Don’t Forget To Recharge⚡️

“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)

When I lose hope in the world, I remember this poem.

(via bookoisseur)

I’m really glad I read that.

(via selfesteampunk)

Alef Vernon Art

supernatural🔮 [this is v simple & it prob won't loop]

Vine by sassaspookstiel.op

Just Supernatural 2/2

oooop I ACTUALLY did another odd crossover??  - this time with Zelda and The Incredibles. - (a parody of the famous “ my super suit?”-scene)

Cosmere Gothic

You should read Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson, someone tells you. You pick up the first book. You quite like Kelsier.

Although Vin is badass, you wish there were more female characters. Just wait until Wax and Wayne, your friend tells you. You do not know what that means.

Your friend tells you to keep an eye out for a guy named Hoid. You do. You do not see what’s so notable about him, but you remember the name.

You progress to the second book. You miss Kelsier. Why is Elend so naive? You rant.

You are worried about Marsh.

You start the third book. You do not understand anything. Your friend keeps talking about shards. Shards of what, you ask? They do not answer. No one answers you. You are alone, with far too many questions and no answers, just like Marsh.

You root for Spook.

You are concerned about Spook.

“When I said I missed Kelsier, this isn’t what I wanted!” you cry out to the void.

Your friend tells you to pay attention to Demoux’s physical description. You do, and then you promptly forget it.

You are bothered when Vin flees Fadrex on a recon mission. You do not understand. You find no answers the further you read.

Just thirty more pages, you tell yourself. Your favorite characters can make it thirty more pages.

You cry.

“What’s wrong?” your friend asks when you call them sobbing. “I finished Mistborn,” you say. “Oh,” they say, “I’m so sorry.”

Your friend tells you to read Warbreaker. You like the world of Mistborn. You don’t want to read a completely different series. You want more Mistborn.

Your friend smiles. You read Warbreaker.

You do not understand. Why is Hoid here?

It is time, your friend says ominously, for you to read Stormlight Archive.

You have many questions. Some of these are answered. Many are not, and you gain new questions. You fall in love with Jasnah Kholin.

You find the Coppermind. This does not clarify anything. The more answers you find the more questions you have.

Your friend laughs at your plight. You have no true friends anymore. Only an endless supply of questions.

You read Mistborn Era 2. You have very strong opinions about Wayne. You worship MeLaan as a true goddess in her own right. You are concerned about Sazed.

You finish Bands of Mourning. You scream into the void. I fell for it once already, you tell yourself, I will not fall for it again. Kelsier isn’t really back. Right?

Cackling, eyes brimming with the fires of inner madness, your friend hands you a duct-taped tome. On the cover, etched in faded silver ink that has seen the rise and fall of empires, you can just make out the words “Arcanum Unbounded.”

There are mysterious stains on many pages indicating that your friend either performed satanic blood rituals over the book or stayed up late reading it while eating spaghetti with red sauce. Either is likely, and you do not know which scares you more.

You stare numbly at the wall. School does not move you and neither does work.

You are scared. You are scared of what you do not understand, which is more than ever. You are scared of Kelsier. You are scared of the mysterious gray people (don’t bother with Elantris, your friend told you once). And most importantly you are scared of Hoid.

I over think things

that my head started to hurt.

best thing i’ve seen all year

They don’t have a king. Not yet.