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bogleech: lynati: movemequotes: Once a little boy went to school.One morningThe teacher said:“Today we are going to make a picture.”“Good!” thought the little boy.He liked to make all kinds;Lions and tigers,Chickens and cows,Trains and boats;And he took out his box of crayonsAnd began to draw. But the teacher said, “Wait!”“It is not time to begin!”And she waited until everyone looked ready.“Now,” said the teacher,“We are going to make flowers.”“Good!” thought the little boy,He liked to make beautiful onesWith his pink and orange and blue crayons.But the teacher said “Wait!”“And I will show you how.”And it was red, with a green stem.“There,” said the teacher,“Now you may begin.” The little boy looked at his teacher’s flowerThen he looked at his own flower.He liked his flower better than the teacher’sBut he did not say this.He just turned his paper over,And made a flower like the teacher’s.It was red, with a green stem. On another dayThe teacher said:“Today we are going to make something with clay.”“Good!” thought the little boy;He liked clay.He could make all kinds of things with clay:Snakes and snowmen,Elephants and mice,Cars and trucksAnd he began to pull and pinchHis ball of clay. But the teacher said, “Wait!”“It is not time to begin!”And she waited until everyone looked ready.“Now,” said the teacher,“We are going to make a dish.”“Good!” thought the little boy,He liked to make dishes.And he began to make someThat were all shapes and sizes. But the teacher said “Wait!”“And I will show you how.”And she showed everyone how to makeOne deep dish.“There,” said the teacher,“Now you may begin.” The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish;Then he looked at his own.He liked his better than the teacher’sBut he did not say this.He just rolled his clay into a big ball againAnd made a dish like the teacher’s.It was a deep dish. And pretty soonThe little boy learned to wait,And to watchAnd to make things just like the teacher.And pretty soonHe didn’t make things of his own anymore. Then it happenedThat the little boy and his familyMoved to another house,In another city,And the little boyHad to go to another school. The teacher said:“Today we are going to make a picture.”“Good!” thought the little boy.And he waited for the teacherTo tell what to do.But the teacher didn’t say anything.She just walked around the room. When she came to the little boyShe asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?”“Yes,” said the little boy.“What are we going to make?”“I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher.“How shall I make it?” asked the little boy.“Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher.“And any color?” asked the little boy.“Any color,” said the teacher.And he began to make a red flower with a green stem. ~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy … I hate that I hesitated to reblog this just because I expect people to think it’s pretentious or melodramatic when it’s seriously real as fuck and I’ve witnessed it : bogleech: lynati: movemequotes: Once a little boy went to school.One morningThe teacher said:“Today we are going to make a picture.”“Good!” thought the little boy.He liked to make all kinds;Lions and tigers,Chickens and cows,Trains and boats;And he took out his box of crayonsAnd began to draw. But the teacher said, “Wait!”“It is not time to begin!”And she waited until everyone looked ready.“Now,” said the teacher,“We are going to make flowers.”“Good!” thought the little boy,He liked to make beautiful onesWith his pink and orange and blue crayons.But the teacher said “Wait!”“And I will show you how.”And it was red, with a green stem.“There,” said the teacher,“Now you may begin.” The little boy looked at his teacher’s flowerThen he looked at his own flower.He liked his flower better than the teacher’sBut he did not say this.He just turned his paper over,And made a flower like the teacher’s.It was red, with a green stem. On another dayThe teacher said:“Today we are going to make something with clay.”“Good!” thought the little boy;He liked clay.He could make all kinds of things with clay:Snakes and snowmen,Elephants and mice,Cars and trucksAnd he began to pull and pinchHis ball of clay. But the teacher said, “Wait!”“It is not time to begin!”And she waited until everyone looked ready.“Now,” said the teacher,“We are going to make a dish.”“Good!” thought the little boy,He liked to make dishes.And he began to make someThat were all shapes and sizes. But the teacher said “Wait!”“And I will show you how.”And she showed everyone how to makeOne deep dish.“There,” said the teacher,“Now you may begin.” The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish;Then he looked at his own.He liked his better than the teacher’sBut he did not say this.He just rolled his clay into a big ball againAnd made a dish like the teacher’s.It was a deep dish. And pretty soonThe little boy learned to wait,And to watchAnd to make things just like the teacher.And pretty soonHe didn’t make things of his own anymore. Then it happenedThat the little boy and his familyMoved to another house,In another city,And the little boyHad to go to another school. The teacher said:“Today we are going to make a picture.”“Good!” thought the little boy.And he waited for the teacherTo tell what to do.But the teacher didn’t say anything.She just walked around the room. When she came to the little boyShe asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?”“Yes,” said the little boy.“What are we going to make?”“I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher.“How shall I make it?” asked the little boy.“Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher.“And any color?” asked the little boy.“Any color,” said the teacher.And he began to make a red flower with a green stem. ~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy … I hate that I hesitated to reblog this just because I expect people to think it’s pretentious or melodramatic when it’s seriously real as fuck and I’ve witnessed it
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love-takes-work: “I thought they stopped making them.” “They did! So I made my own!” Sometimes you can’t go back. Sometimes even though it would be the perfect happy ending to bring back an element of where you came from, it just never happens and your old sweet comfort doesn’t return. So you make your own. You deal with the fact that it’s imperfect. And maybe a little ugly. And isn’t the same. And doesn’t come in a cool package shipped to a convenient location that you can just enjoy without much trouble. You deal with it, and you enjoy this version of the taste, and you accept that you can choose to have something in your life even if you have to put it there in unprecedented ways. Make your own Cookie Cats, y’all. My first homemade Cookie Cat The Cookie Cats I make now : love-takes-work: “I thought they stopped making them.” “They did! So I made my own!” Sometimes you can’t go back. Sometimes even though it would be the perfect happy ending to bring back an element of where you came from, it just never happens and your old sweet comfort doesn’t return. So you make your own. You deal with the fact that it’s imperfect. And maybe a little ugly. And isn’t the same. And doesn’t come in a cool package shipped to a convenient location that you can just enjoy without much trouble. You deal with it, and you enjoy this version of the taste, and you accept that you can choose to have something in your life even if you have to put it there in unprecedented ways. Make your own Cookie Cats, y’all. My first homemade Cookie Cat The Cookie Cats I make now

love-takes-work: “I thought they stopped making them.” “They did! So I made my own!” Sometimes you can’t go back. Sometimes even though...

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skitpost: final project for my jewish studies class ! the assignment was to answer the question, “WHAT IS JEWISH ART?” after spending the semester studying jewish artists from the 20th century, so here are my thoughts on the intersection of art and identity. goyim can interact w this post but don’t clown in the comments thx : WHAT IS JEWISH ART? El DOES THAT MAKE ALL OF My ART "JE WISH ART"? I AM AN ARTIST. I AM A JEW. | HOPE NOT. I K NOW THAT THESÉ ARE NOT "JE WISH ART"; EVEN THOUGH I, A JEWISH ARTIST, MADE THEM. Bur i STILL DbONT kNow WHAT MAKES "JE WISH ART " JEWISH. 64:ME B4i ME 00 BY:ME BUT WHAT IF ITs NOT! RECOGNIZABLE I CAN MAKE My ART JEWISH ON PURPOSE, To My VIEWERS? B4: ME WHAT IF ONLY I SEE IT AS JEWISH ART, AND NO BOby ELSE DOES? IS IT STILL JEWISH ART? AND WHEN I MAKE my ART JEWISH ON PURPOSE, WHAT IS IT THATI DO TO MAKE IT JEWISH? WHAT'S JEWISH ABOUT JEWISH ART! A GROUPS CULTURE IS VERY DEPENDANT ON ITS LOCATION OF ORIGIN, So WHAT UNIFIES A GROUP WHOSE ORIGINS HAVE BEEN LERASED WHEN YOU SPEND YOUR WHOTE HISTDRY RUNNING, WHERE DO YOU COME FROM? SURVIVAL REQUIRES ADAPTATION, AND you NEVER KNOW *WHEN BEING IPENTIFIABLY JEWISH IS DANGEROUS, so JEWISH ART IS CLOAKED IN THE I THINK THE COMMON THREAD IN JEWISH ART IS THAT THERE ISNT ONE. WORLD IN WHICH IT WAS CREATED THE ONLY TRADITION TO JEWISH ART IS THAT THERE IS NONE. IF AN ART PIECE ISNT IMMEDIATELY EXPUCITLY JEWISH, ITS JEWISHNESS IS UNIQUE TO EVERY VIEWER. АД AND SO JEWISH ART IS DEFINED BY ITS INA BILITY TO BE DEFINED, A PAR ADOX THAT RAISES MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS. BUT THAT SOUNDS PRETTY JEWISH TO ME. SO IF AN ART PIELE MAKES You ASK, 0"IS THIS JEWISHART? 1IT SURE AS HELL MIGHT BE. THE MOST JEWISH ANSWER TO A QUESTION IS ANOTHER QUESTION. BUT IF IT MAKES YOu ASK "WHAT MAKES JE WISH ART JEWISH?" WHAT ENISH ART? WHAT'S JEWISH ABDUT JEWISH ARTS T.ALMOŞT CERTAINLY IS JEWISH? NOT. skitpost: final project for my jewish studies class ! the assignment was to answer the question, “WHAT IS JEWISH ART?” after spending the semester studying jewish artists from the 20th century, so here are my thoughts on the intersection of art and identity. goyim can interact w this post but don’t clown in the comments thx

skitpost: final project for my jewish studies class ! the assignment was to answer the question, “WHAT IS JEWISH ART?” after spending th...

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thejoanglebook: thatsthat24:NEW ORIGINAL SONG: “Recipe for Me” 🌸 I am so incredibly proud of all the people who came together to make this song and video a reality. It’s turned out to be one of favorites and I hope it will be one of yours too. Enjoy!! https://youtu.be/qHOiIuJ_7Cs LYRICS:There are shouters, and murmurersLoan sharks and burglarsWho’s good or bad? Who’s to say?Some are lost, some are searchersSome are givers, some are earnersBut why did they all end up that way?Is it nature at play, or is it nurture?Is the teacher to blame, or is the learner?I’m all at seaI’m no authority on anything but meI couldn’t tell you why I am who I’ve becomeBut I can tell you the parts that make me up, and you can calculate the sumI’ll impart to you what I believe would be the recipe for meWaterFirst things first, you’d need a great deal of water to make me60 liters is roughly what you’d needIt accounts for 65 percent of my beingAnd cellsMy body’s composed of trillions and trillions of cellsPerforming an assortment of missions, and It’s important to mention that they house my DNAWhich makes me myselfThere’s an ebb and a flowI grow, then I see changesThere are rewrites, losses, gains, and rearrangementsIt’s all much more uncertain than I thought it would beWho knew there’d be so many ways to be me?StoriesAudience or presenter, add scores of stories over timeA slew of silly videos I shared onlineAnd journals full of narratives I wrote at age nineAnd still, I continue to write because I have more dreams to fulfillTales I hoped to tell when I was youngerIdeas that I haven’t made yet, but I willI’ll find my way with my willThere’s an ebb and a flowI grow, then I make changesThere are rewrites, losses, gains, and rearrangementsI’m so much more uncertain than I thought I would beWho knew there’d be so many ways to be me?EggsYou may laugh, and that’s greatYour smiles are what make my dayMy self-worth’s fragile like an eggWhen it breaks it’s tough to put together againAnd saltA pinch of salt in my wounds when my friends have had enough of meIt doesn’t help that I’m lacking subtlety when I drop hints that I crave their companyAlone…It’s hard to console myself when I feel so aloneI feel like I disappear, if I don’t shout “I’m here”If I don’t make my presence knownAnd if people see me hereAnd find my face unclearCan I help them to see me better?I know I can’t foresee the weatherSo will they accept me now or ever?Who knows?I hope so…But I’m good enoughWhatever I face, I can rest assured that better days awaitThe path to happiness isn’t a raceI’ll let my heart beat at its own paceSunshineHappy and bright, it nurtures the earth with it’s lightIts beaming smile helps buds to flowerI’ll take a dash of that for when friends feel sourAnd rainbowsA light shines through and every hue is on displaySave a pinch of that for a rainy dayAnd use it when the storm clouds go awayThere’s an ebb and a flowI grow, so I make changesThere are rewrites, losses, gains, and rearrangementsI’m so much more uncertain than I thought I would beBut I can see there’s no wrong way to be meNow I see there’s no wrong way to be meAnd I know putting this recipe to paper is unwiseAll of the ingredients are changing all the timeI know putting this recipe to paper is unwiseAll of the ingredients are changing all the timeChanging all the timeThey’re changing all the timeChanging all the timeI’m changing all the time: RECIPE FOR ME thejoanglebook: thatsthat24:NEW ORIGINAL SONG: “Recipe for Me” 🌸 I am so incredibly proud of all the people who came together to make this song and video a reality. It’s turned out to be one of favorites and I hope it will be one of yours too. Enjoy!! https://youtu.be/qHOiIuJ_7Cs LYRICS:There are shouters, and murmurersLoan sharks and burglarsWho’s good or bad? Who’s to say?Some are lost, some are searchersSome are givers, some are earnersBut why did they all end up that way?Is it nature at play, or is it nurture?Is the teacher to blame, or is the learner?I’m all at seaI’m no authority on anything but meI couldn’t tell you why I am who I’ve becomeBut I can tell you the parts that make me up, and you can calculate the sumI’ll impart to you what I believe would be the recipe for meWaterFirst things first, you’d need a great deal of water to make me60 liters is roughly what you’d needIt accounts for 65 percent of my beingAnd cellsMy body’s composed of trillions and trillions of cellsPerforming an assortment of missions, and It’s important to mention that they house my DNAWhich makes me myselfThere’s an ebb and a flowI grow, then I see changesThere are rewrites, losses, gains, and rearrangementsIt’s all much more uncertain than I thought it would beWho knew there’d be so many ways to be me?StoriesAudience or presenter, add scores of stories over timeA slew of silly videos I shared onlineAnd journals full of narratives I wrote at age nineAnd still, I continue to write because I have more dreams to fulfillTales I hoped to tell when I was youngerIdeas that I haven’t made yet, but I willI’ll find my way with my willThere’s an ebb and a flowI grow, then I make changesThere are rewrites, losses, gains, and rearrangementsI’m so much more uncertain than I thought I would beWho knew there’d be so many ways to be me?EggsYou may laugh, and that’s greatYour smiles are what make my dayMy self-worth’s fragile like an eggWhen it breaks it’s tough to put together againAnd saltA pinch of salt in my wounds when my friends have had enough of meIt doesn’t help that I’m lacking subtlety when I drop hints that I crave their companyAlone…It’s hard to console myself when I feel so aloneI feel like I disappear, if I don’t shout “I’m here”If I don’t make my presence knownAnd if people see me hereAnd find my face unclearCan I help them to see me better?I know I can’t foresee the weatherSo will they accept me now or ever?Who knows?I hope so…But I’m good enoughWhatever I face, I can rest assured that better days awaitThe path to happiness isn’t a raceI’ll let my heart beat at its own paceSunshineHappy and bright, it nurtures the earth with it’s lightIts beaming smile helps buds to flowerI’ll take a dash of that for when friends feel sourAnd rainbowsA light shines through and every hue is on displaySave a pinch of that for a rainy dayAnd use it when the storm clouds go awayThere’s an ebb and a flowI grow, so I make changesThere are rewrites, losses, gains, and rearrangementsI’m so much more uncertain than I thought I would beBut I can see there’s no wrong way to be meNow I see there’s no wrong way to be meAnd I know putting this recipe to paper is unwiseAll of the ingredients are changing all the timeI know putting this recipe to paper is unwiseAll of the ingredients are changing all the timeChanging all the timeThey’re changing all the timeChanging all the timeI’m changing all the time

thejoanglebook: thatsthat24:NEW ORIGINAL SONG: “Recipe for Me” 🌸 I am so incredibly proud of all the people who came together to make th...

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mini phone dump: Cat's Diary Dog's Diary Day 983 of My Captivity Dog food! My favorite thing! A car ride! My favorite 8:00 am My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre littie dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheiess must eat something in order to keep up my strength. 9:30 am thing! A walk in the park! My 9:40 am favorite thing! 10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing! 12:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing! 1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing! 3:00 pm - Wagged my tail My favorite thing! The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today i decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since this clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good litle hunter" I am. Bastards! There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage. Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe... for now. Dinner! My favorite thing! 5:00 pm 7:00 pm - Got to play balll My favorite thing! 8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing! 11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing! mini phone dump
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