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The Saddest Thing - The Billionaires Who Rule America Aren't Even Enjoying Themselves
This single post says more about our ruling class than a thousand policy papers. The saddest thing about today's system is that the men robbing the rest of us - sabotaging our economic prospects, our pensions, our access to affordable healthcare - are not even happy.
By Scott Christenson🌴25 days ago in The Swamp
I've Just Realized
The President doesn't understand music. There. It felt very good to write that; it's some thing I just realized today. Oh , yes; he plays it. He TRUMPets it in rallies and meetings, pumps it across the airwaves when he gathers up our minutes waiting for his late arrival.
By Judey Kalchik 22 days ago in Beat
Learn to Be Alone...
We often find that people are told to stop making 'X, Y and Z' their personality. Well, this only arose in the social media age as especially women's interests: reading, dramas, art etc. was heavily criticised as being 'useless'. It is historically well-documented that though many men require the work of women, whether it be through unpaid labour or entertainment, they also refuse to acknowledge it is important. This is why since it has been something of recognition, they have been complaining of a 'loneliness epidemic' now that women are withholding access.
By Annie Kapur28 days ago in Psyche
When True Love Never Questions Your Soul
“And she’s going to learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up, just so it can kick you in the stomach but getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.” — Sarah Kay’s Poem — If I Should Have a Daughter
By Chantal Christie Weiss23 days ago in Humans
from death into life
Young Aldin of Wiloh had never contemplated death. It was almost strange — so many around him had the tendency to obsess over it, to clamor and claw almost desperately at their own perceptions of the end to know death as much as they could: when it would come, why it would come, where it would take them when it did.
By angela hepworth23 days ago in Fiction
Analyse this!
Wanna know how to improve your writing? There is a simple, quick, tried and tested method. Tried and tested by who? By me, as it happens, and I can guarantee that it will work for you. I know what I am talking about. Not always, of course, but certainly in this case.
By Raymond G. Taylor23 days ago in Writers
Super Bowl LX Recap: A Team Called Hawks
Sixty. The Super Bowl turned 60! Still amazes me that this was the sixtieth Super Bowl played in NFL history. It seems like yesterday that I watched Super Bowl XXVII, the first SB I ever watched. The QB who won Super Bowl XXVII has since called a few SBs, and will call next year's game, but that's another story. Super Bowl LX took place at Levi's Stadium in Santa Clara, California, the home stadium of the San Francisco 49ers. However, it was one of their division foes who represented the NFC, as the Seattle Seahawks faced off against the New England Patriots.
By Clyde E. Dawkins23 days ago in Unbalanced
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova23 days ago in Poets
