Canadian, 20, certifiably crazy, writes too much. Talks to crows. Expect history, Pokemon, drawings, and literature.
So my mum and I were talking about British actors and I told her how silly and weird they acted off-screen. She told me that’s what sells in Britain but apparently she’s pretty sure a bunch of them are secretly narwhals…?
EDIT: Normal. She said secretly normal, not secretly narwhals.
Belugas, however, are apparently a different story, but she’s not naming names.
So this is really all her fault.
(kingoouse, we share some of these genes, I hope you know).
| Religion: | Kids, This is Tom Hiddleston. He is our god. |
| English: | Today, you need to write a 5 paragraph fanfic of your OTP. It needs to be size 12 font and not in Comic Sans. Remember, your 2 page paper on why you shouldn't skip Nine is due next week. |
| History: | ...And that's why Benedict Cumberbatch is on the 4 dollar bill. |
| Science: | Your homework is to watch 1 Episode of Doctor Who and identify 2 aliens and their home planets. |
| Drivers Ed: | So we avoid the pedestrians unless they are Cole Sprouse. |
| Math: | Now, can someone tell how Sherlock survived the fall from that height? |
"
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 till 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 for 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.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
(via pageoharawriter)
In sixth grade I was assigned to read ‘City of Ember’ by Jeanne DuPrau, and even though it was never a favorite of mine, I remember the idea of one line stuck with me - I can’t remember the exact wording, but it was about the main character’s feelings for her little sister, and she said she loved her ‘so much it was like an ache in her ribs’ (I’m paraphrasing).
At first it just stuck with me because I wondered what that meant - y’know, a sixth grader asking where love or joy and physical pain went hand in hand. I had experienced being so happy you cry, but not so much it hurts.
But I was cantering around bareback on my horse the other day and grinning so much the edges of my mouth were aching because I hadn’t seen him in months and I realized that I had felt that feeling before. Walking out of meal hall with my friends at university and laughing and looking out over my campus after dinner feels the same way as riding Bailey after ages of not being able to - it doesn’t make me sad at all, but it feels like a punch to the gut, it almost doubles me over.
So after a number of problems with depression and a schizoaffective disorder, both Bailey and my school can make me think of Kurt Vonnegut saying:
“I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”
Apparently I just need a bit of aching to make me notice.
You can’t always tell whether somebody has a mental illness by the way they act.
And “but you seem so happy/confident/well-rounded/normal” isn’t a compliment.
100% true.
Also, not to take away from mental illnesses, but I want to take the…
(Source: queenlisasimpson)
I’d like to thank this post for showing up on my dash right now.
(Source: huntersonahotelbed, via pageoharawriter)
