Fyi Things Like Insulin, Hearing Aids, Wheelchairs, Glasses Costing Money At All Is A Form Of Structural

fyi things like insulin, hearing aids, wheelchairs, glasses costing money at all is a form of structural ableism

aminals

they didn't tell us there's gonna be a 2022 version of Over The Horizon by Suga too, it's so funky and different i almost thought it won't have any of the signature OTH tunes.

I was just scrolling through Pinterest and guess what I found out what to do?

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(It's a plague doctor)

bts as poems (mary oliver edition)

The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac 

I know, you never intended to be in this world. But you’re in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it. There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro. Bless the eyes and the listening ears. Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste. Bless touching.

On Meditating, Sort Of 

Some days I fall asleep, or land in that even better place — half asleep — where the world, spring, summer, autumn, winter — flies through my mind in its hardy ascent and its uncompromising descent.

So I just lie like that, while distance and time reveal their true attitudes: they never heard of me, and never will, or ever need to.

Of course I wake up finally thinking, how wonderful to be who I am, made out of earth and water, my own thoughts, my own fingerprints — all that glorious, temporary stuff.

How I Go Into the Woods 

Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable. I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my ways of praying, as you no doubt have yours. Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing. If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.

To Begin With, the Sweet Grass

What I loved in the beginning, I think, was mostly myself. Never mind that I had to, since somebody had to. That was many years ago. Since then I have gone out from my confinements,   though with difficulty. I mean the ones that thought to rule my heart. I cast them out, I put them on the mush pile. They will be nourishment somehow (everything is nourishment somehow or another). And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope. I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is. I have become older and, cherishing what I have learned, I have become younger. And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know? Love yourself. Then forget it. Then, love the world.

The Ponds 

Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled – to cast aside the weight of facts and maybe even to float a little above this difficult world. I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery. I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing – that the light is everything – that it is more than the sum of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

Dogfish 

If you asked for a picture I would have to draw a smile under the perfectly round eyes and above the chin, which was rough as a thousand sharpened nails.

And you know what a smile means, don’t you?

I wanted the past to go away, I wanted to leave it, like another country; I wanted my life to close, and open like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song  where it falls down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;  I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was alive for a little while.

…

Also I wanted to be able to love. And we all know how that one goes, don’t we?

When Death Comes

When death comes  like the hungry bear in autumn;  when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse … I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. … I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk / down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs / to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you” / when someone sneezes, a leftover / from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying. / And sometimes, when you spill lemons / from your grocery bag, someone else will help you/ pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other. / We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot, / and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile / at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress / to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder, / and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass. / We have so little of each other, now. So far / from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. / What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these / fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here, / have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”

— Small Kindnesses, Danusha Laméris