communism

(Source: may-13th)

Jul 21 '14
eugelng:

Happy National Doughnut Day :]

eugelng:

Happy National Doughnut Day :]

Jul 21 '14
ilikeasianfood:

craving this rn

ilikeasianfood:

craving this rn

(Source: you-win-lee)

Jul 21 '14
ughgodwhatever:

did i mention the pinnacle of my life?

ughgodwhatever:

did i mention the pinnacle of my life?

Jul 21 '14
mostlycatsmostly:

Moose in his favorite spot
(submitted by artificialcats)

mostlycatsmostly:

Moose in his favorite spot

(submitted by artificialcats)

Jul 21 '14

rainbowbuttcookie:

Ghost Hoodie

$28

Jul 21 '14
owlsstuff:

More irresistible owls here: http://ift.tt/JQ5da3 Photo source (http://ift.tt/WwzBgf)

owlsstuff:

More irresistible owls here: http://ift.tt/JQ5da3 Photo source (http://ift.tt/WwzBgf)

Jul 20 '14

johnhannahs:

Thank You, Scotland

→ Alan Cumming

Jul 20 '14
inothernews:

A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed,Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokensOf their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their hastening doomIs lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,Come, you may stand upon myBack and face your distant destiny,But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long inThe bruising darkness,Have lain too longFace down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling wordsArmed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,A River sings a beautiful song,Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,Delicate and strangely made proud,Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profitHave left collars of waste uponMy shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songsThe Creator gave to me when I and theTree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across yourBrow and when you yet knew you stillKnew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond toThe singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the JewThe African and Native American, the Sioux,The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the GreekThe Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.They hear. They all hearThe speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every TreeSpeaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passedOn traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, youPawnee, Apache and Seneca, youCherokee Nation, who rested with me, thenForced on bloody feet, left me to the employment ofOther seekers—desperate for gain,Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot …You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, boughtSold, stolen, arriving on a nightmarePraying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the TreeI am yours—your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing needFor this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,Cannot be unlived, and if facedWith courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes uponThe day breaking for you.
Give birth againTo the dream.
Women, children, men,Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your mostPrivate need. Sculpt it intoThe image of your most public self.Lift up your heartsEach new hour holds new chancesFor new beginnings.
Do not be wedded foreverTo fear, yoked eternallyTo brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,Offering you space to place new steps of change.Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courageTo look up and out upon me, theRock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new dayYou may have the grace to look up and outAnd into your sister’s eyes, intoYour brother’s face, your countryAnd say simplyVery simplyWith hopeGood morning.

— The 1993 Inaugural poem, "On The Pulse Of Morning," written by the late MAYA ANGELOU, who has died at the age of 86.

inothernews:

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.

The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.

The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers—desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot …
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours—your Passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.

Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

— The 1993 Inaugural poem, "On The Pulse Of Morning," written by the late MAYA ANGELOU, who has died at the age of 86.

Jul 17 '14
sailorp00n:

lanepatriquin:

sketchbook 2014

DIS ME?

sailorp00n:

lanepatriquin:

sketchbook 2014

DIS ME?