I really hope people online aren't getting the wrong impression of unions and that they're flawless Things that will protect them from any and all mistreatment and that strikes are fun little treats union workers get

Unions are People not Things. Union leaders can fuck up. Unions can definitely operate in a way that gets you low wages and poor benefits if you're not being represented well.

A union by itself does not guarantee you anything. Unions take work and money to run. You pay dues, you go to meetings, you vote. You protect each other in a union. You don't join a union and magically have everything taken care of for you.

Strikes are a powerful tool but are scary. They're not a goal to achieve. Unions don't aim to go on strike during negotiations.

Memory I

by George Seferis

And I with only a reed in my hands. The night was deserted, the moon waning, earth smelled of the last rain. I whispered: memory hurts wherever you touch it, there’s only a little sky, there’s no more sea, what they kill by day they carry away in carts and dump behind the ridge.

My fingers were running idly over this flute that an old shepherd gave to me because I said good evening to him. The others have abolished every kind of greeting: they wake, shave and start the day’s work of slaughter as one prunes or operates, methodically, without passion: sorrow’s dead like Patroclus, and no one makes a mistake.

I thought of playing a tune and then I felt ashamed in front of the other world the one that watches me from beyond the night from within my light woven of living bodies, naked hearts and love that belongs to the Furies as it belongs to man and to stone and to water and to grass and to the animal that looks straight into the eye of its approaching death.

So I continued along the dark path and turned into my garden and dug and buried the reed and again I whispered: some morning the resurrection will come, dawn’s light will grow red as trees blossom in spring, the sea will be born again, and the wave will again fling forth Aphrodite. We are the seed that dies. And I entered my empty house.

I will say I get the vibe that a lot of peoples interest and support for strikers is a bit too much for a vicarious ‘burn it down’ thrill, rather than for the actual goals of a strike.

Like UPS has agreed to come back to the table and it is very possible they will concede to Union demands and avert a strike. And if that happens (so long as the union does not make concessions on its key demands) it’s a good thing. It’s a victory for the laborers. It is the same ultimate conclusion that a strike would intend to produce except without the workers having to go on (not so great) strike pay for a week or two.

This is SO SO SO important!! The goal of a strike is to end up with a good contract. This is the goal of any action to support a group of workers engaged in collective bargaining, many of whom will never go on strike because they don't have to. Strikes make the news, but they are a last resort when negotiations aren't going anywhere. I want a world where we have fewer strikes and more employers being reasonable at the bargaining table.

Solidarity Summer is well and truly ramping up. AS IT FUCKING SHOULD.

And another one! 📢

Barnes and Noble booksellers are working on forming a union as well! 

https://www.reddit.com/r/union/comments/rwczci/barnes_noble_workers_want_union/

Their flagship store and New York has unionized along with 3-4 other stores! This is happening! People are tired of being seen as dollar signs and being made to work just to get to work more, to survive instead of thrive. Keep it UP. 

Written for the multifandom poetry fest run by @minutia-r, for doomedblade’s prompt, “losing home.” The Murderbot Diaries, about the original colony planet and the people of the Pressy.

—

They left us on a failing world to die. They wrote us off—excuses all the same: Expensive to upkeep, and far to fly, And no exports of value to our name. They took the tax break. Left us all to starve. Not cost effective to support the place. For years, we broadcast signals out, to carve Our names into the cold pathways of space. We watched the skies with hope that slowly waned. We watched the soil crumble at our feet. We couldn’t save ourselves on earth so pained (No one saves themselves. No world’s complete.)

When we were found and offered a way out, No home was left to lose, or room for doubt.

I scribed all the spells my wizard learned in our last D&D campaign!

... that look AWESOME!

Ahahaha, I had NO DOUBT that Harrowhark would beat Eugenides in the most recent Unreliable Narrators poll from @makethosenarratorsfight, but he pulled through because he's a LYING LIAR WHO LIES and also TELLS THE TRUTH ALL THE TIME. I love Harrow to death and back but Gen doesn't need a lobotomy to tell you two different stories on two different rereads (and then a third different story after finishing the series).

(Also can I say how trippy it is to see my illustration set alongside the BOOK COVER of Harrow?? I spit my coffee every time it crosses my dash.)

for the multifandom poetry fest, for @worldsentwined's prompt: Any, any, came back wrong

The dead are a sacred gift.

We treat them with respect We are called by their names Their families become ours.

We don’t take them Fresh from the slaughter Wear them like cloaks Plunder their memories.

I could protest— It was an accident; I didn’t mean to!— But I’m not so weak and sniveling.

No excuses.

My family has been butchered Those that remain rightfully shun me I can never go back beneath the earth.

Why shouldn’t I take And take And take?

Check it out, this year's multifandom poetry fest is live! Take a prompt, leave a prompt, write poetry, read poetry, have fun!

Seeing some nerdrage about the fact that if SAG-AFTRA strikes, actors won't be able to do promotional stuff for their projects including at SDCC and, anyway I am once again asking online fandom to recognize that there are real human beings behind your entertainment products. Their welfare and their ability to just like, have a career at all doing the things they and you love (because most people who act for a living are not celebrity superstar multi-millionaires) is in fact more important than whether you get to stand in line for hours just to pay too much money for a handshake and a scribble on a photo. And I say this as someone who has paid too much money for those scribbles myself. Also the future that studios want to create where acting and writing is replaced by AI is bad for consumers, too, bad for anyone who cares about art! And also just, more basically: artistic labor is labor and if you enjoy the products of that labor, you should want the people who make that for you to be fairly compensated and treated well.

Hard agree on all of this. Also: if you were planning to pay for a signature, consider donating that money to a strike fund instead.

written for the multifandom poetry fest, for the prompt: a poem from a tool

A lousy workman always blames his tools For his own fuck-ups. And they never learn From past mistakes. Most humans are just fools. Who’s got to save them from the pain they earn?

Go on. I’ll let you make two guesses. First one doesn’t count. It’s me— Whenever someone messes Up so badly you can see

That shit from space, it’s me who has to fix it. And then it’s me who has to take the fall. Just a machine—who cares if the boss bricks it When it’s your precious ass against the wall?

“Equipment fault.” It’s such an easy out When you’re not who those words are said about.

- Ollie Schminkey, My Father.

ID: a poem that can be read three ways, the left side is labeled Alive, the right side is labeled Dead. Reading only Alive gives:

He walks through the trees, the sun sifting through his beard. Here I am, just a kid, a father with his favourite child. He looks so much like a dad. Here we are: birds flying; a pulsing river; a ravenous picnic; and that smile, a mouth wide open, his child, newly awakened, wrapped around his neck like rosary beads clinging to his body. I loved him long before I heard of his body failing, and I held him so. Trusting that my love is enough.

Reading only Dead gives:

My dreams every night turn to spiders that all have his face. There is a campfire burning out, and me, the white dust of only ash in my hands. In the real world, standing next to his bed again– he doesn’t look like a body about to burn to pieces. Dead silence– no voice, only an echo not quite gone yet. The pills are down his throath, the morphine into his stomach, his body only for the disease, the wound across his back becomes filled with blood, and me, standing next to the body. Grief has hands twisted, tightening in prayer: the last breath like a final amen. I could speak the prayer a thousand ways– still, God will answer for only God, never for the living.

And reading them both together gives:

He walks through my dreams every night. The trees turn to spiders that all have his face. There the sun is a campfire burning out, and me, sifting through the white dust of his beard, only ash in my hands. Here in the real world I am standing next to his bed, just a kid again– he doesn’t look like a father with a body about to burn his favourite child to pieces. He looks dead. So much silence– no voice, only an echo, like a dad not quite gone yet. Here we are: the pills are birds flying down his throat; the morphine a pulsing river into his stomach; his body a ravenous picnic only for the disease; and that smile, the wound across his back becomes a mouth wide open, filled with blood; and me, his child, standing next to the body. Newly awakened grief has hands wrapped around his neck, twisted like rosary beads tightening in prayer: clinging to the last breath, his body like a final amen. I loved him long before I could speak. I learned the prayer of his body failing a thousand ways– and I held him, so still, trusting that God will answer for my love. Only, God is never enough for the living.

End ID

then you never really knew me at all

Evil-Mart provides a vast array of tools and gadgets that is essential for the common villain-of-the-week. You work as a cashier there. Unfortunately all your coworkers mysteriously called in sick today, so you alone have to handle the long line of increasingly disgruntled customers.

Everyone has that one story about the time EVERYONE called in sick and they had to work a shift totally alone. Mine was a little different, though.

See, I work at Evil-Mart. It’s actually a really good job – benefits are top notch, pay is excellent, and management really cares about the wellbeing of employees. For good reason – most of us are, if not family, certainly part of the Family. All the staff are from the families of henchmen and minor villains. It’s easier for everyone that way.

Unfortunately, while the official ‘bad guys’ excel in many areas, catering isn’t one of them.  I don’t know why, but it’s just not something we’re good at. Anyway, there was a big team dinner for Evil-Mart one night, to celebrate the store’s tenth anniversary. And the next day, nearly the whole staff were out with food poisoning. And by nearly the whole staff, I mean … well, it went like this.

I was on the opening shift, and usually when I get there, there’s already two supervisors there. This time… nothing. The door was still locked. I knocked a few times, then called the front desk. Still nothing.

The third time I called, a voice answered that I didn’t recognize. “Who is this?”

“Rebecca Kahn, I – “

She sounded like she was about to cry. “Are you calling in sick too?”

“No, but the door’s locked and I can’t get in.”

“You’re here? At the store?”

“Yes, and I only have two minutes or I’ll be late clocking in and – “

“Wait right there! I’ll be right down!” The phone slammed down, and a couple of minutes the door swung open. “Thank God!” the woman exclaimed. I vaguely recognised her from meetings, but we’d never spoken before, but now she grabbed my hands and squeezed them as if I was a long lost friend. “Did you have a special meal last night?”

At that point, light began to dawn. “Yes. Knuckles Levy from the warehouse and I both had the kosher meal.”

Keep reading

There was a young man from Peru

Whose limericks stopped at line two

There once was a man from Verdun

There once was a man from the sticks Whose limericks stopped at line six. They were fine till line five Then they took quite a dive — But the problem is easy to fix If you just ignore the last line, it doesn't even follow the rhyme scheme oh god I've really lost control of this thing I'm so sorry...

There once was a man

From Cork who got limericks

And haiku confused.

There once was a man from the sticks

Who liked to compose limericks

But he failed at the sport

Because he wrote them too short

@limerickshere

There once was a fellow named Dan, Whose poetry never would scan. When told this was so, He replied, "Yes, I know-- It's because I try to squeeze as many syllables into the last line as I possibly can."

On Tumblr did lasses and lads Their way with fail poetry had. You're having your fun But you're fooling no one - It takes skill to do something this bad.

The most beautiful footage of strangers dancing in public… https://twitter.com/Thorayaaa/status/1660180658646568967

its like a real life version of that children’s song with the magic bridge that you had to dance across

Highlights: --all the old people --one dude who starts doing the Cotton-Eye Joe and has the steps on lock --quinceañera girl with a dress bigger than the circle --lots of kids but particularly the dude who's doing the helicopter with his little girl --an entire section of Millennials doing dance moves I recognize, oh the nostalgia

So my problem with most ‘get to know your character’ questioneers is that they’re full of questions that just aren’t that important (what color eyes do they have) too hard to answer right away (what is their greatest fear) or are just impossible to answer (what is their favorite movie.)  Like no one has one single favorite movie. And even if they do the answer changes.

If I’m doing this exercise, I want 7-10 questions to get the character feeling real in my head. So I thought I’d share the ones that get me (and my students) good results: 

It's that time of year again - Jukebox authors are now revealed, so I can show off the fic I wrote. Teen rating, no archive warnings, ~9,800 words. More superhero shenanigans!

Summary: A supervillain works at the mall food court. Their nemesis works at the hot dog shop across the way.

Their coworker would really like the two of them to stop glaring at each other and start dating already.

Reblogging this because I can - here is a little excerpt to whet your appetite:

“So when are you planning to do something about your crush?”

The All-Powerful Calumny, Terror of the Three Cities and Scourge of the South Shore, drops their half-eaten pretzel with a high-pitched squeak. 

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, it’s so obvious.” I eye the scattered cinnamon sugar on the floor. “Dammit Cal, we’re going to have ants again.”

“I’ll clean it up!” Cal raises their hand, but I catch their wrist before they can complete the dramatic gesture they always do when they’re about to use their powers. “Ow! What?”

“With a mop,” I say, firmly. The last time they tried to use their powers to clean the floor, they accidentally removed the entire floor instead of just the dirt. “And don’t ‘ow’ me, you got thrown off a building last week and didn’t even bruise.”

Cal sighs. “Fine, I’ll use the mop. But I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a crush, and I’ve never been ‘obvious’ a day in my life!”

It’s possible I’ve heard worse lies, but none come immediately to mind. Supervillains tend to make headlines; there’s always someone unleashing a science experiment or stealing some rare jewel or holding the mayor hostage. Calumny, though—Calumny stops the presses. I knew all about their reign of terror long before they walked up to Great Aunt Angie’s Pretzels and asked for a job application. Some people would argue that being a notorious supervillain doesn’t look great on a resume. Some of my coworkers did say it, and refused to be scheduled with Cal. But we were short-staffed, and I was tired of training people only to lose them when they realized how much working at the food court sucks. Cal may be a villain, but they’re not a quitter, that’s for sure.

“Keep telling yourself that,” I say, stepping aside so Cal can get to the closet with the cleaning supplies. “But I’m not stupid. You spend half your shift staring at him.” I nod my head across the food court to the world’s tackiest hot dog shop, where the world’s prettiest man is waiting on a customer.