rabbit-legs

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made in honor of the now-extinct population of Falasteen crocodiles, the sunbirds that almost lost their names, and everyone else surviving the attempted erasure.

posted the other week as part of an ongoing fundraiser offering free prints and paid, with 100% of proceeds going to Care for Gaza. it has since been translated, wheatpasted, and flown on kites all over the world from Saigon to Scotland...!!!

monetary donations are never a substitute for holistic political action, and a push for a different world... but the shows of solidarity and support have lifted my spirits so much.

this is now available on a t-shirt too, screenprinted by hand in Texas!same deal: all profits go to food, medicine, and other critical supplies via Care for Gaza (& the PCRF). thank you for sharing.

image description below:

a Palestine sunbird holds red poppies in their beak next to the text RIGHT TO EXIST. a Palestine crocodile (a subspecies of the Nile, now extinct thanks to occupying forces) guards a shining key next to the text RIGHT TO RETURN. a Palestinian olive tree, full of fruit is next to the text RIGHT TO RESIST. a Palestinian family of five, all embracing each other next to the text RIGHT TO REMAIN.

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I haven’t talked much about it and won’t because I don’t care to air this pain out so publicly, but long covid and my subsequent dysautonomia have forced me to upend my entire career, my hobbies, my housing, and my life.

I am not physically who I was just two years ago. I look at the work I did in Alaska in amazement of what my body could do so recently and cannot anymore.

And I’m lucky in many ways, because I could still be far worse.

Treatment is difficult—sometimes impossible—to access, and there is so much we still don’t know that the prognosis is vague at best.

The worst part is that not only is recovery not guaranteed, but I could recover and then simply catch Covid again and develop the same issues.

Or I might not. I might recover easily and happily like others have. The point is that it’s a total crapshoot.

I don’t have much else to say. I could warn everyone to continue masking and other precautions—or to start again if you stopped—but the information is out there and everyone is making their own choices.

I just want to remind y’all that we are, globally, experiencing a mass-disabling event that will effect us for generations, and it’s happening to people all around you, whether they talk about it or not, whether you notice it or not. Don’t leave us behind.

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I've been seeing that quote go around and while making this I think I managed to track it back to "An Oresteia" by Anne Carson

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I can act a little silly

but also serious. if the situation calls for it.

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Urban Weed Awards Crown Unwanted Plants with Superlatives

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If you can, please donate so yemeni families can have something to eat:

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FREEDOM

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Important paint study

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ig: resibhaskoro

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i’m strange but friendly so people tell me things

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“After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: if anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately. Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu-biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—she stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late. Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother until we got on the plane and would ride next to her—Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out, of course, they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—non-alcoholic—and the two little girls from our flight, one African American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice and lemonade, and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”

— Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”

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Finally able to photograph stupid thing living under the sink because it got stuck in the instant pot

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they're putting me on the cover of times magazine and also putting a cup over me and there's even talk of taking me outside

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im gonna rb it every time im sorry

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Source: The New York Tattler, July 8, 1909.