unworking

My great grandmother lived in Armenia when the Armenian genocide happened in 1915. She was actually orphaned into a family since she had been separated from her own during the genocide. She cleaned and cooked and worked in that home. She had three brothers, two of them were killed in the genocide by turks. Her last brother alive had found her home and he would come to her home everyday. He would call her name from outside of the house, to see his sister.  And everyday he would beg and cry and plead that she take him in, but the family that she had been orphaned into didn’t want him because he had nothing to provide for them. She was doing all work around the house, and he didn’t know how to cook so he was unworkable and useless. But one day he stopped coming to her house and she never found out what happened to him. She didn’t see her brother again. My great grandmother was the only one in her family who had survived the Armenian genocide and it’s just crazy to think that if she had been killed that I wouldn’t be here, or my family wouldn’t be here, or whatever is left of Armenia wouldn’t even be here.

…J'avais déjà absorbé beaucoup de vin. Je demandai à X. de lire dans le livre que je traînais avec moi un passage et il l'a lu à haute voix (personne à ma connaissance ne lit avec plus de dure simplicité, avec plus de grandeur passionnée que lui). J'étais trop ivre et ne me rappelle plus exactement le passage. Lui-même avait bu autant que moi. Ce serait une erreur de penser qu'une telle lecture faite par des hommes pris de boisson n'est qu'un paradoxe provocant. Tout ce que je puis dire de plus vrai au sujet de X., c'est qu'il [raturé] au moment de ma vie [raturé]. Je crois que nous sommes unis en ceci que nous sommes l'un et l'autre ouverts sans défense — par tentation — a des forces de destruction, mais non comme des audacieux, comme des enfants que n'abandonne jamais une lâche naïveté,
—  Georges Bataille, Oeuvres Completes, Tome V, p. 497-8
youtube

WISDOM TEETH video, by Maria Cecilia

Taken from the upcoming TOURISTS EP cassette, out 1st May via Unwork Records: http://unworkrecords.bigcartel.com/product/feature-slowcoaches-tourists-pre-order

anonymous asked:

Communists on here who loathe capitalism bother me. Did they even read Marx? He loved capitalism, and thought it was one of the better economic systems out there. It raised the standard of living all around, which helped everybody. He just thought that eventually it would cease to continue to increase the standards of living at an acceptable pace, and then should be phased out for his model. If they're going to cling to an unworkable system, they should at least know what its creator thought.

But that would require things like “actual research” and “critical thinking” and “Intelligence”.

Last week we got a chance to finally play with Worbla’s TranspArt, the new product that’s been called ‘clear Worbla’ when it was announced. After a full day of work and testing a bunch of theories, we found ourselves surprisingly enlightened.

What we learned:

Differences between TranspArt and Finest Art: First off, Worbla’s TranspArt is not simply a clear version of Worbla’s Finest Art – they’re different plastics, and heat and shape and sculpt and react differently. Transpart has a higher working temp and a shorter working time, and works best when heated more gradually. This means it takes longer to get it to a malleable point, and it cools back to unworkable (but stil flexible) faster than Worbla’s Finest. Transpart will pick up fingerprints, the texture from work gloves (recommended when doing extensive shaping) and while it does not become brittle or crack, it does stretch to a thin, almost brittle quality. Transpart is not completely clear, though it is transparent – it has a wavy appearance though the plastic is leveled flat, and marks from the injection moulding can be seen on the surface…

grumpyoldsnake asked:

I've done so many aimless laps around the house at times, and not always because I can't remember what I got up to do. Often I can't quite connect the thought "I need to do X" to an actual course of action. I've also paced for just as long because I have an unworkable and irrelevant first step lodged in my mind and can't seem to set it aside. Eventually I take the first distraction to present itself just to get out of the mental rut. Is this a common executive function failure, or? (1/2)

(2/2) (I was tempted to submit this with a “that feeling when” structure, but then I wasn’t quite sure it was as common as I first assumed. I’m also not entirely certain if you welcome that type of submission, or leave it mostly for the people running the blog?)

That’s a pretty common symptom of executive dysfunction, though the actual pacing is more of a hyperactivity thing.

–Elise

krazybomb asked:

Have you done nekusar?

Now I have!

I briefly tried some setup where he was reaching out towards the viewer with one hand while sinisterly scratching a spellbook with the other, but it was just way too monstrously complex and unworkable and didn’t read well at card size.

I like to think he’s friends with Brago, another multicolor undead monarch who’s an alarmingly good EDH bomb.

Enjoy!

omg has anyone else actually looked up the lyrics to the Owari no Seraph opening? It’s literally just a bunch of English gibberish. Is this what weeaboos sound like to people who speak Japanese?

                                    ✭✭✭┇ armsxmaster

          there’s an IMPATIENT tap of rubber against metal, as the smuggler awaits the opening of the hatch ——— docking the FALCON beside the NORMANDY, and walking down the long aisle to the decontamination field had been more TIME - CONSUMING than he expected ; not that he was in much of a rush, of course. call him perpetually impatient ——— waiting was NEVER fun. he was only here because there’d been TALK on the citadel… talk about commander shepard needing an extra set of hands, in some sort of mission that wasn’t exactly LEGAL. it just so happens, ‘wasn’t exactly legal,’ happened to be HAN SOLO’S middle name.

          finally, as the doors slide open, and han was greeted by a VOICE coming from what he assumed to be the COCKPIT, telling him to take a right over to the CEC, he tossed out a brief thank you, before following the lights on the thin runway, and hopping lightly down the three or four stairs there, before glancing around at the bustling CREW ——— he couldn’t imagine having so much going on inside the FALCON ; he’d end up with a headache. within a moment of standing there IDLY, the pilot had caught hold of someone’s arm, shooting them an apologetic lopsided smile, as if to silently say SORRY, for taking them away from their job.

              ❝     heard SOMEONE here needed a pilot, for some
                           type’a
   
BLACK MARKET   job ——— never
                           heard’a  this  commander shepard  before,  but  m’
                           here if th’
REWARD’S good.     

just as a note to myself: in the next week or two i’m going to try to post/publish a short book of translated poems (from spanish to english) by Esdras Parra. this will include a short essay on the significance of Parra’s work, in both a personal and literary sense; twenty to thirty poems, selected based on how much they resonated with me, esp with attention to trans themes (alienation, dysphoria, euphoria, fear, liberation, etc); a short bios for Parra and for me. at least at first, it will be free to download; and since getting any of this published in print seems unworkable (bc of rights issues, bc Parra is deceased) that’s as far as this project will go. unless of course i end up living past the immediate future with some sense of safety, in which case i might get to develop this into a more formal book.

The Gifts We Are Given

Sometimes we are given gifts we do not recognize.

Being ostracized for months in the most needy time of our lives and then pulled in for the purpose of being told I am mentally unstable and unsuitable gave me the gift of freedom.

It freed me of the compulsion to rush in to rescue, only to find myself drowning under the weight of it all. Had I not had those months without the support we needed, had I not been utterly devastated by those words and everything that went with them, I know where we would be right now; I know how hard we would be working to make the unworkable work; I know how desperate our life would be; I know how untethered from our own lives we would be.

SENSES

Damp, the nice kind of damp, the smell that reminds me of my grandmother’s house across the river in mid June, sticky air, rains flooding the river, that’s the smell I feel tonight.
The warm wind blew, as I brushed my hair with my fingers that were playing little drums on the table which was set in teak, polished dark and made me feel cozy.
On the other side sat my date, or I could call him a friend, or a stranger who was a possible future friend. He wore a white shirt, linen I could say, suiting the warm summer evening. He had brown eyes, honey brown, I could tell by the candle light placed at the centre of that table, oh so beautiful. His hair was slightly messy, I guess from the days work. I liked it. It was curly, black and unworked. A smart man he was, very witty and well learned. He kept me entertained with the stories of his past.
We sat by the Seine, the town was lit up like it was a festival. Soft ripples I could hear, they played a background music to Gustavo’s deep voice. It was like a lullaby to me, the ones that make you close your eyes just so that you could take it all in.
I distinctly remember the tangy citrus taste of orange cheese cake I was eating, the bitter sweet wine I was sipping and the after taste of the most divine Italian dinner and in my mind I could only wonder how the lush lips of the fine man in front of me would taste.
I couldn’t contain it no more, my senses were heightened by the pristine evening, every single bit was just in place. The rush of everything at once made me say a hurried good bye to Gus. I promised to meet him soon. Only this time, one sense at a time.

anonymous asked:

The way I see it Korra, Mako and Bolin are finely worked sculptures but Asami is just a blob of unworked clay.

I wouldn’t go that far. There’s definitely substance to Asami - things that, if expanded on, could be really really interesting - but the writers failed to expand on them. She’s more like a clay sculpture that the artist forgot to  put into the oven.