High Line // Central Park.
i'm cate, twenty-one, and very pleased to meet you. you can find me elsewhere on the internet and also here.
High Line // Central Park.
My shoe shrunk under mysterious conditions.
Good feels and good people.
this is how i do friendship
"He lived with his mother in Gaza when he was very young. One night, I talked to him on the phone before bedtime, and he told me he was wearing three pairs of pants to bed. I said: ‘Three pairs of pants? Why aren’t you in your pajamas?’ He told me: ‘Because I want my body to hold together if a bomb falls on me.’" (Petra, Jordan)
Couldn’t find a list like this, so I thought I’d make one.
Wesley Lowery, Washington Post journalist who was arrested while sitting in a McDonald’s.
Local alderman Antonio French.
Huffington Post journalist Ryan Reilly, who was also arrested while reporting on the protests.
Local TV reporter Christina Coleman.
Guardian reporter Jon Swaine.
I’m sure there are many, many other good sources of information on the ground; hopefully, people will reblog with links to them.
For an overview of what’s happened in Ferguson, Missouri since police shot and killed an unarmed teenager named Michael Brown who was about to begin college, this New York Times story has some background. You can also read about the story in the LA Times, and there are live updates at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.
There’s livestream video here.
Also Christine Conetta, another Huffington Post journalist.
And Trymaine Lee, MSNBC.
Her true name was Chang Mo Chou, but her father’s broken English and a typist’s mistake on her Hogwarts’ registration form tore away her old name and replaced it with a new label. She didn’t mind. She was used to being labeled and re-labeled, floating like a feather upon the winds of Western whims. Her skin was no longer moon-light pale, as her mother had praised in the nursery, it was the yellow of old parchment and early spring blossoms. Respecting authority and keeping quiet was no longer a sign of good breeding (how many times had her mother told her that children should keep open ears and silent tongues?) - somehow, in English, her behavior translated into painful shyness and introversion. Tea was drunk cold as tap water, masked by shades of milk and sugar and the electric zing of lemon. Words melted from labours of art into cold formulas, each element carefully measured and lined up behind the one before.
Like the world around her, she too was simplified for Western consumption. First name, Cho, middle name, Mo, last name, Chang. Cho Chang. Cho didn’t mind. The words sounded like bells, ringing in the quiet distance. So would she live, ringing quietly and steadily, waiting for someone to hear her music in the wind. But not silver bells, Cho whispers to herself, a bronze ling, reciting the poem of her complex existence.
Awkward as fuck
abandon news all ye who enter here