A Little Bit of Nothing

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you" - Maya Angelou

  • 21st August
    2014
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  • 21st August
    2014
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  • 21st August
    2014
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  • 21st August
    2014
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  • 21st August
    2014
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  • 21st August
    2014
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  • 21st August
    2014
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WHY DO THEY ALWAYS SLICE THEIR PALM TO GET BLOOD. do you know how many nerve endings are in your hand?!?! why don’t they ever cut the back of their arm or their leg or something omfg

me everytime a character in a movie has to get a few drops of their blood for some ritual bullshit  (via jtoday)

WHILE WE’RE AT IT, why do people try to cross those skinny bridges over lava/chasms/whatever by walking upright. IT’S CALLED CENTER OF GRAVITY. get on your hands and knees and crawl across that thing. HUG IT. SCOOT YOUR BUTT ACROSS. “but i look stupid!” lalalala but we’ll avoid that ~dramatic moment~ where you almost fall over and die because your damn fucking self wanted to look COOL

(via jtoday)

and stop yanking IV lines out of your arms the minute you wake up in the hospital 

(via panconkiwi)

That is a broadsword, why are you fencing with it

(via gallifrey-feels)

There is a freaking door right there. Stop smashing through windows, damn it.

(via intheforestofthenight)

yes, mr. action hero, I am aware that running dramatically from the baddies at breakneck speed is important, but know what else is important? NOT GETTING SHOT. RUN IN A FUCKING ZIGZAG PATTERN ON THE OFF CHANCE THAT THE MOOKS WERE NOT COACHED IN MARKSMANSHIP BY THE IMPERIAL STORMTROOPERS.

(via pterriblepterodactyls)

Oh, hey, you there, sneaky hero-type breaking into any place for any reason? WEAR SOME FUCKING GLOVES. They’re called fingerprints, dumbass. You have them and you’re putting them all over the fucking place.

(via dawnpuppet)

If something really fucking huge is falling on you, don’t FUCKING RUN ALONG THE LENGTH JUST TAKE LIKE TWO FUCKING STEPS TO THE SIDE

(via takshammy)

wEAR A FUCKING HELMET OBERYN YOU LITTLE SHIT

(via brigwife)

(via the-land-of-the-misfits)

  • 20th August
    2014
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  • 20th August
    2014
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  • 20th August
    2014
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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” (via speciousstuff)

still a beautiful poem 

(via shored-fragments)

(Source: oliviacirce, via thatwriterchickyouknow)