This morning at a yard sale I met an older woman clearing out her home, with her daughter and granddaughter helping.
We talked about her Chilean father working for a copper company and she passed on to me three little pieces he had given her, handmade. Her daughter laughed about being made to polish them as as a kid.
Life is short. Things outlive us.
Yesterday for reasons I was driving on a highway for an hour with no company or car sound possible, nothing but thought.
Which turned out to be “this moment”, over and over. Late afternoon light, a time that passed, and me, a bundle of cells capable of thought, thinking “this moment”.
Today my daughter asked what the value is in living and I realised it’s just this: we have all met each other in this moment. Bundles of cells, capable of communication. Extraordinary.
#Creativity is a self-filling pitcher. No matter how often we pour our ideas onto the page, the blog, the fediverse, new ones or, at least, provoking variations fill the temporary void.
As a corollary, avoiding the step of pouring out the ideas can have the effect of merely bottling and capping the output, trapping the creative process itself.
Moral: Don't hold it in. Pour your ideas freely. Who cares if nobody else cares! And there's a chance someone will make something useful in the end!
I reject the idea that wanting everyone to have acceptable healthcare is somehow "becoming radicalized".
We should be asking instead what happened to those to not want universal healthcare. What kind of trauma damaged their ability to empathize?
When did you become radicalized by the U.S. health care non-system?
So my daughter has bought a large neon sign that says GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS from the local junk yard. Apparently it was in a Jackie Chan movie. She says it’s part of her long term plan to open a bar for introverts and quiet lesbians.
Meanwhile our house is bathed in its pink and orange glow and we are all pretty happy about this.
I want to introduce a new hashtag, meant for small acts of direct action you spot in your community: #OurStreets. It could be graffiti, stickers, supplies left for your houseless neighbors, hostile architecture being dismantled - whatever, as long as you're *not* the one who did it
And to kick it off, let me introduce you to the building formerly known as Walli's Market. I don't know much about this place other than what it says on the signs (it was a convenience store in the middle of a neighborhood) - it's been in this state as long as I've lived here. It doesn't appear to have been broken into at any point
Outside is the biggest community library I've ever seen plus a smattering of stickers, including these huge art pieces on the outside of the windows (I don't like the conflation of empathy with kindness, it's a bit of an ableist microagression, but I appreciate the sentiment)
I wish I could meet whoever made this their pet project, because this is really inspiring
6am, driving home through the small town I’ve lived in for 25 years as the sun comes up, the lights are on at the bakery, the newsagent has rolled up her shutters, the surfers are sitting on milk crates outside the coffee shop. I never expected to live here.
For anyone interested in #photography #teaching or the travelling life of a slightly eccentric genius type... the documentary about Bill Jay that I did the music for has just been put on Youtube so everyone can see it. (yay!) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wd47549knOU
Each season, the outline on the grass gets fainter. I can still see it from the window. Still run my fingers over the time-worn dirt spot where the batter's box used to be. I remember the near-whistle whoosh of bat smacking ball as it went soaring into the trees. The shouts. This is where all three boys played whiffle ball for hours. Only the youngest lives here now, and the diamond fades. Childhood fades, too. Funny how a patch on the grass holds faint echo memories like that. #smallstories
32000 years ago, during the last ice age, an Arctic ground squirrel was gathering food, which it took back to its burrow. That squirrel never ate all of the fruit and seeds it stashed, and so they stayed there, buried under the Arctic permafrost. Forgotten.
Until the squirrel's ancient home was discovered by a group of Russian scientists. The research team managed to grow 36 plants from those ancient seeds. Here's one of them – an ancient type of campion (Silene stenophylla).
I'm staying in the new home that my aunt has moved into, after 30 years of being married to my uncle, and 10 years grieving his passing. We are stepping over packing boxes and placing furniture and photographs. We still refer to his things as his -- his chair, his side table. And my mother, his sister, is here in spirit too, in photographs and little things she left my aunt.
Outside the window a cherry tree is in full blossom, and it's seen more than our lives.
The thing is, astronomy research has no inherent profit in it. The work astronomers do can (and often does) eventually have a strong impact on human technology and society but, at the time the scientists are still doing it? Not really.
Astronomy research is not done for profit and frequently involves collaborations which straight up ignore national borders and political matters, focusing on acquiring knowledge and sharing it freely.
Honestly, capitalists hate it.
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