#I am not equipped it's like I am a domesticated animal that's been thrown out to become a stray | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nickywhoisi · 2 years

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HAAAAAAAHHH SO IT HAS BEEN A WHILE

Curently in a place where I can finally access battery for my phone, and internet. I really wish I didn't have this take so long, as I apparently...have an audience now? Who actually likes what I have to say and provide? O_O wowzers I am so unready for this love. But it is...you have no idea how welcome it is, to just be noticed by people. It has been ACTUAL AGES OF MY LIFESPAN before I was evr given a proper chance at healthy attention, and positive relations like this. I am so...overwhelmed, but for once, that's in a good way. For once, I can feel glad and good about it.

Which is especially importantin my life, as I have...kind of lost everything I had once known and valued, loved, in my life. My home many years ago that has only gotten worse over time with the strangers owning and tearing it up in ways I vould never even describe, the last places I had which were at least places I tried to relax and enjoy myself in and attempt to start my own life on my own terms, which didn't really happen as I wanted, even any other place which had a bath, private toiletry and no rent pay which was always more my speed of living to begin with, family that revealed their true ugly nature over time. Everything I ever knew got upended and I feel very driven insane. And in this year I was sickeningly and mercilessly kicked out, WITH NO FINANCIAL SAFETY NET OR FRIENDS OUTSIDE OR ANYTHING ELSE TO FALL BACK ON, MIND. I WAS LITERALLY THROWN OUT TO DIE BY THE ONE WHO WAS CALLED "MY MOTHER". But the truth is, I have never in my life had a real mother, or entire family, no matter how hard or how long I've been searching. And there were so....no, too much that happened inbetween then and these few months, up to this month, where I am officially homeless. I have already spent days sleeping outside and it has been both freeing, but terrifying. I can't enjoy the freedom while I've been scared of problems arising from being hit by weather storms. I have had to teach myself and macgyver so many things just to ensure unexpected things don't happen outside, and I still don't know what I'm going to do when I finally need a shower. The only funds I have left anymore are what I have to pay a storage, my phone data plan, and buy food ONLY. Anything else for survival, I have to either rely on what I already own or buy the cheapest possible to conserve money. I was so afraid that I would never have internet or power again and I wouldn't be able to contact you all or ever have fun again, but thank god there's been free wifi spots and charging stations set up in certain places so I can camp out. As fir sleeping, I only have one chair to lug around and it has been SO IMPOSSIBLY TIRING SOMETIMES but at least I have something with a hood over me, and the additional protection of building roofs. I almost...feel both the weakest I've evr been, and physically stronger everyday, and I am so damaged and driven insane with rage and grief and I wantto die because it has been truly unbearable to GO THROUGH ALL OF THIS AND STILL NEVERBE HELPED...RESCUED BY ANYONE. I...just want to be adopted by a good family and brought to a real good home, to stay forever, and forget I ever went through this. Truly start my life all over and begin it like it deserved to be.

So to anyone who has bothered to read this...my god, thank you. I did say once that I wanted to only save this blog for fun happy good things, but so far, my real issues and situations have bled through in my speech anyway, so I think there's no going back now. Now that you know my story, I desperately ask that someone help me out. I live in Canada, around 80ave, in a red chair with a little canopy cover on it. That's all I can really say safely, without being doxxed for my identity. I don't want anyone but the right people to find me now...just to help me, rescue me from this homeless, familyless, friendless, joyless hell I have to face now, without any choice of my own. But for once, I want my choices to matter, AND be finalized, unchanged, unchallenged, unstolen away from me. I AM SO TIRED AND DEAD. I WANT TO DIE EVERYDAY BECAUSE NOONE AND NOTHING IS ALLOWING ME TO LIVE, THE WAY I ONCE EARNESTLY WANTED TO. GOD, HELP. ME.

#yeah I am actually under all this #I am actually crazy...so driven crazy with nothing good in my life anymore #except this #Tumblr...just this place so far #But its not the same as a real house to live in and be safe #I need to live with someone just for free I just can't deal with taxes or rent or anything...#I am not equipped it's like I am a domesticated animal that's been thrown out to become a stray #Or dead #Dear god someone help me #I'm driven insane over all these....every single piece of negativity I have had thrown in my face #And I cannot take any more...yet things keep coming and it nevr stops and I can't take this death life anymore #help

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knit-wear-it · 4 years

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Drunk Tank

Mood: (Harley x Ledger!Joker) Harley sees the Joker drunk for the first time. A little window into their relationship after the initial high of getting together has passed, and they’re still settling into living together. This period of time is probably the sweet spot for prompts, btw.

Rating: Domestic 💯

Prompt: From Anon, Harley & J get drunk together or one of them reacts to the other getting drunk.

Drunk Tank, a Harlequin-Tumblr-Exclusive

It was mid-October, just a week after Harley and the Joker’s tussle with the Odessa gang, which of course, ended with Harley murdering their leader Boris Kosov via a brick to the skull. What was she supposed to do, let him live?

Black Canary arrived shortly thereafter, and now Harley was sporting three broken fingers on her right hand as a result of the fight that followed. They were taped up and splinted, rendering her remarkably useless. You couldn’t shoot with broken fingers, let alone be effective with a knife or any other kind of weapon. It was a frustrating injury, and made her feel like a liability, her hand tucked in her coat as she stood to the side while the Joker did the busy work.

Being useless was not something Harley Quinn was well-equipped to deal with, making her feel sulky and even a little depressed.

She and the Joker were almost two months into their experiment in togetherness, and Harley was still riding the wave of certainty and freedom that came with giving in to whatever this thing was between them. She couldn’t define it; she just knew it was there, vibrating at some higher frequency, and making her feel invincible.

Invincible until her own physicality got in the way, it seemed.

They were hardly a ‘talking about their feelings’ couple, but Harley sensed he was annoyed with her moodiness over being injured. He didn’t taunt her about it, which Harley interpreted as a choice to not make her feel worse, a genuinely surprising development. Obviously, there was no sympathy, and no attempt to cheer her up. He just wasn’t making it worse.

Over the last few days, she’d taken to hibernating, and he’d been out with increasing frequency. Maybe avoiding her. Maybe he just wanted to be out. Harley wasn’t sure what to make of it.

She knew the Joker better than anyone, and for the most part she could read him like an open book. Especially when things were good — the giddiness of companionship, the thrill of something new and head-spinningly good elevating everything. But they were only human, and things couldn’t always be good. They definitely couldn’t always be new.

That night J was out with Marty, leaving Harley at the safe house to sulk over her broken fingers and indulge in moody thoughts about the Joker losing interest in her. She didn’t really believe it would be that simple, but she was depressed, and it was morbidly satisfying to go to the darker corners of her mind.

It was edging up to 3 AM, and she was in bed watching reruns of Made in the Diamond District on an old laptop missing most of its keys. Ivania Dumas had just thrown a shoe at Bobby Kennedy’s head when Harley heard the loud creak of the window in the living room opening. Her head snapped up at the CRASH that followed, prompting her to jump out of bed and grab the handgun tucked in a holster slung over the headboard.

Harley sidled up to the bedroom door, flicking the safety off her piece and pressing her back against the wall.

Then there was a gruff sing-songy grumbling out in the living room, making her eyes widen as she realized this was no unlucky burglar.

She stepped out of the bedroom and slapped the light on at the wall, a pair of sconces blinking on, dimly illuminating the cramped kitchen and living room area.

The Joker was sitting on the floor beneath the narrow, horizontal window, having apparently rolled through it and fallen to the floor. His legs were splayed out in front of him, his green-stained hair flopping over his forehead, his warpaint mostly wiped away apart from some black clinging to his eyelashes and red staining his lips.

He blinked rapidly under the lights, squinting up at Harley as she drew closer, her brow furrowed, confused.

“Wait-wait,” he slurred, smirking as he stretched both arms up toward her, swaying. “Don’t shoot, officer. I’m uh… I’m innocent.”

He giggled shrilly and Harley’s eyes widened even further as she realized what she was seeing.

“Are you… drunk?” she demanded, incredulous.

The Joker swayed forward, squeezing his eyes shut as he giggled to himself.

Harley set the gun aside on the kitchen counter, unsure how to react. She’d never seen him drunk before, and she’d never been drunk in his presence either. There just wasn’t time for it. Sure, neither of them would turn down a drink, especially after some especially chaotic work, but it was crucial to be present when you were wanted terrorists constantly on the run from the Batman.

“So, I guess you and Marty had some fun?” she asked tentatively, undeniably curious about this development.

“Mmm,” the Joker nodded sluggishly and shrugged out of his coat, leaving it in a puddle on the floor behind him.

Harley watched him try to push himself up twice only to fall on his ass both times. On his third attempt she stepped forward and grabbed him by the elbow, hauling him to his feet.

The Joker promptly lost his balance and staggered forward into Harley. She caught him by the lapels, but he forced her backward, his hands closed around her waist, fisting into her oversized tee shirt. Harley’s back hit the counter separating the tiny kitchen from the living room, her spine striking the edge, sending a fissure of irritation rolling through her.

“Hey!” she yelped, punching him on the arm with her good hand.

But the Joker just chuckled slyly and proceeded to tug her tee shirt up to reveal the black bikini-briefs she wore beneath. Then he swayed backwards, squinting down at them.

“Dawwwwww,” he cooed, sounding disappointed. “You’re wearing… panties.”

Before Harley could respond, his attention had already shifted. He dropped her shirt in favour of sliding both gloved hands into her hair, which was already greasy and wavy. He rocked back on his heels unsteadily as he flexed his fingers against her scalp, zhuzing her hair to make it big and fluffy before he released her to get a look at his work.

“Mmm,” he blinked at her sleepily, and tucked one messy lock of hair behind her ear.

“Wow,” Harley laughed, not knowing how else to respond to this bizarre behaviour.

“Ya know, there was a girl tonight,” the Joker smoothed her hair back from her face, his gloves snagging a few honey blonde strands, as ungentle as ever.

“A girl?” Harley’s eyebrows rose curiously.

“Mm,” he nodded and flapped one hand carelessly. “My uh… animal magnetism is impossible to ignore.”

“Did she tell you that?” Harley fought back a smile.

“Oohhhh,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “It was uh, pretty obvious when she climbed into my lap.”

“Really?” Harley pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. “Did she realize who you are?”

“Psshhht,” the Joker hissed through his teeth, which might have meant he had no idea and didn’t care. “But I said… sorry sweetheart,” he slapped a hand over his heart dramatically. “I’m taken.”

“That’s good to hear,” Harley deadpanned, smirking.

“And she said, awwww, is she gonna get jealous.” His eyes grew heavy as he dramatized the retelling. “And I said, kitty-cat my girl don’t do jealous.”

Harley snorted, amused. But he wasn’t done yet.

“And she went, I bet I can make her jealous.” He threaded his fingers into Harley’s hair again, piling it up on top of her head this time. “And I said, honey, you don’t know my girl. She...” He growled quietly, his eyes suddenly intense as they trailed over Harley’s face, making her heart leap. “She’s a real pistol…”

He tipped forward suddenly, ostensibly going in for a kiss, but his nose crashed into Harley’s cheek, his fingers in her hair pulling at her scalp.

“Alright, Casanova,” Harley pushed on his chest and he swayed backward, his hands falling out of her hair. “Are you hungry?”

“Mmmmmmm,” he seemed to confirm with one big lazy nod. Then he yanked her shirt up to get a look at her panties again.

“Hungry for food,” Harley clarified, grinning openly as she pushed him away.

He staggered back, struggling out of his blazer while Harley circled into the kitchen to dig out left-over Caribbean food from the fridge. As she threw it into the microwave, the Joker stumbled into the bedroom, making Harley laugh softly as she listened to him crash into things trying to get undressed. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it, except that with his already-microscopic inhibitions lowered, some exceptionally fond feelings for her were floating to the surface of a brain usually concerned with more practical matters.

Harley examined her splinted fingers, the anxiety that she was annoying him with her ‘moodiness’ dissipating. Maybe he had been annoyed, but if this… affection for her was what was beneath that…

Harley sighed, trying not to beam stupidly as she grabbed the food out of the microwave.

She stepped into the bedroom to find the Joker had divested himself of his clothes, and was sprawled out on the bed naked, attempting to light a poorly rolled cigarette with a disposable lighter.

“That’s dignified,” Harley drawled, handing him the box of take out, distracting him from the cigarette, which he promptly threw across the room in favour of the food.

Harley smiled and shook her head, circling to her side of the bed. She slid into the same position she’d been in before her partner staggered home drunk, demanding her attention. Feeling outrageously content, she tapped on the laptop to the episode playing, thinking that even shit-faced, the Joker was still an agent of chaos.

Just a far less threatening variety of it.

Fin

A/N: For the record, the Joker was totally out drinking with Marty to avoid Harley sulking over her broken fingers, haha. This is a perfect little look at their relationship before this weekend’s new chapter of the Pantomime.

Like it, reblog it, leave a note, show me some love 🥰

"Alright, Casanova” 👇 LOL.

#one shot #prompt #the harlequin #the pantomime #the joker #harley quinn #jarley #fluff #domestic #harley x joker #ledger joker

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michaelbartram · 7 years

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Illusion

Chapter 3 (previous chapters plus Prologue below in reverse order)

After the overnight train across the pampa, they changed to a branch-line. The rails curved through forest, gleaming in the morning sun. One or two windows were open. The air in the carriage was soon saturated with woodland scents. In time forest gave way to fertile valleys and flower-strewn meadows.

There were all sorts in the carriage. Old and young, smart and shabby. Some wore trainers and sported logos, others had tailored coats and expensive luggage. Besides being all apparently middle-class, what they had in common was enjoyment of the passing scene and a sense of anticipation.

‘Look at that!’

‘Can’t complain yet.’

‘Exactly what we wanted.’

The train rumbled on. After a while, the pointing out and chatting subsided. People read quietly or did the crossword. In time most, including Claudio and Felicia, dozed off.

Around midday, after a long, gentle climb, the train finally juddered to a halt. There were murmurs of ‘We’re here.’ Those still sleeping awoke to a charming and novel scene. An old Spanish colonial town with tiled roofs and painted facades lay cradled in the mountains around whose peaks clung wisps of cloud.

‘All change for Arcadia!’

Assembling themselves, the travellers got down from the train. Luggage was loaded on to a truck. They were informed that they would be re-united with their bags in the main square. Would they kindly make their way there on foot, the point of departure for the final stage of the journey. Claudio and Felicia’s group headed down the street, slowly coming back to life. Taking in delightful details, one or two pointed and murmured.

‘I’ve never heard of this place. Why isn’t it in the guidebooks?’

‘So well preserved.’

New people appeared from side streets. Had they left the station by another way? Or had they come to this distant outpost by bus, or perhaps even car? Whatever the explanation, together with Claudio and Felicia’s companions, these others soon formed a silent throng which caught the attention of the townspeople, who broke off conversations and lowered their shopping bags and stared as if they had never seen anything like it in their sleepy town. Motorists wound down their windows and had a good look too.

Finally the newcomers reached the square. Primitive carts fitted with solid wooden wheels and crude platforms for luggage were neatly lined up. The air was filled with horsey champing and the clinking of metal shoes on cobble stones.

Claudio peered underneath one of the carts. ‘As I anticipated,’ he said, ‘No suspension. We’re in for a bumpy journey.’

‘But there’s all that,’ said Felicia pointing to straw bales and cushions. ‘Don’t worry about your precious arse, Claudio.’

Office workers crowded at the upper windows, shouting down.

‘You lot! Do you know where you’re going?’

‘There’s nowhere after here.’

‘It’s bandit country.’

‘Hey townies, stay and spend your money here. Then you can fuck off.’

A menacing mood was starting to prevail as some of the travellers began to shout back. A dustbin lid was thrown from a top storey. It was only plastic but it could have hurt somebody. A group of policemen stood by, fingering their revolvers.

Claudio shook his head. ‘Look at that, Felicia. Provincial cretins relieving the boredom of life in the sticks. Their Spanish is practically incomprehensible.’

She dug her fingers into his ribs. ‘Come on, you old snob. Live and let live. Remember, we’re here for something different.’

‘Not this, I trust.’

At a signal the cart-drivers jumped down from the pillions, helped the guests up and loaded their suitcases and boxes. With everybody on board, at last all was ready.

‘Holloah!’

‘We’re off.’

‘Hold tight!’

With shouts and whip-cracks the carts rumbled out of the square. The office workers let go parting insults, then turned from their windows.

Up at the main road, the police held up the traffic while the carts crossed. The file wound through back streets and, after a climb through a suburb, came to open country. The carts trundled through scrubland for twenty minutes. At a turning marked ‘Private Road’ the file peeled off.

Further up they went. The country opened out on to a plateau dotted with bushes and wind-bent trees, with scraggy cows and sheep.

Claudio, like everyone else, was stunned into silence. The lumbering carts and primitive discomfort annoyed yet intrigued him. This was what travel used to be. The carts had the authentic note. Perhaps they really were going to be stepping back into the past.

He glanced at Felicia, who, after a lively interlude, seemed to be glazing over with tiredness. How could that be? She had slept for hours on the train. Was this some wretched comedown from the cocaine that she wasn’t supposed to have with her? At this point he would have liked to have a conversation with a historically-minded person, not be with a woman who could only dig him in the ribs or lean over him in drug-induced exhaustion. He reflected that there were people in the world who would appreciate just how ‘pre-modern’ this holiday was already turning out to be. But not Felicia. She knew it was ‘different’ but she couldn’t have been less interested in the historical perspective. She and her generation had no grasp of the past.

Against hope, he murmured to Felicia, ‘These carts are pretty damned authentic, you know.’

‘Mm?.. I’m sleepy, Claudio.’

‘Felicia, you lack…’ He broke off since every word could be heard. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he whispered. ‘You can sleep for a week if you want to once we’re there.’

His spirits sagged. If only his wretched sexual obsession didn’t determine everything he did. Then he could be here with a woman more on his level. He reflected that his desire had to run its course, which it would, except that he couldn’t imagine it.

And with that thought, the landscape which a moment ago had delighted him pulled him down. He glowered at the sky beyond the barren scrubland. For the first time he began to experience real doubt. Where were they going? What would they discover? What was he doing there with Felicia? Who was in charge?

When he came to himself, the terrain had changed. There was still an impression of vastness but softer undulations, grassy verges and tidy clumps of trees suggested a domestication confirmed by crops laid out in fields of comfortable proportion, separated by neat tracks. They passed a carefully stacked pile of tools and equipment. Wheat had just been harvested. The sun came out and spread a golden carpet at far as Claudio could see. Now, from all around came shouts from gleaners grouped round circulating oxen. The animals lumbered round, brushed by the whips, casting shadows against the yellow stubble.

The scene took his breath away. The biblical illustrations from his childhood had come to life.

The unresponsiveness, not just of Felicia, but of all his companions annoyed him. He had noticed that that they had seemed happy enough when they got off the train. Couldn’t they get over the discomfort and appreciate they were looking at something like Palestine in the time of David and Solomon? To Claudio, an experience like this was beyond price.

‘Wild,’ he said out loud to anybody who might be listening. ‘Primitive.’

An over-dressed man with a small moustache who had led the field in groaning and tutting with each lurch of the cart, fixed him quizzically. ‘Primitive? These people work for Arcadia. Don’t they, driver?’

The driver nodded.

‘I meant it in a complimentary way,’ replied Claudio. ‘You know, like the illustrated Bibles of our childhood.’

He aimed at friendliness but everyone could see the two men were about to lock horns.

‘My parents were atheists and I went to a progressive school,’ said the moustache.

‘Ah, well, lucky you. My parents were Jewish, come to that.’

‘A little patronising, don’t you think.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Claudio, ‘I am not patronising you.’

‘I didn’t say you were patronising me. No, it’s the “primitives” you are condescending to.’

Claudio bridled. ‘I wasn’t saying the people were primitive. The scene, maybe… in some sense.’

‘They are people like us. We are safe in the hands of familiars, don’t you worry about that.’ Was this man being sarcastic or did the gleaners really make him feel secure?

‘If that’s your attitude,’ Claudio responded with a shrug, not in fact fathoming the man’s attitude at all, only that it was flavoured with hostility.

The other drew himself up. ‘I have no attitude. I am only interested in facts, rather than romantic distortions.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Claudio, ‘distortion is your strong suit. You’ve read plenty into my simple observations.’

This unfriendly exchange was a signal for everyone else to start talking if only from embarrassment.

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sensitivefern · 7 years

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May 20 [1969]. Dentist in Lowville in morning: some hope, clean well-equipped and staffed; he had had a case of a woman with only one tooth in her lower jaw and given her something she could chew with. In the afternoon, Glyn took me over to visit the Mennonite community at Croghan, which I hadn’t known existed. We visited the bishop, very German – all the names are German – a tall and dark farmer, with pale blond wife and daughters, who did not look flourishing and who I thought could have profited from some of the gayer clothes that the Mennonite girls are supposed to do without. He took us to the church – white, no steeple, bare and ample, only a pulpit at one end; cemetery neat and trim, the little stones in rows all exactly alike. Mennonism is almost five centuries old. They have not kept up the old costume, with special hat and coat and no buttons but hooks.

Since the two or three days of pouring rain, the country was flooded as I have never seen it: the pastures turned into lakes, the Black River all over its bordering fields. Sugar River a turbulent muddy torrent, a pond in our back lot.

[Edmund Wilson]

===

A civilization crumbled. The question is, how did this happen?

Today most historians and anthropologists believe the culprit was disease... the source of contagion was very likely not De Soto’s army but its ambulatory meat locker: his three hundred pigs. De Soto’s company was too small to be an effective biological weapon... [...] Pigs were as essential to the conquistadors as horses. Spanish armies traveled in a porcine cloud... the lean, hungry animals circled the troops like darting dogs. neither species regarded the arrangement as novel; they had lived together in Europe for millennia. When humans and domesticated animals share quarters, they are constantly exposed to each other’s microbes. Over time mutation lets animal diseases jump to people: avian influenza becomes human influenza, bovine rinderpest becomes human measles, horsepox becomes human smallpox. Unlike Europeans, Indians did not live in constant contact with many animals.

[1491]

===

Phoenix Memo The Phoenix memo was investigated thoroughly... We will recap it briefly here. In July 2001, an FBI agent in the Phoenix field office sent a memo to FBI headquarters and to two agents on international terrorism squads in the New York Field Office, advising of the ‘possibility of a coordinated effort by Usmaa Bin Ladin’ to send students to the United States to attend civil aviation schools. The agent based his theory on the ‘inordinate number of individuals of investigative interest’ attending such schools in Arizona.

The agent made four recommendations to FBI headquarters: to compile a list of civil aviation schools, establish liaison with those schools, discuss his theories about Bin Ladin with the intelligence community, and seek authority to obtain visa information on persons applying to flight schools. His recommendations were not acted on.

[The 9/11 Report]

===

The animals we see in the suburbs and semirural areas – deer, raccoons, coyotes, alligators, and even bears – are opportunists that do quite well on what we... have around us. Why should a bear bother picking tiny berries when it could dine at its leisure from the dumpster behind a fast-food restaurant?

Deer don’t go for the trash, but they do love the same plants we do. The deer also browse the forest understory, with severe and often overlooked results. [...] I once visited a several-acre garden in Ohio. It was a collection of rhododendrons amassed over decades. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see. The plants had been nearly mowed to the ground by deer.

There was a small vegetable garden at the center of this landscape. It was surrounded by a simple picket fence only 2 feet tall, which was... there to stop the bunnies. Deer hadn’t touched any of those plants. Why?

The vegetable plants were growing in raised beds with wood plank sides. The paths were narrow. A deer attempting to hop over the fence would not have had a clear place to land. Deer won’t jump without a safe spot for a touchdown. The same kind of arrangement can be made with a double fence. Deer hop more than they long jump. One fence 3 to 4 feet tall with another one positioned about 4 feet inside it may keep them out.

I visited another garden where chain-link fencing had been sued. But it wasn’t installed vertically. It was pegged to the ground. The lawn could be mowed over the fencing, but deer would not walk on it. Deer (like cattle) won’t walk where the footing isn’t sure.

[The New Shade Garden]

===

Angelonia is a ‘top-notch tender perennial’ that is a ‘strong team player’ – ‘front-and-center or on the sidelines’... Why, Mr., just ‘pop it in place, stand back, and enjoy the show’... the spikes bear pink, white, or purple blooms... deadheading not necessary... pinching growing stem tips is optional... they love the heat and tolerate dry conditions... the breeders have simply ‘gone like gangbusters on this plant’... the Angelface series is known for the strong stems, while the Serena series brings forth a more compact, bushier form...

[The Nonstop Garden]

===

April 16 [1855]. The spearer’s light to-night, and, after dark, the sound of geese honking all together very low over the houses and apparently about to settle on the Lee meadow. [...] I am startled sometimes these mornings to hear the sound of doves alighting on the roof just over my head; they come down so hard upon it, as if one had thrown a heavy stick on to it, and I wonder it does not injure their organizations. Their legs must be cushioned in their sockets to save them from the shock?

When we reached Britton’s clearing on our return this afternoon, at sunset, the mountains, after this our warmest day as yet, had got a peculiar soft mantle of blue haze, pale blue as a blue heron, ushering in the long series of summer sunsets, and we were glad that we had stayed out so late and felt no need to go home now in a hurry.

[Thoreau, Journal]

===

❚David Frum “A greater %age of Republicans support Trump than backed Ronald Reagan after his first four weeks in the Oval Office

David Frum Assembling peaceably to demand the redress of grievances?? Is that even legal? Donald J. Trump The so-called angry crowds in home districts of some Republicans are actually, in numerous cases, planned out by liberal activists. Sad!

The Safest Place To Be During A Tornado Is In My Arms Robert J. Fenton Acting FEMA Director As tornado season approaches in many parts of the country, it’s my job to remind the public that these storms can be dangerous and often strike without warning. That’s why preparation is crucial. Whether you’ve heard it many times before or are hearing it now for the very first time, it bears repeating that the safest place to be when a tornado hits is right here in my arms.

Cat That Spends Life On One Of Two Couch Cushions Given Rabies Vaccine

Hadley Freeman Assange casually dismissing a sexual offence? Colour me whatever the opposite of shocked is! Julian Assange US 'liberals' today celebrate the censorship of right-wing UK provocateur Milo Yiannopoulos over teen sex quote.

Hunde-Attacke - Bulldogge...

The Sesame Street Theme Performed in a Minor Key

Sen. Joni Ernst Runs From Constituents Fast As Her Bread Bag Shoes Will Carry Her. ...As she was running away, they were yelling, “DO YOUR JOB!” because George Soros won’t sign your protest check unless you say those special words. ...And then finally, as she was riding away in her car, they yelled, “SHAME ON YOU!” at her.

Alex Jones is the proprietor of InfoWars, a conspiracy website that has asserted that the Sandy Hook massacre never happened and that 9/11 was planned by the U.S. government. He is also, he told the New York Times in a piece published Sunday, in regular touch with our president, Donald Trump. We already knew that Trump praised Jones during an appearance on his radio show and that they reportedly spoke in November after the election. Now the White House appears to have confirmed, to the Times, Jones' contention that he and Trump are phone buddies...

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