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my book is coming out in a month and a half.

http://heartswept.tumblr.com/post/96027493472/assbutt-in-the-garrison-jean-luc-gohard

assbutt-in-the-garrison:

jean-luc-gohard:

castiels-weenie:

jean-luc-gohard:

What fucks me up about the Darren Wilson fundraiser is that he hasn’t been charged with a crime. He doesn’t have to hire a lawyer. He’s on paid leave, so he’s not losing wages. This is not covering…

(Source: hhhtmcnerd, via mamaadweyaashkaa)

walkingintochaos:

thisshitfunny:

thatdudeemu:

queerasfuck88:

Jon Stewart Goes After Fox in Powerful Ferguson Monologue

I been waiting for the daily show to come back so they could cover this

See, Jon Stewart usually does a lot of satirical humour, but at this point, the writers are just like “fuck the comedy this shit is real” and I was so happy to see that they finally covered this, and it was really well done.

(Source: youtube.com, via heartswept)

vintagemanga:

HAYASHI Seiichi (林静一 ), Hakana yume /儚夢.  1978, Japan

(via japaneseaesthetics)

(Source: agenderkaworu)

sabo-art:

So as today is the closing day of my work up at The Spoke Club, i’d like to let y’all know i’m taking commissions, and also working solely out of my studio again! 

Commissions range from 8” x 8” black and white ink, to larger, full-color gouache, ink, and metallic pigment like the ones you see here. Pricing depends on what you want.

If you or anyone you know was interested before and still is, you can contact me! best to email at sabmeynert@gmail.com so we can dialogue. Thanks to everyone for sticking by and those that helped me navigate & were patient. Can’t do this stuff without you. Contrary to my homebody-reality.

<3 <3 <3

sab

mashallah-project:

i could cry endlessly for the anger and sadness i brought back from afghanistan. 
there are mountains in my chest, and when i breathe, blood pumps through the valleys and frosts the peaks with cold hate breath in solidarity with my father’s land. the pain of avalanches cripples me, ripping through my chest cavity and dissolving guts into a severe lack of appetite. my eyes are tired from wetness and my skin drenched. every trail of salt down my limbs is a memory line connecting me to the hopelessness of my people.
1. the cousin who jokes about sometimes just wanting to put a gun to his head because he either gives in to corruption or protects his morality and falls prey to corruption’s deadly hand. 2. the blast outside the us army base killing 8 children excited to greet a missing friend, not knowing his chest was full of mountains of dynamite. 3. widows laying in middle of the street pity pits, too disconnected to beg. 
when i sit in the sun, i can feel salt lines harden into heavy wrinkles and my eyes turn that perfect blend of blue green; an ocean rocking to the blood orange moon.
the moon burns with anger, that every night it rises to illuminate a country naked and scared. sometimes the moon doesn’t rise to blanket my people with night and all they have are the stars in the mountains, flickers of minute long gas lamps to see just enough of what might still be sacred when there is no light. my country is stripped bare and this is why we wear burqas.
we wear them to protect ourselves from the gaze of humans with a front cover poverty complex. to protect the mountains, the weariness of seeking refuge all over the world only to feel phantom pains of land crying dry tears please help. i don’t know how to help other than to empty skull oceans and excavate the mountains in my chest, taking a page from colonizers to hurry toward the secret of flawless civilization myself. self-colonization is the path to peace, but my body knows war now.
i’m thanking the wrinkles in my skin for allowing me to stretch into transforming the anger into reflection, into remembering the inherited mourning of conflict- a place my mother once wore mini-skirts in.
Obscura by Hawa

mashallah-project:

i could cry endlessly for the anger and sadness i brought back from afghanistan. 

there are mountains in my chest, and when i breathe, blood pumps through the valleys and frosts the peaks with cold hate breath in solidarity with my father’s land. the pain of avalanches cripples me, ripping through my chest cavity and dissolving guts into a severe lack of appetite. my eyes are tired from wetness and my skin drenched. every trail of salt down my limbs is a memory line connecting me to the hopelessness of my people.

1. the cousin who jokes about sometimes just wanting to put a gun to his head because he either gives in to corruption or protects his morality and falls prey to corruption’s deadly hand. 

2. the blast outside the us army base killing 8 children excited to greet a missing friend, not knowing his chest was full of mountains of dynamite. 

3. widows laying in middle of the street pity pits, too disconnected to beg. 

when i sit in the sun, i can feel salt lines harden into heavy wrinkles and my eyes turn that perfect blend of blue green; an ocean rocking to the blood orange moon.

the moon burns with anger, that every night it rises to illuminate a country naked and scared. sometimes the moon doesn’t rise to blanket my people with night and all they have are the stars in the mountains, flickers of minute long gas lamps to see just enough of what might still be sacred when there is no light. my country is stripped bare and this is why we wear burqas.

we wear them to protect ourselves from the gaze of humans with a front cover poverty complex. to protect the mountains, the weariness of seeking refuge all over the world only to feel phantom pains of land crying dry tears please help. i don’t know how to help other than to empty skull oceans and excavate the mountains in my chest, taking a page from colonizers to hurry toward the secret of flawless civilization myself. self-colonization is the path to peace, but my body knows war now.

i’m thanking the wrinkles in my skin for allowing me to stretch into transforming the anger into reflection, into remembering the inherited mourning of conflict- a place my mother once wore mini-skirts in.

Obscura by Hawa

setbabiesonfire:

libutron:

Coyamito Agate Pseudomorph | ©Uwe Reier
Rancho Coyamito Norte, Mexico (2013).
Pseudomorphs in agate are quite rare but do occur in nodular agates from various locations, usually as a calcite or aragonite replacement. 

OH WOW

setbabiesonfire:

libutron:

Coyamito Agate Pseudomorph©Uwe Reier

Rancho Coyamito Norte, Mexico (2013).

Pseudomorphs in agate are quite rare but do occur in nodular agates from various locations, usually as a calcite or aragonite replacement. 

OH WOW

(via mineralia)

majiinboo:

  • Do not forget Michael Brown
  • Do not forget how the media dehumanized him and tried to justify his murder
  • Do not forget how peaceful protests were painted as savage riots
  • Do not forget police armed with military grade weapons terrorized and arrested black civilians
  • Do not forget Darren Wilson being awarded over $200,000 in fundraiser donations for murdering an unarmed black child
  • Do not forget that this system was not built to defend us, but to control us
  • Do not forget Ferguson 

(via rosas-sylvestres)