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theamazingchickenman:

twocatstailoring:

unabletofindname:

teacherbach:

sociallychallengednerd:

why do people say chicken as a term for coward? Have you ever meet a chicken? Cause those things will fuck you up man

@theamazingchickenman

“Get some.”
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A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Jul 21, 2017 at 3:57pm PDT

Turkey poults react to bright colors. Apparently this includes fingernail polish. (at Laughing Earth)
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Flower harvest. (at Laughing Earth)
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starrynight-over-thepast:

spoutziki-art:

laclefdescoeurs:

Nāve (Death), 1897, Janis Rozentāls

This is one of the most disturbing paintings that I have ever come across. And I have seen A LOT of paintings.  

“The name of the image I chose is ‘Nāve’ (‘Death’), 1897 produced by Latvian painter Janis Rozentāls. The painting was produced in a time when most of the people lived ordinary lives as peasants. The author was mostly painting people’s daily life but sometimes reflecting mythology and religion. This image is one of those paintings – something between daily life and mythology. […]

‘The functions of the image are those that have, throughout history, been the functions of all human production: they aim to establish a relation to the world’. If we look at the image we can see a representation of death from Latvian mythology as a woman standing in white. There is also an angry woman, sitting on the rock at the edge of the forest, holding her dead child. Around the main characters of the painting we can see woods, a small path and the beginning of a meadow. Judging by the nature and colours, it could be summer […]

For those familiar with Latvian mythology it is clear that the child is dead and ‘The Mother of Death’ (that is how death is usually referred) is taking him with her. Of course, death is ‘an abstract referent, because it is something that is formed in the mind and is thus not demonstrable’. 

Death is one of the goddesses in Latvian mythology and she is always wearing white. Also the dead child is wearing white. In Latvian mythology the white colour indicates death, rebirth, the world of the dead, and everything else related to death. Also, death is holding a sickle in her hands, because a sickle, the same as the scythe in the Western image of death, is symbolically used to cut life short. Death leans over the child and her facial expression (she sneers) shows that she is happy to take the child. Death also has bare feet, because she is in very close relationship with nature. She comes from nature. The path death stands on belongs to her and she comes out of the woods to take the child. Thus, the mother of the child was waiting for the goddess.

The woman, who is holding the child, has a very simple outfit and hairstyle, and Latvian traditional footwear. It shows that she is from the peasant class. Her facial expression shows that she does not want to give away her child. She is angry and is looking straight at death but leaning back from her.

If a Latvian would see this painting, he or she would know that it is about death. People from other cultures may not recognise the symbolism within this image and not realise what it is about. For many people in the West, the woman wearing white would represent something good. Yet the woman holding her baby is angry. Another thing to note is that it is summer, because the nature all around is green and the mother is lightly dressed. Nature is a key feature for the goddess death. Both lighting and colour are important to this image, which is drawn in the Art Nouveau technique, making the viewer drawn to the women in the front of the image.

All in all, the painting is harmonious and every colour has its own place. Therefore we can imagine ‘Mother of Nature’ becomes ‘Mother of Death’ and death then becomes part of the cycle of nature; or death is part of the cycle of life.”(Commentary by Diana Spoge)
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balticmythology:

Baltic mythology: Kaupolė and Rasa

Kaupolė - goddess of wild flowers, verdure efflorescence and the growing strength of vegetation. Her name is connected to the phrase su kaupu which means ‘abundantly’ and refers to the abundant growth of the verdure.

During Rasos (Lithuanian summer solstice) people pick herbs called Kaupolės žolynai (herbs of Kaupolė) of which flower crowns are made. These herbs bring health, luck and protect from maladies. In various myths Kaupolės žolynai are portrayed magical. According to one, there was a three-branched plant. Its branches bloomed like sun, moon and stars respectively.

Kaupolė’s daughter Rasa (dew) or Rasytė - goddess of dew, the deity of summer flowers. Her duty is to water the thirsty plants so she is her mother’s helper. Together they walk around the meadows and look after the greenery. Rasa is portrayed making flower crowns and giving them to young girls.

Kaupolė also has a husband Kaupolis who rides on a horse and kidnaps young girls. He looks after the verdure as well but his role is not as important as Kaupolė’s or their daughter’s.

Lithuanians believe that Rasos’ morning dew has healing powers and brings beauty. That is why people roll around dewy meadows and rye fields on Rasos’ morning. It is also believed that the heavier the dew on a rye field the better the harvest.

During Rasos rites are performed for Kaupolės žolynai, water and fire. Some erotic rites are dedicated to the marital life. One of the most important moments is burning of a female idol made of hay which portrays Kaupolė. Through fire her power is released and helps nature to flourish. 
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The sun came up and chased me out of the zinnia patch but I managed a pretty full bucket of pink ones first. (I get hives from sun exposure, which is not pretty, and if it’s not the sun then it’s heat rash from the heat, so I guess I’m crepuscular now.) (at Laughing Earth)
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this is why i don’t use those post title things

it’s meandery but drink has been taken and also i have a lot of eczema/hives/i don’t fuckin’ know. behind the cut i touch upon the life cycles of the noble fowl, and also the Anti-Rent Wars, because why not, it’s like a personal brand at this point. Also, photos.

n) today I drove 20+ miles to drop off a couple dozen of the chickens we processed on Tuesday, at a farmstand run by people who also come to the farmer’s market. They sell two dozen or so of our chickens every two weeks, and are one of our larger bulk buyers. They live the hard life of the farmstand farmer– you need to sell enough stuff all the time that you get a solid enough customer base to buy all your stuff when it’s in season, so that means constantly trying to find things people will come out to you to buy. They’re over in Stephentown, where I’d never been– it’s beautiful but sort of desolate? At least there didn’t seem to be many people. I went through “Stephentown Center” and the speed limit didn’t go down from 55. 

I also went through a place labeled by one of those state-issued green-and-white roadside signs that just said “ALPS” on it in all-caps. So I guess I’ve been to the Alps now. Woohoo! (South/West Rensselaer County, you are weird. I never realized what a Troylette I was until I started hanging out west of Troy. It is a whole different world.) (They had their own mini-Civil War, by the way, two decades ahead of the main thing, and it was not over slavery, it was over feudalism. No, really. Weird trivia fact: New York State outlawed chattel slavery before it outlawed serfdom. I’m not making that a contest or anything, it’s just a point of out-of-context history.) 

n+1) anyhoo immediately following that drop-off, I had Google Maps hie me to the Amtrak station, with a pause for confusion: there’s a closer Amtrak in Pitts…field. I get confused about place names in MA. Pittsfield, MA is 6 miles from Stephentown, while Rensselaer NY is 22 miles, but I figured out I needed to go to Rensselaer. Why, now? 

Well because the guy who runs the hatchery where we get all the farm’s meat poultry from, as it happens, was taking a vacation, and getting on the train to do so, and he’d figured out that the timing was such that he could meet up with us and drop off the latest batch of meat chickens. Wednesday, my brother-in-law had driven all the way out there to pick up the turkey poults, because we do not mail those guys (we did one (1) time and it was so horrifying we try not to speak of it. OK, my sister spoke of it in some detail today for the first time and I wish she hadn’t). Normally we mail the chicken chicks, because it’s just a lot of a drive, but when it’s hot like this it’s not a great prospect. 

So I met this guy, and he looked like he was in a farmer costume, denim overalls and a straw hat, and he handed me a stack of big peeping boxes with holes in them, and I put them into my car next to the empty coolers that had held their grown-up, dead, packaged kinfolks, and drove home with a peeping back seat. 

It’s a lot of travel. But the point of organic farming is not strictly the carbon footprint, or the immediate environmental impact, or the immediate nutritional value. In my experience, anyway, the real point is the return to a sustainable methodology. The nutritional content of our chickens isn’t radically different from that of a Purdue chicken– but the more of us little farmers there are, the more robust the food supply chain is. The hatchery guy, that’s his side business; his main thing is that he raises draft horses. The farmstand people, they specialize in fruit, but they offer all kinds of stuff at the farmstand to draw enough of a customer base to get all their fruit sold. That’s how it works. 

n-1) I turned down a tour of the pig pasture (that sounds dumb, it would have been fun, I haven’t seen those little guys in forever because their pasture is like, as far from the house as you can get, and that’s only partly because they’re a little stinky– really it’s because we rent some land from a neighbor as a favor to him so he gets the tax break, but the tax assessor is suspicious so we have to for real use that land, and so the pigs are over there and not smelling them is just a side benefit) and instead went out and harvested flowers this morning, before the sun hit that particular field. And it was before 8am, mostly, but it was already 80 and climbing, and humid as the inside of someone’s mouth, and so I let the sun chase me across the beds, trying to stay out of it, and I got enormous patches of hives/eczema spreading from the insides of my elbows (eczema) all up my upper arms and down to the backs of my hands (hives) and it’s fascinating but I absolutely can tell where one skin condition ends and the other begins, and I sort of hate that I’m that kind of savant, but I guess it could be worse, it could be my face or something. My legs are untouched, but mosquito-eaten. 

(The photo is not of my rash, but of larkspur flowers, which are my favorite to look at, and very least favorite to harvest. They’re a pain in the ass.)

n+2) in the afternoon, hiving and eczema-sore (it doesn’t itch, it just hurts, ugh) I gave up on flowers or cooking, and went out and used my pot still and distilled half a gallon of… I don’t know what it’s called… from a batch of mead I’d made with honey from the awesome Russian beekeeping mafia. (They’re centered in Cohoes, which is across the river in Albany County, so the honey they give us isn’t necessarily from the hives they keep on the farm, but we figure it’s close enough. They pay rent in honey, and keep their weirdly aggressive Italian honeybees up by the property line where they only bother us occasionally.) It turned out pretty great, but I don’t know what to compare it to or how to describe it. Using a pot still gives you a result that has a lot of the weird flavors from the original mash, and so it looks totally clear but it tastes whiskey-y. It’s got a kind of… fiery taste? And you can tell it was once honey. I think if I were bottling it, I’d cut it with a little bit of honey after i aged it. Fresh, it’s kind of great but I can tell it’d be not to everyone’s taste. (I brought out a glass full of ice and stuck it under the outflow of the still, so that’s how fresh it was.) 

While I waited for the still I did some signpainting. It took me forever, and I got almost no results. Earlier this week a neighbor dropped off some extra chickens he didn’t want in his flock– of course, cockerels, and my sister misheard him, thought he’d said something obscene, and actually clutched at her chest to ask him to repeat himself, which was hilarious– and it occurred to me that I ought to make a sign to go on the Eggmobile that says “Laughing Earth Home For Wayward Cockerels”, because somehow our egg-laying flock keeps winding up with more and more roosters in it. A free-ranging flock like that has more room for roosters than most– the roosters actually do some work besides fucking the hens, they do actually tend to die first in predator attacks, so we don’t mind them as much as we might, but you still don’t need more than 1 rooster per 50 hens or so, and we’re well over that. (You actually can guarantee fertile eggs with 1 rooster for something like a hundred hens, but I don’t like to think too hard about that.) 

But they’re cute roosters– Barred Rocks, or mongrels thereof. They’re still immature; someone here, one of the apprentices or someone, thought they were hens and was confused. No, the neighbor who dropped them off wouldn’t be wrong about it, if he said they were cockerels they surely are. 

But I did not paint that sign, instead i painted a sign for the roadside that says “pork by the piece” and spent the whole time trying not to write “fruit by the foot” instead. {there’s an existing sign that says “preorder pork” and I wanted to differentiate that we now also have pork a la carte instead of by whole or half hog by prior arrangement. you can just pull up and get some pork chops, that’s allowed now. very different state laws and licenses apply, so that hasn’t always been the case.}

oh an n+1) sidenote:

got the boxes back to the farm, went to unload them into the brooder. Sister and Farmbaby helped. As I was carefully taking the chicks out of the boxes one by one (and, mostly, trying to prevent Farmbaby from being needlessly cruel to the chicks; she’s very fond of playing with animals like toys, as is not unexpected for being three, but it means you really have to be vigilant), I noted to myself that some of the chicks were different-looking: they had darker heads, instead of being a uniform pale floofy yellow, and had an extra bump where their combs were going to grow in, and their beaks were shaped differently. But it wasn’t until we were almost done unloading them that I said anything. And what I said was, “oh isn’t that funny, that chick is stuck on its back and can’t flip over, just like the turkeys,” and my sister looked at it, really looked for the first time, and said, “that’s because that’s definitely a turkey.”

See, among other things, turkey poults are neurologically less-developed at hatching than chicken chicks. Chicks mostly can walk and get around and orient themselves. Poults, for their first couple of days, frequently have trouble orienting themselves relative to the earth’s gravity, and if you look in the poult brooder, there will often be two or three or more out of the whole batch who are lying on their backs. Some look dead, but they’ve just fallen asleep like that. They wake up and flail wildly and can’t get up for a while. Some don’t figure it out, and die, and that’s sad but apparently just sort of… how it works. (Righting them doesn’t help; if they can’t stay upright it’s indicative of a deeper problem.) But most of them do figure it out pretty soon, and are okay. They’re more fragile than chicks; they’re cannier than the meat chicks, but have less common sense, and more of them die from things like getting their heads stuck in fences or falling asleep and then having a sibling fall asleep on their head so they can’t breathe and so they just die like that. It’s… weird. 

But anyway. Sister went through gathering up all the chicks that she could tell were Not Chickens (you can’t keep turkeys and chickens together in the long haul, not in significant numbers– chickens can harbor a parasite that doesn’t harm them, but kills turkeys and game fowl, so you can’t even pasture them consecutively except if you do the turkeys first, and chickens second; there’s a whole schedule for it here, and they never occupy the same brooders), and brother-in-law happened by and said, “oh yeah, the hatchery had some extra turkeys hatch, not enough to sell to anybody, and he said he’d throw ‘em in since there was no shipping to worry about, and I totally forgot to tell you, so good on you for noticing.”

It was eight poults, which is not too shabby at all, especially since we’ve already lost four to either not being right in the head or getting slept on too aggressively by siblings. 
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otherearthsoutthere reblogged your post and added:

I’d love to see outfit photos. They sound great. Since the husband has retired and we now live in a tiny cabin on 3+ acres of blackberries, scrub brush and a few trees, I wear mostly holey jeans my youngest son outgrew and t-shirts that are 3 sizes too large. I kind of miss dressing nice and wearing makeup, but I seem to be a walking dirt magnet (this is not really new, I’ve always been this way, but I like to pretend it’s because we moved to bumblef*ck)

I actually joined Tumblr, initially, lo these many years ago, expressly to share outfit photos. Back in the day there was this Fatshion February project that grew out of some LJ community or other… fatshionista, probably! and I think I posted like, three photos, but I still track the tag and see pics pop up once in a while. 

But it turns out it’s wicked hard to take good outfit photos and you have to love yourself more than I apparently do. 
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A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on Jul 20, 2017 at 8:54am PDT

Drove a peeping car back from meeting the hatchery guy. Discovered that baby chicks love flip-flops. Also, alert eyes may note that a couple of these are not chickens. The hatchery gave us some bonus turkey poults! (at Laughing Earth)
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birdybo:

Me: I don’t need to write it down, I’ll remember.Me and my ADHD: *looks at each other* *bursts out laughing* Ahhhhh, good one…..

Follow this up instantly with “… Shit, I was going to write something down.”
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Farmbaby is insincerely and loudly weeping because “nobody will play with me” (she rejected me, and rejected every activity her mother had suggested) while her mother was in the bathroom. Kid, nobody plays boardgames on the toilet. She earlier was furious because her father went and ate breakfast when breakfast was ready, instead of playing a board game she was about to set up in the hallway. She kept moaning from the hallway “I’m so lonely!” while all of us were sitting in the next room eating breakfast. I can tell today is going to be Delightful.
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As promised, here is a Life On The Farm / In The Yurt story, about a woodchuck who had some Regrets. 

It begins as a vignette into life with my family. See, my father, with the help of my mother, is engaged in a years-long project to re-side the front of my sister’s house. It’s a historic house, built in 1825; Mom has already researched enough and is going to sit down and write a book detailing the biographies of every individual who ever lived in it. Anyway, it’s got the original siding on it, and the last coat of paint it ever had applied to it was sometime between 1930 and 1940. There’s been extensive consultation via the county historical society as to what kind of work should be done to preserve the house, etc. My sister and her husband have no say in it and have accepted this. They’re too busy with the farm anyway; they’d slap a coat of paint on it to try to keep it from falling down, maybe, but– no. Dad’s re-siding it, properly, and bringing to bear every bit of his notorious, lifelong perfectionism and attention to detail. It is going to be perfect.

Trust me, I’m getting to the part about the yurt and the woodchuck. 

Anyway. They started that last Saturday. They bought the siding itself ages ago (in case you were wondering, The Most Authentic siding is thousands of dollars, of course), and in the spring, loaded it all up into the attic of the closest outbuilding to the house (the granary), and have been priming every board, front and back, for weeks and weeks and weeks. Hours of work, up in that attic, and now they’re finally starting to actually put it onto the house. And it’s amazing– they haven’t found a modern nail yet, every board on there is original, it hasn’t been touched, it was so well-built that it has endured beautifully for all these years. It’s just a beautiful house, really well-made, inspiringly well-crafted. 

But. The front of the house faces south, and there are no trees, no shade. Perfect for the perennial garden my sister has put in, but. It’s brutally hot now, on sunny days, and my father is 72. He overdid it a little bit on Monday, he felt; he’s trying to be careful with himself, because he’s calculated that he has so much to do that he has to live to 101 like his grandfather, so he’s figuring he’s got to start pacing himself now. So, yesterday was his day to babysit, but he had no real plans for today, and figured he’d take it easy.

So he puttered around, ran some errands, brought over a stepladder for the project, and went and stood out in front of the house for a minute, and then came inside. “Nope,” he said, “too hot.” I had just reached the same conclusion and come inside from harvesting flowers, trying to avoid sun hives. (I didn’t quite succeed, because of the later outdoor activity that transpired below– yes, by the yurt– but they’re not too bad.) 

I had mentioned at some point that I wanted to fix the door frame of my yurt (see! we’re getting there, be patient)– we’d expanded the lattice to make the wall higher, but the door frame that ties it all together was still at the original wall height of 48″. Not ideal. So I said, really I just need four 1x3s that are a little longer than the ones I have, and then we can reuse all the hardware from the existing door frame. And so he said, on this fine, brutally humid, hot July Wednesday, Let’s just go measure and see what size lumber we need, and maybe I’ll wander over to the hardware store later, that’s a good errand for a hot day. So we did. 60″, we decided, would do nicely. 

So he went on about his business, and I went on about mine.

Some hours later he turned up again, to my surprise. “Well,” he said, “I got the lumber, and then I thought of a couple of projects I could do here that wouldn’t be too intensive, and I thought, well, I’ll bring the lumber over. If you’re free, we’ll fix your doorframe, if not, I have half a dozen other things I could work on.”

Well, I had just finished the little project my sister and I had needed to get done right then, and so it happened I was free, so we went out to the yurt.

Now. The doorframe is a lovely, intricate bit of woodworking. But the actual door of the yurt is a flap of canvas. The guy who made my yurt is not into sewing. He’s great at the wood parts, but the canvas parts are sort of… well, utilitarian. And the door flap is not really very… effective. I’ve supplemented it with a shower curtain and a vinyl tablecloth, and I leave it all closed up most of the time. But today, there was an actual 0% chance of precipitation, and so, very unusually, I’d left all that open, and so the only thing blocking my doorway was the gauze curtain I use as a screen door. It hangs just fine and does a great job keeping bugs out. It just is useless against rain, so. 

Anyway. I pick all that apart, all the shit I have tied and clipped and clamped on there to try to make this thing watertight, and I take everything off the doorframe. The problem is that the doorframe is what literally all of the wall’s supports are tied to, and the roof is supported on the walls. It’s all an interlocking series of opposing forces– the roof’s rafters push the lattice wall outward, the ropes/cords/bands tied to the doorframe at top and middle (there are actually a minimum of four bands and each one has a different beautiful name in Mongolian and I don’t know their names, also properly it’s a ger not a yurt by the way) push inward on the lattice, all is beautifully sound and windproof, and it works really really well. But if you remove the doorframe… Well, I carefully tied the belly band to itself across the open space, and we did what we could with the other bands, and it seemed to be holding up okayish. There are three rafters that sit on the top of the doorframe as well, and removing those made the roof ring tilt a little, but it didn’t fall, so I gingerly left it, and we went to work dismantling the door frame.

It’s a great design; my yurt guy camps in his, so he’d worked out a way to make it all completely able to be disassembled, and he’d marked all the corners to make that easy to do. But I’d never done so, and so we had to really work to get it apart, especially since it was damp in a couple places so the wood was swollen and getting the carriage bolts out was just a hassle. Much hammering and thwacking and prying etc ensued, and we got it all done after much longer than we’d expected– probably an hour and a half, all told, to bang this thing into shape. 

So now we have to tie all the supports back into it, and it’s tricky; it doesn’t really want to fit, and we have to do a lot of wiggling.

Well, doesn’t the damn roof ring tilt too much, and the rafters pop out, and the thing falls, right on top of all my stuff. Ugh, I don’t think anything’s broken– and the funniest thing is, there right in the middle is my nightstand, with the cup of water I keep next to the bed, poking up through the open roof ring, and the cup’s not even spilled. I had a good laugh at that, but then we had to figure out how to fix it.

We rolled the canvas partway off the roof, and Dad got in there, and I got in there, and between the two of us we wriggled the roof ring back up into position. The rafters get locked in during the assembly process by having a lace threaded through a hole in the end of each one, so it’s incredibly difficult to pop one back into the roof ring, let alone all twenty-seven or whatever I’ve got. But after much struggle, we manage to get most of the rafters back in, and the roof ring’s supported again, and the thing’s up. Phew.

I kneel on my bed to reach the last three rafters, which had fallen onto the bed. 

There’s suddenly a frantic scrambling sound– hang on, let me explain the layout inside the yurt. It’s tiny, so my bed is basically half the space. I have it against the back wall, opposite the door. One long edge of the bed is up against the wall on that side, and the other long edge is along the middle of the yurt, so that the center hole is above as little of it as possible. (It leaks a lot. I hate rain on my bed.) So my dad is standing in the center of the yurt, directly beside the bed. Right in front of him is my bedside table, centered under the center roof hole. 

There’s a mad scrambling noise, and a whole-ass live adult groundhog shoots out from under the bed, directly past my dad, sprinting like its ass is on fire, and goes straight out the open door. We both stare in shock after it. 

I go and check under the bed– has it gnawed its way in through the wall? has it chewed up through the plywood platform floor? I should mention the yurt’s on a platform at least 12″ off the ground, here, it’s on a platform framed by 2x6s supported up on cinder blocks. 

There’s no sign of anything. This little woodchuck clearly just waltzed its happy ass straight into the yurt– up a step, I might add– through a door– it must have been exploring, and then Dad and I showed up and blocked the doorway and started making a ruckus, and the thing’s been cowering under the damn bed for like an hour and a half including having the roof fall in on it and has not made a damn sound this whole time. But me kneeling up on that bed was just too much. 

I gotta say, I’m really thankful that did not happen at night, because I would have pissed myself. (Actually, just now, a deer just went by, or like, fell down the hill, I really couldn’t tell, it was loud, and that’s unnerving enough.) 

But I bet that thing will think twice before it goes exploring like that again. 

At least it didn’t shit in here. 

Next project, though: A door that latches.
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Finally I got a picture of the completed painting thing I did. It’s just a piece of raw canvas I did up with fabric paint and acrylics, based on maybe the best line out of Harbors of the Sun, which is Pearl’s “Let’s get this travesty started.” 

I didn’t know what to do with it when I finished it, so I took it to the farm and put it up in my yurt, where it fits nicely clipped straight to the khana [lattice wall]. 

First shot is a detail so you can see the painting thing all nice:

And a second context photo (what’s that wooden handle??), but I’ll cut for length.

 In this photo you can see my nice candle holder and also where I’ve dropped the sidewall to make a window (covered in mosquito netting), with a little peek of the twilight forest outside. And, directly under the sign is the handle of the child-size Louisville Slugger that I keep out there because it helps me sleep in a canvas house in the woods by the highway two miles from where they found a murder victim last year. (It remains idyllic, but I like a little peace of mind, you know? Also I just had an encounter with a woodchuck, which I’ll relate separately, so having a long prodding implement also is useful in case of non-human intruders.) 

Anyway. There’s my inspired décor. (I’m not great at decorating. I need me some Arbora to fancy the place up. I gotta tell y’all about my new door, though, and the Woodchuck Incident, because it’s fantastic, but I need better pictures of the door, I was too distracted by the Incident to concentrate on photography.)
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strwrsdaily:

Draven wasn’t wrong to want Galen Erso dead. It would be a righteous killing as well as a practical one, the execution of a man surely responsible for the deaths of countless civilians. Erso’s years inside the Imperial war machine could have no innocent outcome. If killing Erso saved a single life, then that was cause to celebrate—but if not, his assassination was no less justified.

#the person from whom I reblogged this called it ‘morally hot’ #and like - yes#quite apart from any actual shipping#this scene specifically and this relationship generally is charged and compelling and fraught and fascinating with implied history#as well as slightly horrifying in its power dynamics and political dynamics and political power dynamics#someone please tell me the story of how an ex-separatist spy and an ex-space-cia spymaster manage to work hand in glove#in what is clearly an extremely effective professional partnership that requires them both to place a lot of faith in the other’s judgement#look how quickly draven calls off the strike on eadu based on nothing but cassian’s request#look at the wordless intimacy of understanding between them here - no way it’s the first time cassian’s orders have gone off the books#and yet look at the equally clear resentment on cassian’s face#please tell me all about this relationship built on professional trust and woven through with personal suspicion#it is indeed morally hot #spies #davits draven #cassian andor #star wars#rogue one #my separatist feels #gifs

via @chamerionwrites
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Harvest buddy among the sunflowers. This is why we encourage the milkweed! (at Laughing Earth)
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jumpingjacktrash:

adeptus-astarteej:

It’s really depressing how Labor Day has gone from “give laborers a day off” to “give white collar office workers and executives a day off but make retail laborers work so that executives can get a latte on their day off”

‘labor’ meant manufacturing workers, back when labor day started. no one foresaw the service economy.

service workers are getting shafted by everyone, and that includes labor advocates. when wal-mart employees try to unionize and get punished or fired for it, the ‘power to the people’ types just shrug. they’re not digging ditches or assembling cars, so they’re not really The Workers, they’re just some bozos in polyester slacks, right? i mean, if you have to wear a name tag and call people ‘sir’ while they’re screaming at you, you can’t be the noble proletariat we like to put on a pedestal. there must be something wrong with you.

seriously, if you think this attitude only comes from fat cats and soccer moms, think again. labor organizers think pulling lattes isn’t labor. your dockworkers and truck drivers don’t care if some burger flipper is standing at the grill on a broken foot because they have neither sick leave nor health insurance.

you can’t paint a heroic mural of service workers on the side of city hall, because they’re not muscularly straining at machines, and their uniforms look silly.

er. right. so it turns out i am emotional about this issue.
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s-leary:

forestpenguin:

WHY DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A CLIP FROM A “WELCOME TO THE RESISTANCE” INTRO VIDEO

@bomberqueen17!

He’s in the jacket! And it’s mended! AND IT’S MENDED BY THE TECHNIQUE I DESCRIBED. And he’s wearing it to make a video like the one I described!!!

I did not envision him making this video with this kind of presentation though. In retrospect, I should have figured he’d be more upbeat than that.
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aimmyarrowshigh replied to your post: aimmyarrowshigh reblogged your post and added: …

JSYK, none of my comments about the post were @ you, they were at the OP. I guess my bottom line is that the finance parts of any industry are going to be in favor of a legal distribution method, and that a hypothetical about how it’d have to be created if it were created today is fundamentally a different thing than what a library is, and that’s what you’re talking about – something fundamentally NOT a library. The OP’s post was about libraries, specifically, as they .

I get that your comments weren’t @ me, I’m not, like, mad, but unless there was a source link I didn’t see that led back to something radically different than the like, fifteen words of that post, I have to be the one to tell you, since I seem to be tagged in on this, that what you’re responding to is a wonderful passionate thing, but it’s not the original post. You’ve constructed a really interesting and elaborate thing there, and that’s just not. Not what’s in the post. 

Libraries exist, and have done so for a long time, and that’s great. There are industries that exist around libraries, and that’s also fine and complex and lovely.

The point is, no one would have an idea like that now. It would not happen. There are many, many reasons why that would not happen, and many of them are because of complex real-world things, and it’s all kind of nonsense because it’s a hypothetical situation with no supporting worldbuilding going on. To truly consider it, you’d have to make a bunch more stipulations, and that post was like, fifteen words long, so clearly, those weren’t made. 

But I reblogged that post, and I’m not an ignorant idiot for doing so, because it was an excellent, succinct way of summing up an enormous systemic problem that we currently have in our society, which is that:

Good ideas that both do society a lot of good and also allow for lucrative and productive industries to form and sustain themselves marvellously, would never happen now, because our society is decadent and depraved and stupid and greedy and controlled by people who do not have the best interests of anyone but themselves in mind.

It’s wonderful that you’re passionate about the publishing industry and libraries, but that wasn’t what that post is about. If I were in a more robust mood and had more time and energy to learn about it, I’d love to do that. I just felt like I should defend myself, since you seemed so upset about the content of that post. I understand that you didn’t mean to @ me, but I still felt that I should defend the content of my blog.

Again, it’s wonderful that you’re passionate about publishing. But this was a commentary on a hypothetical. We don’t disagree about anything, except that I was in this case willing to use hypotheticals as an argument, and you don’t seem to be. 

But I’m really all set; I’m not feeling well and I’m exhausted and there are gunshots going on right outside my yurt, and so I’m really, really not interested in talking about this. I’m sort of heartbroken and disgusted about the publishing industry as it is; I long dreamed of working in it, but realized as an undergrad that I would never have my shit together enough to do so, so I honestly don’t want to think about it now either. All my dreams are dead, just some of them don’t know it yet. I’m very tired, I hurt very much, and I don’t really want to talk about any of it anymore. 
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oh wow that guy just fired a gun literally twenty feet from the door of my yurt, I was not exactly expecting that! 

oh country living. At least I was forewarned enough to know he wasn’t firing *at* me. But gosh that was loud, I’m glad I wasn’t asleep yet. 
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Someone was left unattended with some markers for a bit today, and made some choices with those markers. Another of today’s choices was the Princess Captain America dress. I can’t really judge; both of those choices were perhaps choices I would also make.

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