I was taking a test and my professor stopped me. He pulled a picture out of his wallet and laid it down in front of me. It was him, maybe thirty or forty years ago, with a big, full beard. He smiled, put it back into his wallet, and walked away.
Source: lostthought
Tasha wants to be a successful, independent woman who can make her own decisions. She wants to be a woman of power who can live her life in God’s eye while taking care of her two children. Tasha wants to know how to take care of herself mentally, physically, emotionally, and finiancially. To be able to purchase her own house and transportation for the well-being of her health and her children health. She wants to be happy. To have happy, successful, and respectable children. To break the family chain (curse).
For my children … .
I want my children to be happy. I want them to know that they can talk to me about anything. I want them to have the things I never had like I want to be able to pay for them to go to college. I want them to own the world. I want them to be successful and Most of all to know God for themselves.
For my husband … .
I want him to be successful in the field of his choice. I want him to be smoke and alcohol free. I want him to be happy and to own his own business. I want him to have belief in hisself and to walk with his head held.
There’s a baker’s dozen more where that came from.
On the bus, my sole co-riders are four fortyish black men, seated so as to form a perfect square. Each of them sports some sort of jaunty cap, all turned to the front—as it should be*. Each hat, curiously, is adorned by a small insignia at the bottom of the back. These range from the tasteful (a scripted brand name, extra small, subtle contrast of the thread with the fabric of the hat) to the good-natured but irredeemably distasteful (bright white ‘JESUS’: bolded, all-caps, sans serif).
*Am I a racist for my inability to disentangle black men and backwards hats?
The man next door is playing Benny Benassi again. A near-daily ritual, Satisfaction seems to be his sole source of, well, satisfaction. Like always, my gut is the first to be made privy to the development. By the time I’ve made the decision not to engage the beast by banging on the adjacent wall between our apartments, the windows are rattling anyway.
In the six months since I moved in, there have been fewer than five one-on-one interactions, most of which end by my squeaking that, Sorry, I’m going to be late for a meeting, and slinking away sideways. Aside from his nauseating general comportment and stale smoke aura, the only thing that really sticks out is his advisement: “Don’t worry about the man staying in my apartment. I’ll get rid of him soon enough.”
I imagine the interior of the living room is like this:
Anyway, it’s a damn shame if it isn’t. This is his only shot at redemption.
Mining my brain for anything I considered to pass muster in ninth grade, for this was clearly the apex of my taste in most everything. I spent years thinking, understandably, that this was the album cut. It’s that good.
Rob Low, Barbican
I met a boy today whose face resembled this diagram of the motor homunculus from Campbell’s Biology to an uncanny degree.
Most unfortunate. While it’s always painful to be summarily pegged as one thing or another, to be reduced and compartmentalized, this is surely one of the more brutal instances.
Source: cnide
Anthony Gormley, EVENT HORIZON
