#compost in training is a riot

[angstics]

transcript of sufjan steven's writing at the back of the michigan vinyl (transcribed by u/cynicalis):

Welcome to Michigan! The waterways and waterfalls! Soo locks, state parks and Walloon Lake. The apple farms and cherry blossoms and two striking peninsulas bordering four Great Lakes! The sandy shore-lines, the spring-fed rivers, the Mackinac Bridge! Blissfest! Henry Ford! Tulip Time! Motown music! Bring a set of clubs, try your swing at Harbour Point. Wear the tan pants with pockets on the hips. Carry the things in them that matter most: the paper matchbook from Petoskey, your sister's postcards from Marquette, a turkey feather, a rabbit's foot. Sip lemonade and listen for the biplanes overhead making figure eights in the sky. Carry a canoe around St. Mary's Rapid, like the Ojibway. Overhead, sixteen geese cast their shadow V over the straits of Mackinac. There is the smell of leaves burning, wood stoves, cigar smoke and compost.

The people are generous, warm, outgoing, helpful, industrious, always willing to lend a hand. They give clear directions to the interstate. Have you been to Frankenmuth? Christmas in July? The Renaissance Festival? The Renaissance Center? Have you harvested baby's breath in abandoned lots? Have you been on a three-wheeler, a snowmobile, a ferry to Beaver Island? There are rainbow trout and catfish, beaver dams, curious raccoons, and mourning doves moaning overhead, balanced on power lines.

Follow 1-75 downstate to Detroit. Listen for the lonely echo in Tiger Stadium, traffic on Grand River Avenue, the empty aisles of Hudson's, long abandoned. Look around and spend the day in mourning. Oh Detroit, you complicated old man, nearly dead, with your shoulders arched over the river, polluted and gray, the threads of your shirt worn down with disease and car exhaust. You have grown thin with industry, car factories, riots, raids, transportation nightmares. You have eaten Coney dogs with relish and onion. You have built magnificent buildings only to burn them. Your children's children have squandered their dowry. They strut on the streets. They throw trash in the trees and hang their laundry on ropes fit for hanging.

Oh Detroit, what have you done to man, his wife and kids, his cousins, his music, his hairstyles, his shoes with white tips, his pleated pants, his elbow slung out the car window, his basketball courts, his officers downtown, his nightclubs, his shirtsleeve tucked over a pack of cigarettes, his imagination, his industry, his sense of humor, his home? Oh Detroit, what have you done to city hall, the public trains, the workers' union, the Eastern Market, Boblo Island, the Ambassador Bridge? Where have you put your riches, where have you hid your treasure? Your concrete over-passes, your avenues as wide as rivers, your suburbs bloated with brick homes and strip malls and discount liquor stores and resale shops. When you are dead and gone, who will care for your children's children. They have run wild with the bastard boys around the streets, reckless car rides downtown, rigorous dancing, drug taking, knife-stabbing, pillow-stuffing, tail wagging restlessness. They have been drunk with this for years. They have been out of their minds. They have been left with nothing.

Even still, here and now, there is a renaissance of hope. The streets will take up horns and play free jazz, the buses will clang their bells in time, the buildings once burned out will be home to the homeless. Living rooms will be filled with furniture. Broken families will reconcile. Women will be honored with lilac wreaths. Men will begin to lower their voices. Children will fill playgrounds and parks with the sounds of their playing.

Who can call us father, or who can call us son? If we have regarded ourselves abandoned by whatever thing (a person, a lover, a parent, a false prophet, ourselves), then we have lost touch with the great family, ourselves, all of us together, in this great place called Michigan. Who is your neighbor? He is your brother. Who is that stranger? She is your mother. The man downstairs hammering on the wall, the woman blow-drying her hair in the bathroom-these people are your family. Have you lost your mother to death? Have you lost your father to disease, to war, alcohol, drugs, a car accident? Nothing can replace them. They have been made known completely in death, to whatever supernatural landscape (who can say for sure?). Until then, it is our hard task to welcome the widows, the children, the orphans, the fatherless into our family. What little effort it takes -- a friendly nod at the stranger on the street, giving change to the man who asks, saying hello or goodbye, opening doors, keeping our mouths shut. In the small things, the day-to-day gestures, the normal business of the day, we do the great work of the kingdom, which is to welcome each unlikely individual into the fold, one person at a time.

We do these things, not because we are Michiganders, but because we have been called to participate in the world’s creation from the very beginning. Making music. Baking cakes. Sewing curtains. These things mean something greater: that we have been known from the very start. Our eye color, our hairline, our jawline, the shape of our big toe, the tone of our voice. These things have been designed from the very beginning. What kind of music we listen to. The sort of skirt that looks good. The baseball cap, the tennis shoe, the orange bandana. We have been made to find these things for ourselves and take them in as ours, like adopted children: habits, hobbies, idiosyncrasies, gestures, moods, tastes, tendencies, worries. They have been put in us for good measure.

Perhaps we don’t like what we see: our hips, our loss of hair, our shoe size, our dimples, our knuckles too big, our eating habits, our disposition. We have disclosed these things in secret, likes and dislikes, behind doors with locks, our lonely rooms, our messy desks, our empty hearts, our sudden bursts of energy, our sudden bouts of depression. Don’t worry. Put away your mirrors and your beauty magazines and your books on tape. There is someone right here who knows you more than you do, who is making room on the couch, who is fixing a meal, who is putting on your favorite record, who is listening intently to what you have to say, who is standing there with you, face to face, hand to hand, eye to eye, mouth to mouth. There is no space left uncovered. This is where you belong.

[apexart-journal]

Ann Quintano in NYC, Day 12

eJust ended today’s events but before I write on that wanted to share some pictures from yesterday at Governor’s Island. (Sorry for always the one day delay for photos but I have some ongoing camera to computer problems and thank heavens Abbie at apexart enables me to have my photos up at all! And thanks to my sister, Francesca and my brother in law Ron who gave me my phone and tablet or where would I be in this day and age!

This is just a small area of Earth Matters where we did intros and information but,as I mentioned, stashed bag with phone/camera there so don’t have other pics of their wonderful urban farm and compost center.

All over Governors island one can easily spot these colorful chairs (or the red hammocks) and in this one I did the soul searching for my reflection on my experience of being a fellow with apexart.

So that brightens the day! It overlooks the water. Next is an old rundown building on the island which, if you look hard, you can see was a library.

Onto the ferry and while waiting for it to leave enjoyed a sea gull relaxing and then the view from the ferry.

Onto today...I had a two hour Improv Comedy Class with Jessica Zambrotta. That was a lot of fun and revealing. Just five of us so that was a comfortable size. We did a number of ‘games’ that helped with being really present, not judging, connecting with each other, listening skills, being able to get out of our head and into connection and emotion. It was interesting how we could each build on each other’s stories in the game and how using certain responses helped or hindered the flow. The classes are for everyone, not just actors or comedians and develop skills that are useable  in everyday life.

I then went to the next two stops in continuation of Fighting the Dark which began in Manhattan and end here in Brooklyn. Grand Army Plaza where the sculpture includes a Black man. Grand Army Plaza was erected to celebrate the Union victory of the civil War and the tour speaks about the all Black 20th Regiment. It continues with the effect on the drafting of Black soldiers who were originally not allowed to serve, and the terrible resistance to that by many whites.  Many Blacks sought refuge in Weeksville named for Black landowner  and established as a free Black community in what is now Crown Heights.

The creator of this Audio Tour puts things for us New Yorkers in a frightening reality:...”many of these lynching took place in the south but the blueprint for multiple day mass lynchings of free Black people was formed in the streets of New York in 1863″. The Weeksville Heritage Center is closed to tours because of Covid but you can visit the grounds and the itinerary suggested sitting on the lawn and reading a book. But to me it felt like sacred ground and not a place to be relaxing and so after I read the transcript of the audio tour (I had 8 pages of transcript with me today), I moved on. I took the C train to West 4th just to explore the West Village a little. No many how many times I’m down there I always get turned around by the zig zagging streets. I cut through Washington Square part to walk home (apex home) and it was absolutely mobbed. I think it was NYU graduation.

Once again during the day I had to deal with my reoccurring fear of getting lost without a map (what a metaphor too I guess!) I lived through the era of the Crown Heights riots so on the bus to Crown Heights...and the driver telling me its the next to last stop...and we’re going and going...I was remembering my first day at Pratt in the 70′s when the city was high crime and that was way before Pratt area was gentrified. I asked a police officer the direction and he said to me “I can tell you how to get there but you’ll never get there alive!” He and his partner found it somewhat amusing, of course I was scared to death. I need to know where I’m going and have a visual: a map, even if its hand drawn by me. So for me apex gets it right on about moving one out of their comfort zone and anything familiar.  I must say a woman caught up to me when I got off the bus and said she heard me asking for directions to the train back and she proceeded to tell me exactly how to get to the C train. A young woman at the Brooklyn Navy Yards practically walked me to the ferry when I was leaving...’I have a Mama and a Grandma and I would want them to be safe too ‘ she said. Having to rely on (and hope for) the kindness of strangers is always a good learning and a happy occasion. As challenging (and fun) as this experience is...I hate for it to end. I want to keep the unfamiliar alive!

Bye for now...

[dateagirlwhosweird]

Date a girl who whispers from the shadow. Date a girl who stands amidst the thick smoke of riots in the street but disappears a moment later. Date a girl that watches and waits in your peripheral vision. Date a girl who never moves unless you blink. Date a girl who is an amalgamation of multiple bodies with constantly blinking eyes and screaming mouths. Date a girl who needs to be suspended in a block of lead to keep her from escaping. Date a girl who was part of a Sex Cult and that her child will unleash the death of mankind and the universe the day of its birth on 1/03/14. Date a girl, who is literally white noise, you can only see vague movements of her on the TV. Date a girl who actively SCREAMS to minimize the noise of the outside world. Date a girl who whispers sweet apocalyptic predictions in your ear. Date a girl who hikes… Hikes very large mounds of human flesh from a mighty battle that hasn’t ended and still goes on. Date a girl who’s been alive since the Second, Third, and Fourth American War of Independence. Date a girl who fought against slavery in 1945. Date a girl who fought against racial discrimination in 250,00 BC.. Date a girl who has fearfully been staring at her reflection for over an hour. Date a girl who has no reflection, I mean… She does… But she doesn’t know where it is. Date a girl who buzzes like static. Date a girl who literally has a VCR tape for a head, and all you hear when she speaks is the screeching of rewinding film. Date a girl who has been dancing with the ghost of Frank Sinatra in that abandoned theater down the street. Date a girl who hangs-out with Dean Martin, Steve Martin, Kevin Martin, George R.R. Martin, and Todd at your local 7-11. Date a girl who can read ancient Babylonian and has spoken to their ancient Gods. Date a girl who has spoken to Babylonian Gods and knows of our future. Date a girl who has gone mad as she wrote a fanmail submission to the tumblr blog “dateagirlwhoseweird.“  Date a girl, a girl, a girl, a girl, a girl, a girl, a girl. Date a girl who wears jumper cables like it’s in style, like… wtf BECKY!? Date a girl who has been watching the Shining since last summer on repeat. Date a girl whose 100 foot tall Monstrosity of Eldritch power. Date a girl who cleans up gore and viscera after all the battles that take place in the orbiting Space Station high above our heads. Date a girl who has literally spoken to H.P. Lovecraft and is actually the inspiration for all of his writing. Date a girl who has been staring at the void. Date a girl who has traveled to the Mariana Trench and has been terrified of returning. Date a girl who recorded the girl who traveled to the Marian Trench and saw that there are things down there no-one should see. Date a girl who translates everything she reads and says into Sanskrit. Date a girl who climbs Sequoia Trees to commune with the ancient forest spirits. Date a girl who digs into the Earth’s mantle to melt her ice cream. Date a girl who has spoken to Friedrich Nietzsche, Sigmund Freud, and Karl Marx and told them to chill out. Date a girl who hangs out with Cecil from WTNV, and has tea with him and Khoshekh. Date a girl who has a dogweed tree sitting outside her tree AND IT’S MADE OF DOGS! Date a girl who has been screaming at Orion to give back her belt. Date a girl who lives underneath your floorboards and has been waiting for you to go insane and tell the police what you did to that old man. Date a girl who has been reading Edgar Allen Poe since she was a mere child. Date a girl who sniffs the grass before proclaiming to the world that she loves grass. Date a person who isn’t a girl but is in fact a guy who has way too much time on his hands and wrote a massive submission to “dateagirlwhoseweird,” truthfully he doesn’t even want to date anybody he just kinda wanted to make a joke. Date a girl because honestly all girls are actually perfect and don’t actually require labels. Date a girl who emits carbon monoxide. Date a girl who emits a neon glow whenever she feels emotion. Date a girl who has literally fought trees. Date a girl who swears that she’s seen the angel Gabriel and that the paintings that supposedly depict him are so false, he has a beard and kinda looks like a guy who hangs out at Coachella every year. Date a girl who hangs out in the putrid sewers of London in 1800’s. Date a girl whose love for Pizza has evolved to becoming Pizza. Date a girl who loves writing in Sanskrit. Date a girl who took a Western Civ 101 class over the summer and regrets it, only to learn that she’s actually been relieving history since the time of Gilgamesh. Date a girl who stands at the edge of the universe. Date a girl who lives somewhere between time and space, but snatches a kiss from you whenever she manages to penetrate your realm of existence. Date a girl who is actually your realm of existence. Date a girl who beeps in place of your alarm clock. Date a girl who rides an albino deer that has a reflection of a waterfall permanently in its cornea. Date a girl who does dissections on specimens that have been preserved since the day she was born, March 15, 2052. Date a girl who is fearful of the Ides of March. Date a girl who says “Et Tu Brute?” whenever someone does something silly. Date a girl who believes “l'appel du vide”. Date a girl who broke a knife while she was using it as it was intended. Date a girl who knows Albert Camus and is one of the major reasons for why he believes we live in an absurd universe. Date a girl who is literally a severed leg. Date a girl who sneaks through the bushes and stands there, waiting. Date a girl with a deer head and makes deer noises, but she also walks around in the woods outside your home. Date a girl who worships cthulhu and the elder gods. Date a girl who has met Nyarlethotep. Date a girl who has met Hastur. Date a girl who is one of Lovecraft’s Elder Gods. Date a girl who is feral and has been stalking the alleys of your city. Date a girl who steals the clothes off of clothes lines but returns them after she remembers that the end has yet to come. Date a girl whose end has yet to come. Date a girl who has swallowed an entire yogurt cup by the spirits that talk to her from her basement. Date a girl whose actually the monster underneath your bed. Date a girl whose the creature that lives in your walls. Date a girl who lives in that secret room in your house with the singular chair and the terrifying scratches and indentations in the walls. Date a girl who was found in a dark room crouched up against the corner eating something. Date a girl who hangs out in the subway and stares at people, fearful that they will realize the train they’ve boarded will bring them to a different dimension. Date a girl who has multiple tentacles. Date a girl who is actually a cosmic horror that searches for another dimension to call home. Date a girl who calls your brain her home. Date a girl who has survived the Russian Winter. Date a girl who killed Hitler. Date a girl who is actually a shadow person and that they stare at you from the darkness of your closet. Date a girl whose in the closet, not like that, when you sleep she comes out and stares at you. Date a girl who lives in that burnt down shack outside of town. Date a girl whose actually statue from antiquity in the British Museum. Date a girl who can cure all disease. Date a girl whose the God of Abraham. Date a girl who incites fear from the mortals that surround her. Date a girl who hangs out in ancient Greek and Roman ruins. Date a girl whose been remaking all the texts from the library of Alexandria. Date a girl who told the Egyptians to build the pyramids. Date a girl whose been living in the Brazilian Jungle. Date a girl who lives in the secret room underneath the Vatican. Date a girl whose a reptilian alien that’s been controlling our government. Date a girl who resembles a famous person you can’t quite recall. Date a girl whose been a background character in every movie and TV-show you’ve ever seen. Date a girl who spontaneously jumps into existence just to use the bathroom. Date a girl who is actually a parallel universe of version of the mods who run this blog and is actually all of them in one girl. Date a girl who wears a dress that is perpetually on fire. Date a girl who listens to the Misfits so often she herself is the Crimson Ghost. Date a girl who roots herself in the ground and has taken nutrients from the earth. Date a girl who runs around in circles around the town, she never stops. Date a girl whose been dragging her foot around the town to the point where there is now an indent in the concrete that forms a terrifying eldritch pattern. Date a girl who will sacrifice your town for the sake of humanity. Date a girl who drives a KIA, no not the car. Date a girl who has entered the [REDACTED] Room, and has returns knowing more. Date a girl who absorbs the flesh of the dead inorder to replace the past flesh she has absorbed. Date a girl who lives under the compost pile in your backyard. Date a girl who lives in the pile of dead deer that the government collects in-order to keep her satiated. Date a girl who lives in trees and allows her cardiovascular system to connect itself to the tree’s xylem and phloem to extract more nutrients. Date a girl whose home for insect-like creatures that use her body as a hike. Date a girl with a mouth resembles a leech. Date a girl who is literally a leech. Date a girl whose head resembles a speaker. Date a girl who speaks in chirps, squawks, and clicks. Date a girl who’s existence is incomprehensible. 

[discocheats]

I couldn’t find a working post so eff it here’s all of Sufjan Stevens’ big ole text in Michigan

Welcome to Michigan! The waterways and waterfalls! Sac locks, state parks, and Walloon lake. The apple farms and cherry blossoms and two striking peninsulas bordering four Great lakes! The sandy shorelines, the spring-fed rivers, the Mackinac Bridge! Blissfest! Henry Ford! Tulip Time! Motown music! Bring a set of clubs, try your swing at Harbor Point. Wear the tan pants with pockets on the hips. Carry the things in them that matter most: the paper matchbook from Petoskey, your sister’s postcards from Marquette, a turkey feather, a rabbit’s foot. Sip lemonade and listen for the biplanes overhead making figures eights in the sky. Carry a canoe around St. Mary’s Rapids, like the Ojibway. Overhead, sixteen geese cast their shadow V over the straits of Mackinac. There is the smell of leaves burning, wood stoves, cigar smoke, and compost.

The people are generous, warm, outgoing, helpful, industrious, always willing to lend a hand. They give clear directions to the interstate. Have you been to Frankenmuth? Christmas in July? The Renaissance Festival? The Renaissance Center? Have you harvested baby’s breath in abandoned lots? Have you been on a three-wheeler, a snowmobile, a ferry to Beaver Island? There are rainbow trout and catfish, beaver dams, curious raccoons, and mourning doves moaning overhead, balanced on power lines.

Follow I-75 downstate to Detroit. Listen for the lonely echo in Tiger Stadium, traffic on Grand River Avenue, the empty aisles at Hudson’s, long abandoned. look around and spend the day in mourning. Oh Detroit, you complicated old man, nearly dead, with your shoulders arched over the river, polluted and gray, the threads of your shirt worn down with disease and car exhaust. You have grown thin with industry, car factories, riots, raids, transportation nightmares. You have eaten Coney dogs with relish and onion. You have built magnificent buildings only to burn them. Your children’s children have squandered their dowry. They strut on the streets. They throw trash in the trees and hang their laundry on ropes fit for hanging.

Oh Detroit, what have you done to man, his wife and kids, his cousins, his music, his hairstyles, his shoes with white tips, his pleated pants, his elbow slung out the car window, his basketball courts, his officers downtown, his nightclubs, his shirtsleeve tucked over a pack of cigarettes, his imagination, his industry, his sense of humor, his home? Oh Detroit, what have you done to city hall, the public trains, the workers’ union, the Eastern Market, Boblo Island, the Ambassador Bridge? Where have you put your riches, where have you hid your treasure? Your concrete overpasses, your avenues as wide as rivers, your suburbs bloated with brick homes and strip malls and discount liquor stores and resale shops. When you are dead and gone, who will care for your children’s children. They have run wild with the bastard boys around the streets, reckless car rides downtown, rigorous dancing, drug taking, knife-stabbing, pillow-stuffing, tail wagging restlessness. They have been drunk with this for years. They have been out of their minds. They have been left with nothing.

Even still, here and now, there is a renaissance of hope. The streets will take up horns and play free jazz, the buses will clang their bells in time, the buildings once burned out will be home to the homeless. Living rooms will be filled with furniture. Broken families will reconcile. Women will be honored with lilac wreaths. Men will begin to lower their voices. Children will fill playgrounds and parks with the sounds of their playing.

Who can call us father, or who can call us son? If we have regarded ourselves abandoned by whatever thing (a person, a lover, a parent, a false prophet, ourselves, then we have lost touch with the great family, ourselves, all of us together, in this great place called Michigan. Who is your neighbor? He is your brother. Who is that stranger? She is your mother. The man downstairs hammering on the wall, the woman blow-drying her hair in the bathroom – these people are your family. Have you lost your mother to death? Have you lost your father to disease, to war, alcohol, drugs, a car accident? Nothing can replace them. They have been made known completely in death, to whatever supernatural landscape (who can say for sure?). Until then, it is our hard task to welcome the widows, the children, the orphans, the fatherless into our family. What little effort it takes – a friendly nod at the stranger on the street, giving change to the man who asks, saying hello or goodbye, opening doors, keeping our mouths shut. In the small things, the day-to-day gestures, the normal business of the day, we do the great work of the kingdom, which is to welcome each unlikely individual into the fold, one person at a time.

We do these things, not because we are Michiganders, but because we have been called to participate in the world’s creation from the very beginning. Making music. Baking cakes. Sewing curtains. These things mean something greater: that we have been known from the very start. Our eye color, our hairline, our jawline, the shape of our big toe, the tone of our voice. These things have been designed from the very beginning. What kind of music we listen to. The sort of skirt that looks good. The baseball cap, the tennis shoe, the orange bandana. We have been made to find these things for ourselves and take them in as ours, like adopted children: habits, hobbies, idiosyncrasies, gestures, moods, tastes, tendencies, worries. They have been put in us for good measure.

Perhaps we don’t like what we see: our hips, our loss of hair, our shoe size, our dimples, our knuckles too big, our eating habits, our disposition. We have disclosed these things in secret, likes and dislikes, behind doors with locks, our lonely rooms, our messy desks, our empty hearts, our sudden bursts of energy, our sudden bouts of depression. Don’t worry. Put away your mirrors and your beauty magazines and your books on tape. There is someone right here who knows you more than you do, who is making room on the couch, who is fixing a meal, who is putting on your favorite record, who is listening intently to what you have to say, who is standing there with you, face to face, hand to hand, eye to eye, mouth to mouth. There is no space left uncovered. This is where you belong.

[reviewape-blog]

Food Crisis No Problem - How to Prosper in Food During a Food Shortage

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[solunafleur]

I've deactivated my Facebook for about a week now, and let me tell you, the idea of wanting to do status updates is a hard habit to kill. Occassionally I still want to take a picture of something I'm seeing or want to share a thought I had, but I used it 90% of the time to reblog articles, videos, memes, and shitposting.

The more unfortunate part of that is that a lot of the groups I was in were petty rage groups. The three I frequented were This Fills Me With a Rage I Immediately Anticipated (sister group to Did Not Anticipate), Bad Roommates, and Sounds Like a Weirdly Specific Question but ok (sister group to Sounds Weirdly Specific but ok). And the Stardew Valley Hangout group, of course.

Don't get me wrong, none of those groups are inherently bad. Just, over time, the accumulation of negative shitposting (police brutality, animal abuse, Trump and other politicians) set me over. Particularly, a post about composting the rich over eating them (something about toxicity) just caught me up.

At that point, all I thought was, is this all my life is? Negative shitposting, petty squabbles, and not doing anything about anything? I'm not able to go to protests in fear of riots. I understand that riots are not normal, but I'm not healthy enough to put myself out to be roughed up. I'm not even mentally healthy enough for such stress. I'm more of a petitioner signer or someone who educates on injustices, but

*sigh*

I'm getting too far in.

I just want to do my work (which will be helping people with their health insurance once the new location opens up for training), play my games, write fanfiction, and probably improve on myself.

So, here I am instead, making a long post going to no one.

That's another thing- I feel like posting on Facebook is like constantly making group texts for people who don't otherwise want it or see it. I've taken more to sending messages than updating, and it's just 100% better than filling up my feed with video reposts.

Still.

Maybe I'll just start using Twitter again.

But now, for a status update: I'm trying to enjoy the man-made lake in my parent's bougie neighborhood, but 1. someone is either doing yardwork/using a buzzsaw/perhaps both (edit: 3 people now) this early in the morning, and 2. the last time I was here, I wasn't using the term bougie and I could actually enjoy it for just being a lake by the park. I also last came here before my parents lived in this neighborhood, when I had just been dumped by my LD boyfriend, so

I've got mixed feelings about the place.

However, water still relaxes me and it is a cool 81° at 5 to 7am and

Oh fuck sake, I hope that's not a Canadian goose

[reviewape-blog]

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