Latest Posts by coffeewasamistake - Page 3

what if i told you there was one user on the russian social network/ video sharing website odnoklassniki/oднокла́ссники that has uploaded nearly every movie ever from 1896 to the current day, mostly with subtitles. and including that has uploaded every criterion collection film in full hd with subtitles. for free. all hail ok.ru user fleurinna guta

they keep their films in unlisted folders so you cant just see them all on their profile unfortunately but ill provide links. also don't ask me why this user separates their films in this way, i don't know and frankly it confuses me too.

EUROPEAN FILMS (sometimes includes west asian films?)

JAPANESE FILMS

CLASSIC FILMS (aka american and British films)

"MISC FILMS" (aka films from everywhere that isn't the usa, europe, japan. sometimes films from the GDR are in here which is confusing again because communist germany was still part of europe)

this is a much better alternative to stuff like 123movies or bflix because there are no hot singles in your area or games that you wont last 5 minutes playing. hope u enjoy and let us all praise and embrace user fleurinna guta

Something about this makes me weirdly emotional

I bought a roll of chicken netting to fence off my vegetable garden—which I haven't planted yet because it's been raining every single day for like two months and I didn't want my young tomato plants to rot, but the weather is finally improving. I'll plant my garden next week, and I wanted to trim the grass around it and clear the area of weeds, but then I remembered I have animals that can do this job.

So I opened the pasture in front of the (future) garden. Currently it looks like a long pile of dirt, because that's what it is (well, compost + llama manure + dirt)—but look how long it is! I'm feeling ambitious this year and I have quintupled the length of my initial hügelkultur mound.

You might be surprised to learn that Pirlouit was the first animal who noticed the opening in the fence and got out. It's not actually surprising because Pirou has a fresh grass-dar—but Pampe was very much surprised & vexed.

Everyone looked really happy to have access to this new little area!

Initially I thought I would be able to continue preparing the garden while they were eating, but I quickly realised I was too paranoid for that. I mean, it's Pampe vs. a small temporary fence meant for chickens. Enough said. I didn't dare to turn my back on her even for a minute, so I ended up just sitting in the grass next to them with a book, which was really nice.

Pampe decided to lie down in the grass to eat more comfortably, something Pirlouit still deeply disapproves of.

Poldine however thinks it's a brilliant idea.

Update: all my llamas are now horizontal, eating like three Roman emperors. Only Pirlouit continues to mind his table manners.

Of course this peacefulness couldn't last, and after stuffing herself with new grass for half an hour, Pampe remembered there was also a new fence to think about.

She decided to lie down again 5 centimetres away from it, so she could inspect it and strategise while maintaining a demeanour of relaxed innocence.

I was not relaxed.

You are exhausting.

At 7:30pm I started feeling torn, because I don't like to miss apéritif time but—could I run to the kitchen to get a glass of apéritif and some biscuits and run back before Pampe had time to do anything? (The kitchen is 15 metres away.) (I feel like this detail doesn't change anything and if I inserted a poll here everyone would massively vote "Pampe will have time to escape")

But you would be wrong!! When I returned from my quick and suspenseful dash to the kitchen, guess who was on the verge of doing something illegal...?

PAMPOLDINE. Bad llama!! She was interested in tasting the flowers on the other side and she was pretty bashful when I shooed her away.

I believe the only reason Pampérigouste didn't escape is because she assumed her daughter was about to, so her family's reputation was maintained, she would get to see me run and curse llamakind and straighten the fence grumpily, and she didn't even have to get up.

Which goes to show that she doesn't escape due to a deep and unquenchable thirst for freedom, but to aggravate me personally.

I settled on my ash wood throne to have apéritif, comfortably seated in full view of all the animals—

—so of course Pampe immediately got up and went to inspect the fence on the other end of this little pen, behind the hazel tree that was blocking my line of sight, in the one place that I couldn't see from my seat.

I had to get up to see what she was doing (and angrily wave a stick in her direction until she moved away) and when I returned to my tree stump there was a little insect swimming in my wine. Pampe lay down again, pleased with herself.

When it was dinner time and I kindly invited everyone to return to the pasture (Pirlouit & Pampelune complied without fuss), Pampe suddenly lay completely flat in the grass, in what was clearly an attempt to make herself invisible and be forgotten all by herself in this barely-fenced area, kind of like children who dream of being locked in a toy shop overnight.

I haven't taken my eyes off you all evening. Of course I can see you.

I had to poke her with my stick until she deigned to get up and leave (Poldine followed), but all in all it was a very successful little outing. I might do this regularly throughout the summer to keep the grass trimmed in this area, although the difficulty level will be greatly increased when I have to patrol the fence and protect my vegetables at the same time.

I'll add that when I went out later in the evening to close the chicken coop, Poldine & Pampelune were far away, grazing together under the plum trees, meanwhile Pirlouit and Pampe were still queueing in front of the part of the fence that was previously open. Both waiting for me to let them access this heavenly garden again (but with different motivations)

A story within a story where a mother sits her rowdy children down and tells them a story about a the world's sweetest, kindest mother who never lost her temper, never cursed and never yelled at her children, no matter how rowdy they could get. She would only gently, kindly told them to not do the dangerous things. One day she sweetly, kindly told her children to not go play at the riverbank, because it's dangerous and they might slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die. Her children do not listen. They go play at the riverbank, where they slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die.

And the sweet perfect mother of the story comes to the riverbank, sees that all her children drowned, and starts crying so bitterly that angels overhear her, and the angels say to each other, "she does not deserve this, this woman has never done anything wrong in her life, this should not have happened to her", and feeling great pity for her, bring her children back to life, and after that they always listened to their mother and lived happily ever after.

And the storyteller's children, who at this point are familiar with the concept that these stories are supposed to have some sort of a moral or lesson in them, interject to point out that their mother hasn't always done everything perfectly, she isn't always sweet, curses a lot, and as a matter of fact loses her shit at her kids all the time. She isn't like the mother of the story at all.

And their mother agrees: Her children are correct. She is not a perfect mother who has never done anything wrong. Angels will not have pity on her, and they will not bring her little shits back to life if they go to the river and die. So they better fucking not go get themselves killed in the first place.

site that you can type in the definition of a word and get the word

site for when you can only remember part of a word/its definition 

site that gives you words that rhyme with a word

site that gives you synonyms and antonyms

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

"I have too much things and not enough drawers, that's why my room is messy!!" I'M A LIIIIAAAAAR 😭😭😭

this post is exclusively for people with dirty rooms

this post is specifically for people who know their room is a mess, but their brain won't let them clean it. this post is for you. I love you and I see you

“Queerness, to me, is about far more than homosexual attraction. It’s about a willingness to see all other taboos broken down. Sure, many of us start on this path when we first feel “same sex” or “same gender” attraction (though what is sex? And what is gender? And does anyone really have the same sex or gender as anyone else?). But queerness doesn’t stop there. This is a somewhat controversial stance, but to me queer means something completely different than “gay” or “lesbian” or “bisexual.” A queer person is usually someone who has come to a non-binary view of gender, who recognizes the validity of all trans identities, and who, given this understanding of infinite gender possibilities, finds it hard to define their sexuality any longer in a gender-based way. Queer people understand and support non-monogamy even if they do not engage in it themselves. They can grok being asexual or aromantic. (What does sex have to do with love, or love with sex, necessarily?) A queer can view promiscuous (protected) public bathhouse sex with strangers and complete abstinence as equally healthy. Queers understand that people have different relationships to their bodies. We get what it means to be stone. We know what body dysphoria is about. We understand that not everyone likes to get touched the same way or to get touched at all. We realize that people with disabilities may have different sexual needs, and that people with survivor histories often have sexual triggers. We can negotiate safe and creative ways to be intimate with people with HIV/AIDs and other STIs. Queers understand the range of power and sensation and the diversity of sexual dynamics. We are tops and bottoms, doms and subs, sadists and masochists and sadomasochists, versatiles and switches. We know what we like and don’t like in bed. We embrace a wide range of relationship types. We can be partners, lovers, friends with benefits, platonic sweethearts, chosen family. We can have very different dynamics with different people, often all at once. We don’t expect one person to be able to fulfill all our diverse needs, fantasies and ideals indefinitely. Because our views on relationships, sex, gender, love, bodies, and family are so unconventional, we are of necessity anti-assimilationist. Because under the kyriarchy we suffer, and watch the people we love suffering, we are political. Because we want to survive, we fight. We only want the freedom to be ourselves, love ourselves, love each other, and live together. Because we are routinely denied that, we are pissed. Queer doesn’t mean “don’t label me,” it means “I am naming myself.” It means “ask me more questions if you’re curious…“”

—

What Queerness Means To Me « Tranarchism (via docasaur)

I’ve chosen this as one of my first posts as it’s important to me that people understand what I’m talking about when I use the term queer.  

(via hollyloveholly)