Nerdcore › Marvin Gaye x Mos Def-Mashup Album ⇢

Holy shit. This is amazing.

(Source: newsweek)

When Aimé Césaire proclaimed that “Black is beautiful” and then with Senghor launched the concept of Negritude, he did not merely reject what his long stay in Paris had made out of him: a French intellectual and one of the elite graduates of the French university system, an intimate of the surrealists and a member of the French communist party. He also re affirmed himself as West Indian and Black. He returned to his country, took a teaching position in Fort de France and became the political representative of his country. For a brief time Fanon felt enthusiasm for the daring of his former teacher, but then he took the position that Negritude was not the solution and that in resisting the white error, we must not yield to the Black mirage. Thereupon we see him firing red-hot broad sides into Negritude, and condemning it in the most radical terms throughout his work. Nor has enough attention been paid to the fact that he scarcely ever set foot again in Martinique. It is even more striking that with the exception of two or three instances he never discussed the problems of his native island. His friends still recall today with what scornful irony he used to refer to his former fellow countrymen when he happened to speak of them.

- Albert Memmi, The Impossible Life of Frantz Fanon (via gaanjibo)

(via 2brwngrls)


(Source: redbitchlips, via 2brwngrls)

It’s easily the most contentious piece of real estate in the world, and there’s no hope, NONE, of ever talking about it without pissing somebody, if not everybody off. Maybe that’s why it’s taking me so long to come here. A place where even the names of ordinary things are ferociously disputed. Where does falafel come from? Who makes the best hummus? Is it a fence or a wall?

By the end of this hour, I’ll be seen by many, as a terrorist sympathizer, a zionist tool, a self-hating Jew, an apologist for American imperialism, an Orientalist, socialist, fascist, CIA agent, and worse. So here goes nothing.

- Anthony Bourdain in Jerusalem (via kateoplis)

English Is a Dialect With an Army ⇢

Everything about this. Every goddamn thing. 

(Source: litreflex)


This. This is a beautiful short doc. This is what quality video journalism should do to you.

[The Brothers Shaikh, featured in The New Yorker

Woman's work ⇢

Because Syria is no longer Syria. It is a nuthouse. There is the Italian guy who was unemployed and joined al-Qaeda, and whose mom is hunting for him around Aleppo to give him a good beating; there is the Japanese tourist who is on the frontlines, because he says he needs two weeks of “thrills”; the Swedish law-school graduate who came to collect evidence of war crimes; the American musicians with bin Laden-style beards who insist this helps them blend in, even though they are blonde and six-feet, five-inches tall. (They brought malaria drugs, even if there’s no malaria here, and want to deliver them while playing violin.) There are the various officers of the various UN agencies who, when you tell them you know of a child with leishmaniasis (a disease spread by the bite of a sand fly) and could they help his parents get him to Turkey for treatment, say they can’t because it is but a single child, and they only deal with “childhood” as a whole.

But we’re war reporters, after all, aren’t we? A band of brothers (and sisters). We risk our lives to give voice to the voiceless. We have seen things most people will never see. We are a wealth of stories at the dinner table, the cool guests who everyone wants to invite. But the dirty secret is that instead of being united, we are our own worst enemies; and the reason for the $70 per piece isn’t that there isn’t any money, because there is always money for a piece on Berlusconi’s girlfriends. The true reason is that you ask for $100 and somebody else is ready to do it for $70. It’s the fiercest competition. Like Beatriz, who today pointed me in the wrong direction so she would be the only one to cover the demonstration, and I found myself amid the snipers as a result of her deception. Just to cover a demonstration, like hundreds of others.

Yet we pretend to be here so that nobody will be able to say, “But I didn’t know what was happening in Syria.” When really we are here just to get an award, to gain visibility. We are here thwarting one another as if there were a Pulitzer within our grasp, when there’s absolutely nothing. We are squeezed between a regime that grants you a visa only if you are against the rebels, and rebels who, if you are with them, allow you to see only what they want you to see. The truth is, we are failures. Two years on, our readers barely remember where Damascus is, and the world instinctively describes what’s happening in Syria as “that mayhem,” because nobody understands anything about Syria—only blood, blood, blood. And that’s why the Syrians cannot stand us now. Because we show the world photos like that 7-year-old child with a cigarette and a Kalashnikov. It’s clear that it’s a contrived photo, but it appeared in newspapers and websites around the world in March, and everyone was screaming: “These Syrians, these Arabs, what barbarians!” When I first got here, the Syrians stopped me and said, “Thank you for showing the world the regime’s crimes.” Today, a man stopped me; he told me, “Shame on you.”

Had I really understood something of war, I wouldn’t have gotten sidetracked trying to write about rebels and loyalists, Sunnis and Shia. Because really the only story to tell in war is how to live without fear. It all could be over in an instant. If I knew that, then I wouldn’t have been so afraid to love, to dare, in my life; instead of being here, now, hugging myself in this dark, rancid corner, desperately regretting all I didn’t do, all I didn’t say. You who tomorrow are still alive, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you love enough? You who have everything, why you are so afraid?

(Source: azspot)

The murder trial of George Zimmerman did not allow jurors to deliberate over the fairness of Florida’s outlandishly broad self-defense laws. It did not allow them to debate the virtues of the state’s liberal gun laws or its evident tolerance for vigilantes. It did not permit them to delve into the racial profiling that took place that night by Zimmerman or into the misconduct and mischief that Martin may have engaged in long before he took that fatal trip to the store for candy. These factors, these elements, part of the more complete picture of this tragedy, were off limits to the ultimate decision-makers.

- Andrew Cohen (via theatlantic)

(via theatlantic)



“Our lives move deeper and slower—as if they are taking on weight. It’s good weight, most of it, but it alarms us, I think, at the way it feels like that added weight tries to sink us. I think it alarms Martha a lot.

“It’s like sinking through snow up to your ankles, or deeper. It’s like not being sure, one day, that the ice will hold you—when every day before, it has. It may be my imagination, but it seems like Martha doesn’t want to talk about this—that this accrual of weight is happening. As if she believes that any day now—tomorrow, for instance—things will begin to get lighter and freer again—even if she would admit to this weight-gathering occurring in the first place.

“I know she can feel it. She says all things are cyclic, and they are, but this thing—us—is somehow different.

“The things outside of us seem never to change, beyond the constancy of the four season—birth, life, death, rebirth—but I’m convinced that our lives are different, just a bit above or below these constant cycles. As if we are on some march through the woods toward those final cycles, toward some final, newer place.

“But Martha won’t hear any of this kind of talk. She says it’s all the same. She says nothing’s changing. And still: depsite the endlessness of the days, and the seeming strength of our continuity, there are fractures and gaps, where whole chunks of time will fall away—as if calving away from the whole, too weak to stay fastened to the core. Things that were assumed to be lock-solid, rock-sure, fall away, leaving only loss, emtpiness and confusion.

“And we start anew.”

Rick Bass, from “Two Deer”
Art Credit Jarek Puczel

But actually this was how I really watched the fireworks. 

But actually this was how I really watched the fireworks. 

Let’s call this: tending towards entropy

[Photo: July 4, 2013. Fireworks over the Potomac. Washington, DC]

The Al Jazeera English Tumblr: Egyptian authorities target Al Jazeera ⇢


  • Al Jazeera Mubasher Misr managing director held
  • Al Jazeera Arabic broadcast equipment seized
  • APTN ordered to withhold feed from Al Jazeera channels

Al Jazeera is demanding the immediate release of staff members detained overnight in Cairo.

Egyptian forces…

(Source: aljazeerapr)

What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelly to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy—a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.

-  "What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?" by Frederick Douglass   (via letterstomycountry)

(Source: antigovernmentextremist, via apsies)

I fell asleep, and when I woke up the man next to me asked, ‘Excuse me, are you someone important?’ I must have looked confused. He explained: ‘I’m asking because the stewardesses came over and were watching you sleep.’

- Eddie Redmayne (via gq)

(via gq)



Looking back on five years of marriage in California

The Times profiled Paul Waters and Kevin Voecks back in 2008, when they were among the first wave of same-sex couples to be married in California.

Five years later, with Proposition 8 coming to an end after the Supreme Court’s decision yesterday, photo editor Jeremiah Bogert revisited the still-married couple to see how their relationship has evolved, and their thoughts on the major shifts in public opinion over gay marriage since their own nuptials.

Voecks: I’m stunned at the rapidity of the change. Not just statewide, but nationally and internationally. After working for gay rights since the ’70s when decades would go by with little or no movement, we now see changes within months.

Waters: I’m delighted to see the change. I also know with absolute certainty that the current level of support is not the end point but merely a milestone along the path toward near universal support.

And how’s the happy couple progressing?

Voecks: I can honestly say, better than ever. No exaggeration. Every day is better, and we are really the envy of both gay and straight couples who say they have never seen such a happy relationship.

Waters: I’ll go along with that.

Read more over at Framework.

Photos: Gary Friedman / Los Angeles Times