the voice of the voiceless

My job as an ally to other marginalized groups is to shut tf up and spread information I was given by these groups. That’s it. I don’t need to be a “voice for the voiceless.” They’re already screaming at the top of their lungs and I’m here to listen and pass the word.

anonymous asked:

is having a ginormous fat peen a deal breaker for you? yano cuz u short

Anonymous looked up at the sky, not trusting the colour smeared upon the horizon. Horizons could be misleading, they knew. Horizons could convince you it was still daylight, even when the whole of the sky arced above you in a sprawl of midnight. Looking forward was not always enough. Sometimes, you had to look up. 

Directly above Anonymous, the moon cut its teeth into the clouds, drawing blood and bruising the darkness with its waxen light, waning at the edges. It was time. 

They did not have long. The witch had told them, as she reluctantly handed them the bag of herbs, that the spell would only be useful for the minute or so that the moon was at its highest. The minute was upon them. 

Fifty five seconds left. 

Cursing themself for having lost track of time, Anonymous reached into their trouser pocket and pulled out the little drawstring bag. With hands shaking in anticipation, they emptied the contents into the small well they’d dug into the earth all those hours ago, and covered it back over with dirt. Fingers crossed behind their back, they stepped away and waited.

It did not happen immediately. Magic takes time, the witch had said. Magic does not come to you when you ask for it; it comes to you when it’s good and ready. You can cast all the spells you like, scatter all the herbs and make all the offerings, but magic cannot be summoned - only tempted. 

The seconds ticked by, and Anonymous waited.

This had been a long time coming, they reflected. They had waited too long for the taste of power on their lips. They had been too long distant from how it felt to be in control. They had learnt too early their place in the world, and they had too soon come to rue it. The chasm between want and have had grown inexorably bigger since the day they were born, and now they were here. 

The mound of earth did not move. Anonymous thought about the time they had first felt insignificant - the first time they had realised that they stood small in the face of all things - and counted the seconds. 

With ten seconds left before the spell died, the magic came. 

Magic has no face, has no body. It takes no form and it holds no weight. The witch had told Anonymous this herself. Magic simply is; it is because no other word will do, but it is not. It cannot be, and has never been, and yet it is. 

When Anonymous thought about it, it was all rather complicated.

Best, then, not to think at all. Best to give voice to thought and make it speech. 

Anonymous cleared their throat and began. 

“I suppose you’re wondering why I summoned you here - ” 

I was not summoned. 

They flushed, the soundless sound surprising them even though they had been expecting it. Do not fear the voiceless voice, the witch had warned. It speaks, and is silent. The words are only half your own. 

Breathing slowly, they tried again. 

“No, of course not. Sorry. I’m not - I haven’t used magic before.” 

And you still have not. I am not here to be used. Say what you would have, and I will do the same. This is not a service. This is a trade.

“Right. Yes. Sorry.” They inhaled, exhaled. This was the only chance they would have to resolve the conflict that had been the shape of all their life. This was the resolution of aporia; of feeling as though they deserved everything, yet having nothing. Of knowing that they should be free, but being everywhere in chains. Of wanting, and of not having. “I want to feel powerful.” 

In what sense? Power is not all-encompassing. The queen ant is powerful to the workers, but weak to the heel of the boot. What power would you hold? Do you seek to command nations, or to master the arts, or to take another as your own? 

Anonymous considered how best to formulate their response before replying. Precision was key here. The witch had made it clear that magic would grant you what you asked, whether or not it was exactly what you wanted. 

“I’m tired of being silent,” they said eventually. “I’m tired of being unable to say whatever I want. I’m sick to the teeth of thinking all these thoughts - great thoughts, too; thoughts that could topple cities and part seas - and being forced to keep them to myself, all because other people think that their own feelings are more important. Well, what of my feelings? What of feeling inadequate? What of the weight of being told to keep silent? Do they know what that does to a person?”

As they spoke, they could feel their heartbeat rise, pumping and roaring in their ears, in their veins. “Sorry,” they added. “I’m getting carried away. But to answer your question - I want to have the power to speak my mind.”

In all things?

They contemplated it. “Yes. In all things.”

The silence was real for a few moments before it became illusion.

I can help you.

“And will you?” 

Yes. It will require exchange, however.

At these words, Anonymous could hardly contain their excitement. “Anything. I’ll give you anything.” They took their purse out from their other pocket, and held it out towards the mound. “I have money. I have a house, too, but that’s back in town. You mightn’t like it there. My neighbours - ”

I would have your face.

Anonymous faltered. “My what?”

Your face. That is my offer. I will give you unlimited and unprecedented power to speak your mind. All thoughts you have will be given voice, and you will never again be forced to turn away from speaking aloud what you have always been taught to keep silent. In return for this extraordinary power, I would take from you your face, and in so doing I would give myself form and body. You would never again be silent; I would never again be invisible. 

“But wouldn’t I suffer without a face? How would anyone know that it was me who was speaking?” Anonymous asked, wringing their hands around their purse. 

I have named my payment. Now I would name my price. The price of this power is thus: the knowledge that all thoughts you give voice to will be dampened by your lack of face. That everything you ever say to another will be tempered by your lack of identity. That no-one will again know whose thoughts you speak; only that you do speak, and in all things. 

There was nothing for it. They would have to decline. They could not accept these terms. What power came at such a price, after all? What king had ever ruled his country with no name or face? What lover had ever made another theirs with no identity? 

All the times they had been asked to hold their tongue; all the times they had been scolded for speaking their mind; all the times they had uttered the wrong words at the wrong time and had suffered for it: all this had been for nothing. 

Although, Anonymous admitted to themself, the thought did appeal on one front, and one front alone. It was undeniable that a certain freedom was gained by completely giving up one’s identity. After all, who could be held accountable for a deed when the deed was done by one with neither name nor face? Who would they scold when the words that were given were not the words that were wanted? Who would suffer when the things said were not things that people wanted to hear?

Only those who heard them, of course, and not the one who spoke them. 

And immediately, ashamedly, wonderfully, the decision was already made, had perhaps been made years ago. 

“It’s a deal.” 

You agree to the payment and price?

“I do. Take my face, and give me the power I seek.”

The deal is struck.

And then the moon, which had begun to falter at its peak, was suddenly once more at its highest. The minutes had been returned. 

Hand trembling, Anonymous reached up to touch their face, only to find that, of course, there was no face. Where their image had been - the folds of their mouth, the curve of their nose - was now smooth and featureless. There was nothing there at all.

“Are you happy?” came a voice from behind them. 

Anonymous whirled around, and came face to face with their own face, worn by another. “Who are you?” they asked, and a thrill chased up their spine at the realisation that there was no fear behind these words at all. Their voice did not falter. The question was biting, crystalline.

“I am Magic,” replied the impostor, “given form by our deal. Is it to your satisfaction?” It cocked its head inquisitively, Anonymous’ old eyes seeking validation in their new setting, and Anonymous felt powerful. They were looking at their old self - their weaker, voiceless self - and they were free.

Anonymous drew a deep breath in before responding. “is having a ginormous fat peen a deal breaker for you?” they asked.

Magic blinked. “I don’t understand.” 

“yano,” continued Anonymous, “cuz u short.”

“Why are you saying that?” asked Magic, eyes darting left to right in placid uncertainty. “I don’t understand. I gave you what you wanted. You could say anything you wanted, and no-one would ever hold you accountable. You could take a lover with intricately crafted sonnets, bend ears with your scintillating rhetoric, and yet you choose - ”

“is having a ginormous fat peen a deal breaker for you? yano cuz u short,” interjected Anonymous, feeling giddy and drunk with power.

Magic blinked again. “You have the choice of a thousand languages, billions of words - ”

“is having a ginormous fat peen - ”

“Sometimes,” Magic interrupted, “silence is the more powerful weapon after all. I could undo what I have done, but I think it best not to bother. Some people will never learn. I wish you luck with all things, and may you one day find your power useful, for it will not aid you in the pursuit you have chosen.”

With that, Magic was gone, and Anonymous’ face was lost to them forever. Now alone, Anonymous looked gleefully at the small mound of earth that had been their salvation. They thought of all the things they would say tomorrow, and they smiled.

At least, they would have smiled, had they been able.

Far away, Magic rolled its new eyes, and decided to write a sonnet. 

Public Shame

As I mentioned, I recently read Jon Ronson’s book “So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed” and thought it made some very compelling points on the renaissance of public shaming in the age of social media.  I was going to post my highlights, but then I realized I’d highlighted about 30% of the book, so instead:

I wrote down what I thought were some of the key, take-home points the book made, and pulled quotes from the book in no particular order for each of them.  It’s  still a wall of text, but feel free to wade in if you’re interested.

Again, I strongly recommend giving this book a read.

  • Public shaming is often motivated by a belief that one is Doing Good
  • Public shaming is about social conformity
  • Public shaming can make us LESS aware of viewpoints different that our own 
  • Shame works because we are all afraid
  • Shaming others can bring out our own brutality
  • Shame leads to dehumanization and “death of the soul”
  • Shame leads to violence
  • Technology has strange warping effects on how public shaming affects us (and social media shaming can have longer impacts than we expect)
  • There is evidence that “De-shaming” may have more positive outcomes than shaming

quotes from the book supporting each point under the cut. (bolding mine, quotes by paragraph and in no particular order)

Keep reading

Communication Skills n. /kəˌmjuː.nɪˈkeɪ.ʃən skɪlz/

The ability to convey information to another effectively and efficiently.

Example: 

- saying “They’re my ISU-approved anxiety meds, not steroids, you idiot!” and sparing hundreds of fanfiction readers the screaming, crying, hyperventilating and curling together in a ball in the floor.

I feel an obligation to use my voice to speak up for those who are voiceless. It just so happens that my voice is able to reach a larger audience because of the fact that I have a public profile. If that were something that I thought was worthy of criticism or cynicism, then perhaps it would bother me that there are people out there who look to belittle or demonize those who are trying—in some small way—to help. - Cate Blanchett June 2017 issue

This new advertisement from Warner Brothers makes me think that they weren’t happy with the idea of fridging Dinah Laurel Lance/Black Canary either. Looks like Guggentroll and Mericlown were all alone in their stupidity.

morning is broken //

i feel your
touch on me when i
stop concentrating or when i
concentrate too hard, it’s a bind.
some nights if i’m not
sufficiently insulated i wake
to your hands
clawing at my flanks or my
shoulders or all the places i
never managed to stop you
annexing, but the
3a.m. cold sweats and
night terrors have nothing

on the 10a.m. you that’s
scorched onto my eyelids - the
palinoptic you that’s the daily
grit under my skin,
that no amount of bleach or
boiling water seems to shift.
10a.m. you glues me
to the ground, takes my eyes
my lungs my legs my
tongue in the name
of a walk through the past;

10a.m. you comes
from nowhere, blindsides me;
amygdala-sharpened bolts
from the blue, bruised years
between then and now,
from before i stumbled to the
crushing remembrance

that you
are what’s wrong.

-h.b.

3

Families of Terence Crutcher, Walter Scott speak out ahead of of police-shooting trials

  • Tiffany Crutcher, the twin sister of Terence Crutcher, a black man gunned down by Tulsa, Oklahoma, police Officer Betty Shelby in September, said  her family has a singular focus as the officer goes to trial in early May.
  • “Our mission is to, on May 8, as we start this trial, make sure we get a conviction in Tulsa, Oklahoma,” Crutcher said Wednesday during a panel of families touched by police and vigilante violence.
  •  Crutcher said she recognizes how rare it is for officers to be charged in shooting, particularly when the victim is black.
  • “That right there says a lot,” Crutcher told the gathering of more than 200. “So we’re going to fight for a conviction. We’re going to be a voice for the voiceless.” Read more (4/27/17 10 AM)

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Emory Douglas: The Art of The Black Panthers (2015) — Dress Code

Emory Douglas was the Revolutionary Artist and Minister of Culture for the Black Panther Party. Through archival footage and conversations with Emory we share his story, alongside the rise and fall of the Panthers. He used his art as a weapon in the Black Panther Party’s struggle for civil rights and today Emory continues to give a voice to the voiceless. His art and what The Panthers fought for are still as relevant as ever.

play dead //

it didn’t hurt
at the time
or maybe it
did but maybe
the memory is
more than you
can stand today..

it didn’t hurt
at the time or
maybe it did and
you just weren’t
really there to
feel it; that way
you have of
walling off your
soul inside -
vacating the
vessel so at
least for a while
only the places
where he sullied
your body really
feel it.

it didn’t hurt
at the time or
maybe it did and
maybe all the
ways you’ve hurt
yourself since are
all just echoes of
the time when
it hurt and you
had to be
numb just to
survive..

-h.b.

mrodofficialThis crazy ride began in 2001 to see the people from all walks of life world wide, especially in China receive us with so much love let’s me know that entering the side door into Hollywood action films is all worth it because we give a voice a stage and a dream machine to the voiceless. I hope we go to China with this franchise soon & thank them properly for their love & support. Mad love to the whole cast & to all the die hard fans Thank you every ticket is a vote for diversity.

Giant: Ch. 8

Previously on Giant

Honey, when you kill the lights, and kiss my eyes
I feel like a person for a moment of my life

The dream ended, in a way. The balcony door opened, and Kara walked out, giving Lena another kiss before taking off and rejoining the world. It was probably the scariest moment of her life, she realized, because suddenly the future was very unfamiliar, and she found herself with very high hopes. The last time she had those pesky things, was a lifetime ago, when she was just seventeen and in love with a girl who smiled like a summer noon, who laughed at Lena’s silly ideas and dreams, who cried when she was happy because it was too much to contain. And now hope was back in her, and Lena didn’t know what to do with it.

Keep reading

A Voice for the Voiceless: The Legacy of Ida B. Wells

Photo: Ida B. Wells Barnett, in a photograph by Mary Garrity from c. 1893.

Ida Bell Wells was born into slavery in 1862 and emancipated by the Union Army six months later. She leaves behind a legacy as a voice for the voiceless, as one of our nation’s foremost critics of a racial injustice and a journalistic champion of the truth.  

Her family was very active during the Reconstruction period and members of the Republican Party. Her father, James Wells helped to found Shaw University in North Carolina. After a tragic illness, Wells lost her parents and moved to Memphis, TN. She began her career in activism early as a student at Fisk University.

 In 1884, after refusing to give up her seat on a train to a white patron, she was forcibly removed and later sued the railroad. She initially won a $500 settlement, but the ruling was overturned by the Tennessee Supreme Court. 

This was her “aha” moment where she began her one woman crusade for injustice. Wells turned to writing and began chronicling issues of race and politics in the Deep South. Under the name “lola,” Wells became a leading voice on issues of racial injustice and eventually owned three newspapers including;  Memphis Free Speech, Headlight and the Free Speech.

In addition to her civil rights work, Wells also worked as a teacher in a segregated school. Her work there led her to attack the system of segregation and her vocal displeasure eventually got her fired. 

However, it was the deaths of Tom Moss, Calvin McDowell and Will Stewart—three African American business owners in Memphis—that ignited her charge to take on lynching. Moss, McDowell and Stewart were killed after they opened a grocery store that directly competed with a white-owned store and drove business away. 

“Our country’s national crime is lynching. It is not the creature of an hour, the sudden outburst of uncontrolled fury, or the unspeakable brutality of an insane mob.” —Ida B. Wells

Photo: Ida B. Wells (author), Southern Horrors: Lynch Law in All Its Phases, book cover, 1892.

In response, Wells traveled the South gathering records of lynchings and wrote  “Southern Horrors: Lynch Laws in All its Phases” in 1892. Her reports outraged southern whites and she was never able to return to Memphis. The next year she published “A Red Record,” a personal reflection on the lynching crisis and spoke around the world about the atrocities going on in the United States. 

Segregation remained a cause close to her heart and Wells authored a response to the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition decision to ban black exhibitors. 

She wrote: 

“The exhibit of the progress made by a race in 25 years of freedom as against 250 years of slavery, would have been the greatest tribute to the greatness and progressiveness of American institutions which could have been shown the world. The colored people of this great Republic number eight millions – more than one-tenth the whole population of the United States.” Ida B. Wells,  “The Reason Why the Colored American Is Represented in the World’s Columbian Exposition.”

In 1898 she took her anti-lynching campaign all the way to the White House, urging President William McKinley to act to save black lives. Although several bills would be introduced, the United States has never explicitly outlawed lynching. 

Photo: This is a flyer created by the NAACP in 1922 to raise awareness about the lynching epidemic that was occurring and the proposed Dyer anti-lynching bill.

Tupac Shakur with Chi Modu

Over the years, people have always said that my images of Tupac let them see a side of him beyond the Thug Life image, more about the human being. Before he was loved by the world, he was a young man trying to make his way in a society that is extremely cruel to the less fortunate. He made it his mission to speak for those in his community who needed to hear “keep your head up!” As I travel the globe, I’m amazed at how many people have told me that Tupac saved their lives. His words and passion inspired a generation, and these pictures that we created together help to keep that inspiration alive.

It’s always sad when people die young, but if you leave behind the kind of legacy that Tupac did, you never actually die. You remain forever in the hearts and minds of people for generations to come. I knew that about him when we first spent time together in Atlanta, Georgia back in 1994. We both knew the importance of images and we set out to do a thorough job, not knowing what the future would hold. He died two years after that meeting in Atlanta, but his words and these images are all part of his lasting legacy.

When I met him on location in Atlanta in ’94 he was quite cooperative and a really nice guy. It was a shoot for The Source magazine, and he arrived early. Tupac was the ultimate professional, and he respected my time and my skills. The public might not know that about him. They think he was just this crazy guy who had no real limits, but he completely understood who he was, and if he understood what you brought to the table, he was easy to deal with. In fact, we got along great. I think a lot of people want to buy into the ‘thug life’ image and the younger side of him, because he was still a young man. Let’s be clear, you kind of forget the ages of these folks. To be so prolific and so young, and have so much power — it’s hard to imagine

Even with all the childishness — which I believe was age appropriate in a lot of ways—when you throw power and money in there, even with all that, he had a lot of care and love for his community and for the less fortunate. He always spoke on behalf of black people who were struggling.

Even though he wrote songs that many would consider typical hip-hop party music, he also included a lot of black empowerment in his lyrics — “Brenda’s Got a Baby,” “Dear Mama” — which I believe is why women liked him. They loved him because he was real and he cared. We knew the silly side of him too, but who isn’t silly at the age of twenty five? So that never surprised me when he did the zany stuff. He was young and full of power in a world that’s biased against blacks, so what do you expect?

Normally when I would see Tupac, I would always think of him being on blast — excited and moving at a hundred miles an hour. But when I first met him he wasn’t really like that. It’s funny how everyone always thinks about Tupac and the ladies, but I never really saw him chasing women that much. He was much more focused on his mission. I think that’s what made him stand out so much from his peers. Because while everybody was partying, this man was trying to make sure he created his legacy. And so here we are decades later talking about the man as if he’s still around. I don’t think you can take lightly the fact that this is two decades later and we’re still talking about this man.

After we finished his first Source cover shoot in Atlanta, we went back to his home in Stone Mountain, GA to hang out. He called me aside and showed me his entire gun collection in his bedroom—all his AKs, banana clips, Glocks, everything. Then he moved a picture on the wall in his bedroom, revealing a bullet hole. This was from when he fired a shot in his bedroom because he was on probation and prohibited from going to the firing range. We all laughed afterwards.

We would’ve all been in our 40s together, but he never got to his 40s, he didn’t even see his 30s with us. So that’s quite a body of work and experience that he put in during his short time on this Earth.

He was one of the few stars who could cross over without compromising his roots. Tupac wasn’t going to compromise, that wasn’t him, but Versace still wanted to use him for their campaign. It’s funny when I see rappers trying to do that sort of thing. I think when you start to move in those commercial circles they make you change yourself to fit. You lose your authenticity, but Tupac wouldn’t allow that of himself. He took the streets with him wherever he went.

The portrait shots of Tupac, like the one that’s on the cover of the book, were actually done with a 4x5 camera, which is a view camera. It’s the camera where you put the curtain over your head to focus. It’s large format. It sits on a tripod, and you put the film in, come out from behind the camera, you click it, then you switch the film. Kind of like the old style cameras. At that session in Atlanta, I photographed Tupac with my 4x5 with no assistant. It was just me and his people. When you shoot using a 4x5 you’re really very close to the subject. I was no more than three or four feet from him. I’m there but the gap between us is the camera, even though I’m right there with them. When you’re that close to someone frame after frame, that’s really how they get to know you. You’re almost breathing on each other, and I’m telling him, ‘Lift your head, bring your eyes down.’ I’m giving him instructions so he can look better.

Once you spend hours with someone like that, you know them forever. I’m looking at every pore on your face. I’m on your team. In doing that first photo shoot in 4x5, I think that’s what made Tupac so comfortable with me because I was looking in his eyes, he was looking in mine at the same time, and real recognizes real. Once we got to that place we were cool. He gave me pictures he didn’t give anybody else and he said, ‘These are for you, Chi.’

Everybody knows the Thug Life Tupac, and we know that well. But they don’t know the Tupac in the quiet moments. Like that picture of him tying his bandana over his head, the profile shot. That’s an outtake. He was fixing his bandana with a cigarette in his mouth but he was relaxed enough around me where I could just photograph him.

As a result you see a picture of a much more gentle Tupac. For me gentle and soft are not the same thing. Tupac was gentle but you wouldn’t dare step to him. He was prepared to take it where it needed to go. He wasn’t afraid. That’s who he was to me, and we got along from the first time we met. We were cool, so I got access to him that no one else could get.

Tupac wanted me to shoot his album Me Against the World, he told me to get in touch with the art director in New York. By the time I went there to meet, they had already given the assignment to someone else. What’s funny is I had already taken what would later become the most iconic imagery of Tupac. So when you look at the more famous portraits of Tupac like him tying his bandanna and the Rolling Stone cover, I had already created those pictures before I went to meet the art director to discuss the album. No one knew at the time that the photos I took of him would be the images people remember and not the ones they used on the album. In a way you end up getting your justice if you wait long enough

When I set out to take these photographs I knew they were important. I wanted to make sure the images stayed within the community. I wanted to make sure the person who created them was from the community. Historically that never really happens. Most of the visuals of the greats are owned and controlled by other people. That’s tricky because then they can put their interpretation on it. But when you look at my photographs, I’m there with them. I’m one of them even though I’m an observer. I was close enough to live it and I had the skills to document and record it.

I had four sessions with him, and since we were close he let me in close. It’s friends hanging out with friends and there just happened to be a camera present. You can see the closeness and the warmth because I didn’t really look at my subjects as just celebrities. I saw them as young black guys like me. It allowed me to get closer and it allowed them to be comfortable and just be who they were. I offered no judgment. I was just there to document and make people look good.

Even though I was the creator of these images, I’ve always felt more like the caretaker of them, because he was the world’s Tupac, not just my photo subject. He burned bright when he was here and his flame continues to glow. Thank you for being the voice of the voiceless, Tupac. Rest in peace, brother.

Excerpted from Tupac Shakur: Uncategorized by Chi Modu, a 200-page hardcover book featuring over 100 powerful images of Tupac Shakur.

Headcanon: Lee Jordan and wandless magic

Little Lee:
His young magic is influenced by his emotions. His comfort with magic is a problem. He tries floating his juice in front of his muggle cousins, but his Mum catches him before her family notices. Later,he’s an excitable, talkative, little thing who keeps trying to liberate his parents’ brooms from the closet.
Hogwarts Lee:
There’s far too much to do between socializing, plotting with the twins, Quidditch and avoiding whatever is trying to kill people this year to bother with studying up on wandless magic.
Post-Hogwarts:
He has more time and a world of possibility, but his new interest in wandless magic is more about impressing the person who has stolen his heart.
Second Wizarding War:
He wishes he had delved more into wandless magic when dark magic and smoke and rubble-dust mix in his throat and he’s gasping for breath,and his wand lies just beyond his bloodied, scraping fingers.
Post War:
He can’t speak the real reason he’s not keen on the movie his muggle cousins pick. It’s his welcome home party and his new flat. He can’t leave.
He’s fine.
He is.
He is until the final act has smoke and fire, rubble, and blood–
The television screen cracks, sparks fly, and it starts to smoke.
Lee’s parents glance his way and frown.
Lee isn’t two years old and accidents like this shouldn’t happen. He makes his own excuses. He loudly complains about slick salesmen and wonders if exploding television sets are covered under manufacturer’s warranty.

His work is righting wrongs, giving voice to the voiceless in peace-time as he had in war-time.This is what the public sees of Lee Jordan. For now.
When the taste of smoke and stone and blood has faded from his tongue, he’ll speak of what once silenced him,too.

But not yet. Now, he works at wandless magic to focus his mind, to steel himself against other threats if there is ever a need, to reclaim his own power,and to heal.

moving home //

in life as on trails,
ascension is not effortless -
i come down easier, we all
come down easy, the comfort
of gravity maybe or the lure
of the low, i don’t know which.
but when i reach the dizzy heights
the hills come not alive themselves but
bring me to it - whole for once
and integrated - chasing down horizons, momentum makes
sense of me, feels a kind of home these days, and the thought occurs - I don’t
run just because i can, but more,
i run therefore i am..

-h.b.

Why Polish orthography is important? #1

Originally posted by misterrickletheficklepickle

  • krzyk m - scream
  • kszyk m - snipe (a bird)

When you say them aloud, it turns out that these words are pronounced in the same way. Why is that? It’s because of so called progressive devoicing - a voiced consonant becomes voiceless. When the voiced consonant [rz] is placed after the voiceless one [k], its pronunciation changes. That’s why in both cases you hear [š] ([sz]) instead of [ž] ([rz]).

Examples:
Słyszałem krzyk!
I’ve heard a scream!

Kszyk to niewielki ptak.
Snipe is a little bird.