My wallpapers sick....

You are the field I walk at dusk...

Some books arrive as weather: all atmosphere, no architecture. Some arrive like a perfectly written poem....

The Daughter: Twenty-Nine (Expanded Edition): A Review Some books arrive as weather: all atmosphere, no architecture. Some arrive like a perfectly written poem—clean lines, hidden torque, a confidence in their own propulsion. Twenty-Nine, the latest installment in the long-running series The Daughter, belongs emphatically to the second category. It is, in the most bracing sense, a grown-up book: funny without trying, cheerful, tender, and alert to the way time—the unkillable editor—keeps cutting, tightening, clarifying.

James Loewen – Lies My Teacher Told Me A direct takedown of textbook distortions in U.S. history. Click to read the introduction. <img width="662" height="1000" src=" alt="" srcset=" 662w, 199w" sizes="(max-width: 662px) 100vw, 662px" /> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong data-start="3766" data-end="3825">Howard Zinn – <em data-start="3782" data-end="3823">A People’s History of the United States</em></strong></p><p style="text-align: center;"><em>Centers workers, Indigenous peoples, enslaved people, women, and social movements instead of “great men.”</em></p> <img width="310" height="466" src=" alt="" srcset=" 310w, 200w" sizes="(max-width: 310px) 100vw, 310px" /> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Michelle Alexander – <em data-start="3981" data-end="3999">The New Jim Crow</em></strong></p><p style="text-align: center;"><em>Crucial to understanding the connection between slavery/Jim Crow to mass incarceration.</em></p> <img width="686" height="1024" src=" alt="" srcset=" 686w, 201w, 768w, 1005w" sizes="(max-width: 686px) 100vw, 686px" /> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Isabel Wilkerson – <em>Caste and The Warmth of Other Suns</em></strong></p><p style="text-align: center;"><em>Deepens the historical memory of racial hierarchy and migration.</em></p> <img width="662" height="1024" src=" alt="" srcset=" 662w, 194w, 768w, 970w" sizes="(max-width: 662px) 100vw, 662px" /> <img width="679" height="1024" src=" alt="" srcset=" 679w, 199w, 768w, 994w" sizes="(max-width: 679px) 100vw, 679px" /> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Carol Anderson – <em data-start="4303" data-end="4315">White Rage</em></strong></p><p style="text-align: center;"><em>Shows how backlash to Black advancement has structured U.S.

I used to believe that cruelty required hatred. Now I understand — it only requires fear. America fears everything. That is its great secret. It fears the dark, it fears the mirror, it fears the thought that its hands are not clean. And so it builds this strange idol called innocence. Everyone worships it. Everyone must. It is the only god that demands nothing except blindness.

After the applause, a corridor appeared where the cafeteria had been. It ran slightly downhill, the floor tipped just enough to make turning back impolite. At the end: a door with a frosted window and a flag that looked tired from being watched. The plaque read: MINISTRY OF ABROAD Transactions Only All the rest — feelings, scruples, promises — bring exact change.

There’s a form you have to fill out if the cracks in your ceiling grow too wide. Three copies. Black ink. Submit before dark. I tried, the office was closed. That meant it had always been closed. I don’t remember when the cracks first appeared, only that I wasn’t supposed to speak of them. Or if I did, only in the abstract.

(Work in progress)  My lungs were never meant for this air. Neither are these sentences. Back home the air is thick. Coal smoke. Diesel. Fish rot. Gossip. It presses in on you and doesn’t apologize. Here it’s thin and overprocessed, like it’s been run through some expensive machine for people who have never had to shout to be heard. When I got off the plane at O’Hare with one bag and a folder full of photocopied documents, everything felt safe.

This little one, all strapped in tight,In shades, bigger than his face.Not napping, not day or night,But planning time in space. A quiet boy who likes to think,He looks to me, and wonders why,“These mittens? For a boxing rink?Or waving to the sky? No gas, no gurgle, giggle, or peep,No baby fuss or frown.Just silent thoughts he means to keep,The coolest kid in town. <img width="1321" height="1762" src=" alt="" />

For Anne The Man We have become absentee farmers of our own humanity. What we were meant to tend we abandoned. The Soil I felt you leaving long before you left. What thrives here thrives by accident. The Man The fences are down. The stock wanders as if it no longer expects to be called home. The rivers run muddy.

So far from grand passion. So close to it I can feel my life rearranging itself a little like furniture dragged slowly across a floor in the upstairs apartment to make room for you.

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NPR interviews with current and former officials reveal more of the backstory around the military's strikes in the Caribbean.

There’s a form you have to fill out if the cracks in your ceiling grow too wide.