crying for the march of humanity

jade.tailor: What a day this has been. As I take my last few steps of the march I find myself crying. Crying tears of joy, tears of gratitude and tears of appreciate. Not only to have witnessed such a momentous occasion and historic moment, but for everyone who showed up to take a stand for equality. I am beyond grateful to have marched along side this one @christinapascucci and the over half a million humans taking a stand for women, equality and human rights. #womenmarchonwashington#whyimarch #historyismade #womensrightsarehumanrights #equality#love #revolution

Originally posted by lily-blum

A/N: I made the soldier a human one from BotFA because I really don’t think that any elf who valued his life would do that.

Imagine being Thranduil’s pregnant wife and a soldier gets rough and grabs your arm, making you cry out in pain and Thranduil gets extremely mad.

——— Request for anon ———

You hadn’t even realized you’d angered him until he gripped your arm, “The battlefield’s no place for a pregnant woman! Stay out of the way, wench!” The soldier’s grip tightened as he tugged you forward, pushing you to the side when you cried out. Your pained squeal had made Thranduil’s head snap in your direction, eyes filled with worry which morphed into anger when he realized the cause of the sound.

“You dare lay hand on my queen?” he growled, marching over to the human who began to realize his mistake, and just who you were. Thranduil drew his blade, pointing it at the cowering man, “I will have it for that.”

No more the desire-life

No more the desire-life, no more. The lure of yesterday’s desire-life has sunk into meaningless insignificance today. Aspiration, the real reality of the seeker in me, begins to triumph today. Aspiration, my heart’s inner cry, is hastening the arrival of my Beloved Supreme. From now on, I shall always remain devoted to my life within. From now on, my body shall sing and sing, my vital shall smile and smile, my mind shall fly and fly, my heart shall dive and dive, my soul shall spread and spread. No difficulty, no sorrow, no worry, no anxiety will be able to assail me. I shall not fall. I shall not stumble. Onward I shall march. Mine will be the life of the eternal journey, the journey that has neither beginning nor end. This is the ever-transcending journey, the journey that beckons humanity’s cry and Divinity’s Smile.

The teeming troubles and tribulations of the past are no more. I am in front of an unhorizoned reality. Now, at every moment, unceasing opportunities are looming large. I shall avail myself of all these opportunities. From now on, my life of surrender to God’s Will will be my infallible guide. My life of devotion to my Beloved Supreme will be the supreme feast to satisfy my hunger of millennia.

My selfless love of God shall transform the dwarf-seeker in me into a spiritual giant. I shall become a devoted, faithful, soulful, unreserved and unconditional instrument of my Beloved Supreme. To manifest Him in His own Way my soul-bird flew down into the earth-arena. Now I have become one with my soul’s promise. My soul’s promise and my life of love, devotion and surrender will fulfil our Beloved Supreme throughout the length and breadth of the world.

Sri Chinmoy, The eternal journey

Don't hug me I'm still crying over mcr

What’s your favorite idea? Mine is my chemical romance

San Francisco: Love on Haight

uncredited writer, Time, 10 March 1967

The Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco is not so much a neighborhood as a state of mindlessness. The Erewhon of America’s “pot left,” a 10-by-15 block midtown section, has over the past year become the center of a new utopianism, compounded of drugs and dreams, free love and LSD. It is a far cry from the original Utopia, envisioned some 400 years ago by Sir Thomas More, whose denizens demanded six hours of work each day: the 7,000 mind-blown residents of San Francisco’s “Psychedelphia” demand a zero-hour day and free freak-outs for all.

Speed & Acid. Utopia on the Bay is bounded at one end by the greenery of Golden Gate Park, split down the middle by the fragrant eucalyptus trees of “The Panhandle.” Tourist buses have already made The Haight-Ashbury (its residents insist on the definite article) a regular stop. Down the center of Psychedelphia runs Haight Street (which hippies hope to have renamed “Love Street”); the region itself—once the residence of such formidable families as the silver-mining Floods and the couture-vending Magnins—is studded with steamboat-Gothic mansions and psychedelic gathering places like the “I and Thou” coffee shop and the “Print Mint.” Its inhabitants wear everything from Elizabethan motley to Judean beards. They preach every gospel from the 19th century socialism of France’s Charles Fourier to the all-purpose caritas of St. Francis. Most of them—perhaps 80%—are steadily high on drugs ranging from LSD to such synthetic stimulants as Methedrine, Dexedrine and Benzedrine, which are known collectively as “speed.” Gaudily painted trucks and buses thread with somnambulatory leisure through The Haight-Ashbury’s sunny streets like evocations of an acid dream; the sickly scent of incense fills the air to mask the reek of marijuana.

Strollers wear jingle bells at their ankles, beads or flowers at their throats, and strum guitars or tootle flutes. It is not rare to see a Haight Street hippie put a dime in a parking meter, then flake out along the curb for a legal dose of sun tan. Wall posters, in the style of China’s Red Guard movement, abound—most of them signed “Love” or “Peace” and bearing such timeless messages as “Gypsy come home—your mother is pushed out of shape.”

Illogical Extension. The Haight-Ashbury is an illogical extension of such 1950-style scenes as Los Angeles’ Venice West, New York’s South Village, and San Francisco’s own North Beach, where the beats of the Kerouac-Ferlinghetti-Ginsberg generation gathered in delicious despair. What has been added is a vague sense of mission, drawn from the ideals of the New Left and the new lotus-eaters. Central to that new theme are “The Diggers,” who run a sort of psychedelic soup kitchen providing free chow to hungry hippies.

Led by a pug-nosed Irish-American named Emmett Grogan, 23, The Diggers beg leftovers and handouts from nearby restaurants, butcher shops and groceries, rumble around in a rainbow-painted truck dispensing stew and sympathy. “The whole idea is love,” explains Digger Leonard Sussman, 23, who recently quit an insurance job in New Jersey to join the love-Haight mission. “We have a farm in Mendocino given to us by a friend where we’ll grow food,” he explains, “and other Diggers will go to Chile or Mexico to grow marijuana in the backyard.”

Getting Together. Not that The Haight-Ashbury Utopia needs any new source of supply. Narcotics arrests in the district last year more than trebled (from 148 in 1965 to 485 in 1966). A “lid” (22 grams) of marijuana sells for $10 (v. $25 in New York City) and a 100 microgram “tab” of LSD can be had for $4. Some pot peddlers even pass out supermarket-style trading stamps with each purchase. Apart from narcotics arrests, however, the crime rate shows no drastic escalation. During a January “Human Be-In” at Golden Gate Park, 10,000 hippies turned out to sing folk-rock songs, watch a psychedelic parachutist descend from a “high trip,” and listen to Hindu prayers by Sometime Guru Allen Ginsberg, who has survived the transition from beat to hip. Even members of Hell’s Angels, the roughknuckled, leather-jacketed motorcyclists in Nazi drag, turned up to turn on: some were seen holding lost children or gently shaking tambourines. Not a single fight marred the Be-In, and as the sun went down (to the sullen wail of Ginsberg blowing a conch shell), the forgathered hippies quietly cleared every bit of litter from the park. Officials later said that they had never seen so large a crowd leave so clean a field.

Reaction to the New Utopia among “straight” San Franciscans has been remarkably bland. “They only steal if they’re hungry,” shrugs one Haight Street grocer. “I’d do the same.” One of the district’s most sympathetic observers is the Rev. Leon Harris, 60, pastor of The Haight-Ashbury’s All Saints’ Episcopal Church, whose favorite anecdote concerns a stuffy woman parishioner who came in to complain of the New Utopians. Says Harris: “I told her to take a careful look at the church windows. She gasped when she realized that the saints, too, wore beards and sandals.”

upside to sharing the same birthday as u.kyo: march 3rd is officially the sweetest day in existence for the sweetest cinnamon roll to ever cinnamon wow i am a Blessed human being

downside to sharing the same birthday as u.kyo: i still have asks from march 3rd in my inbox bc i had to do irl birthday things that day and i never got around to answering them JHBERJGHBEJHRBG


Happy Birthday Xavi!  March 20, 1989 Québec, Canada
[women] are the people i want to talk about, they’re the people i want to protect, they’re the people i want to put in my movies and see fail or win. as a writer, as a human being, and as a young man, it’s easier for me to express my anger, to ask questions, to seek answers, to talk, to cry as a woman in a movie. i connect with those figures more than i connect with men. men are born privileged in the scale of things - i’m generalizing, but it’s true. women have to define themselves in the eyes of men. they have to fight for their rights, especially in a society that will pretend that there is no fight or no battle, that it’s a cliche, that feminists are reactionary, all these things. as a young man who struggled to find his identity and to find his place, i relate to that quest for belonging in society. with mothers, especially, with their flaws, the way they have made huge sacrifices in order to be good moms or just moms. they probably sacrificed a part of their career, they sacrificed some desires, some dreams. i cannot relate, but i love to talk about it.
—xavier dolan for interview magazine 


March 16th: Sequel Please

The Old Kingdom series by Garth Nix

There is a part of him that says:

  1. You are not a human.
  2. You do not feel.
  3. If it hurts, ignore it.
  4. If it is gentle, break it.
  5. You are not a human.
  6. You do not feel.
  7. If you hurt, ignore it.
  8. If you are gentle, you will be broken.
  9. You are a machine.
  10. You march.
  11. You pull the trigger.
  12. You pull the trigger.
  13. You pull the trigger.
  14. You do not cry. You do not fall to your knees. You do not feel fear, like a knife-blade, push its cold self into your heart. You do not kneel beside one of your squad mates when he falls. You do not feel your eyes catch on the shudder of his white-plated arm. You do not see his white fingertips smeared with blood. You do not wish you could tell him I’m sorry. You do not stagger toward the huddled group of villagers and look in their eyes and see the burning village and the blood and the dust and the black oily smoke reflected back, and more than that: fear, you see fear in their eyes, it is unmistakable and brutal, and here is the worst part, the worst part, the worst part: it is identical to your own. But how could that be? How could that be? You have tried so hard, for so long, to not be afraid. How could you have failed so completely.