it’s really interesting how so many mythological creatures that are exclusively female (harpies, banshees, sirens) are described as having really piercing or unpleasant or otherwise notable voices? sirens kill men with their songs, banshees shriek when someone is about to die, harpies are awful cawing bird-women
(watch out for the girls who know how to make noise; we are monsters)
People on tumblr find everything fucking offensive jesus christ
I hope you get torn apart by maenads
very tired of progressive types writing about how the US needs food stamps or a higher minimum wage or rehabilitative criminal justice because it’d somehow be better for the economy
The calculations are almost always trying to extrapolate the effects of big changes from previously observed little changes, which is generally wildly inaccurate. Also they never consider whether this is the best use of scarce resources (or if, say, housing vouchers are more high-impact than food stamps). But most of all whatever argument you’re making immediately sounds way colder and unprincipled?
Like if your best argument against child malnutrition is that it hurts aggregate consumer demand and your best argument against the government administering lethal injections based on inability to access legal defense is that it’s expensive, that’s kind of missing the point here. GDP is growing steadily and the government can borrow money for incredibly cheaply and holy eff since when is the government solely a machine for increasing GDP anyway? These arguments are so unpersuasive to anyone and cede all notion of principle to hardcore conservative and it’s kind of embarrassing to keep reading them.
Here are some interesting websites for the Iranian poetry curious among you:
The Translation Project brings Iranian-inspired projects to the world in literary translation.
Behind these eyes that look like mine
old names are fading away, the past lies crumpled in my clenched fist -
a coppery bird in coppery wind,
this vast place has covered me from head to toe.
I am not stripped of word and thought
but sometimes what I want to say gets lost
like a moon smudged with cloud, or when I splutter on a drink.
My tongue trips up when I speak of that journey
though the blood in my veins felt the truth of death.
As I traced my footsteps through the tracery of my old language
Summer whispered to me
and my frozen fingers began to put out shoots
even as I began to love the cold ebb and flow of tides.
Sometimes I miss
the boat that brought me here,
now that I am witness to the icy eyes of a Swedish winter,
under these tired old clouds,
while that suitcase still holds a patch of the sky-blue me.