Confessions of a Restrained Blogger
For one post only, I’ll take a stab at getting the last word.
For one post only, I’ll take a stab at getting the last word.
We’ve tried ███████, ██████████, and ███████████. Where has that gotten us?
I’m not looking at every fabric on the internet. I’m not looking at every news story either.
Harris promised the status quo. For the past 399 days, the status quo in Gaza has been brutality.
I struggle to write in terms that will be received by a general audience as measured, considerate, thoughtful, because for the past year Palestinian suffering has been irrational, malicious, unthinkable.
The haar has marched in from the sea as long as anyone can remember, a thick curtain falling over the land.
Something is wrong, but fixable. Surely these characters won’t break it further at every turn.
You know you are citizens of a world where justice is not prevailing.
The BDS Movement urges us to remember: how you spend your money matters.
In his last words, Bushnell asserted that his “extreme” final act was less than the extreme violence Israel has wrought against Palestine.
Leader: From the river to the sea,
People: Palestine will be free!
They call us now,
before they drop the bombs.
As I’m writing, the update page is subtitled “Israeli forces bomb Gaza from north to south”; a day later, “Six Palestinians killed in West Bank raids by Israel.”
I can’t stop thinking about the more than 10,000 Palestinians who have been murdered in the past month.
On a day something like October 9th, 66 million(ish) years ago, a blanket of soot clouded every sky, spilled over every horizon.
Read Piranesi by Susanna Clarke, on my recommendation, and gain no further information before reading.
If you lived in Manitoba, you could at least call today Terry Fox Day. But then you would live in Manitoba.
I once prepared a five-page document detailing all its quirks.
I do not, in life in general, scream—not on roller coasters, not in pain, not when Wet Leg encouraged the crowd to unleash bloodcurdling cries—but when Harry was on stage, I couldn’t hold back.
This is often our dichotomy: me with my mane of curly brown-red hair in bright, patterned pastiche; them with their almost-black shag and layers of black jackets.
It would take twenty months for that data to drip through the solar system. So I waited.
Life there doesn’t confuse me, but it’s no longer what I’m accustomed to. I’ve become a real city slicker.
In one corner, it imagines a boat.
There’s no escaping a year; we’re in it for the whole, well, year.
Vowel merges have led multiple people to mistake my tale about seeing the ferry with spotting a fairy or my ponderings about Frodo and Merry as Frodo and Mary.
Just before they leave my field of view, they look up.
Heterosexuality itself doesn’t have the capacity to inspire passion, to push boundaries, to ignite change.
I’d time the queue so that the lyric “can’t figure out / how I’m gonna get through the next 10 minutes” played as we arrived at the pitch.
I can sympathize with bowing to the weight of societal pressure, but the potential roots of that pressure make me deeply uncomfortable.
These plants simply grow, unimpeded, in ways that suit people and creatures alike.