Wednesday, January 22, 2014

ryan-andrews-comics:

Over the last year or so, I had the honor of illustrating book covers for Scholastic’s repackaging of four novels by Avi. You can find them out in the wild at a bookstore near you if you live in the US.

More illustrations by Ryan Andrews

Oh holy crap, I need to buy the True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle one NOW. That was my absolute favorite growing up. And now it has infrickingcredible cover art?!

Monday, January 20, 2014

moonbrains:

ghostheart:

elisemerand:

MUCH LOVED Photographer Marc Nixon made a series of portraits of teddy bears and other stuffed animals along with their age, size and history. Some were very much loved :-)
These photos come from a book, “Much Loved” l Imprint : Abrams Image l Via

"It doesn’t happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand."

oh fuck my heart

Sunday, January 19, 2014
First skein of handspun—finished! It looks much better than I was anticipating, so I’d say it was a success.

First skein of handspun—finished! It looks much better than I was anticipating, so I’d say it was a success.

Saturday, January 18, 2014
Almost finished my first skein of homespun yarn!

Almost finished my first skein of homespun yarn!

Friday, January 17, 2014
gingerhaze:

JUDICE was once a professional acrobat who traded it in for a life of crime. She still wears the coat of the first man she ever killed, although the blood stains have come out by now.
BEATRIX is the first mate. Her crew relies on her mostly for her size and muscle and she’d hate to let them down, but really she’d much rather be knitting nice things to give to her friends.

gingerhaze:

JUDICE was once a professional acrobat who traded it in for a life of crime. She still wears the coat of the first man she ever killed, although the blood stains have come out by now.

BEATRIX is the first mate. Her crew relies on her mostly for her size and muscle and she’d hate to let them down, but really she’d much rather be knitting nice things to give to her friends.

Thursday, January 16, 2014
"i.

“Your name is Tasbeeh. Don’t let them call you by anything else.”

My mother speaks to me in Arabic; the command sounds more forceful in her mother tongue, a Libyan dialect that is all sharp edges and hard, guttural sounds. I am seven years old and it has never occurred to me to disobey my mother. Until twelve years old, I would believe God gave her the supernatural ability to tell when I’m lying.

“Don’t let them give you an English nickname,” my mother insists once again, “I didn’t raise amreekan.”

My mother spits out this last word with venom. Amreekan. Americans. It sounds like a curse coming out of her mouth. Eight years in this country and she’s still not convinced she lives here. She wears her headscarf tightly around her neck, wades across the school lawn in long, floor-skimming skirts. Eight years in this country and her tongue refuses to bend and soften for the English language. It embarrasses me, her heavy Arab tongue, wrapping itself so forcefully around the clumsy syllables of English, strangling them out of their meaning.

But she is fierce and fearless. I have never heard her apologize to anyone. She will hold up long grocery lines checking and double-checking the receipt in case they’re trying to cheat us. My humiliation is heavy enough for the both of us. My English is not. Sometimes I step away, so people don’t know we’re together but my dark hair and skin betray me as a member of her tribe.

On my first day of school, my mother presses a kiss to my cheek.

“Your name is Tasbeeh,” she says again, like I’ve forgotten. “Tasbeeh.”

ii.

Roll call is the worst part of my day. After a long list of Brittanys, Jonathans, Ashleys, and Yen-but-call-me-Jens, the teacher rests on my name in silence. She squints. She has never seen this combination of letters strung together in this order before. They are incomprehensible. What is this h doing at the end? Maybe it is a typo.

“Tas…?”

“Tasbeeh,” I mutter, with my hand half up in the air. “Tasbeeh.”

A pause.

“Do you go by anything else?”

“No,” I say. “Just Tasbeeh. Tas-beeh.”

“Tazbee. All right. Alex?”

She moves on before I can correct her. She said it wrong. She said it so wrong. I have never heard my name said so ugly before, like it’s a burden. Her entire face contorts as she says it, like she is expelling a distasteful thing from her mouth. She avoids saying it for the rest of the day, but she has already baptized me with this new name. It is the name everyone knows me by, now, for the next six years I am in elementary school. “Tazbee,” a name with no grace, no meaning, no history; it belongs in no language.

“Tazbee,” says one of the students on the playground, later. “Like Tazmanian Devil?” Everyone laughs. I laugh too. It is funny, if you think about it.

iii.

I do not correct anyone for years. One day, in third grade, a plane flies above our school.

“Your dad up there, Bin Laden?” The voice comes from behind. It is dripping in derision.

“My name is Tazbee,” I say. I said it in this heavy English accent, so he may know who I am. I am American. But when I turn around they are gone.

iv.

I go to middle school far, far away. It is a 30-minute drive from our house. It’s a beautiful set of buildings located a few blocks off the beach. I have never in my life seen so many blond people, so many colored irises. This is a school full of Ashtons and Penelopes, Patricks and Sophias. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful faces. The kind of names that promise a lifetime of social triumph.

I am one of two headscarved girls at this new school. We are assigned the same gym class. We are the only ones in sweatpants and long-sleeved undershirts. We are both dreading roll call. When the gym teacher pauses at my name, I am already red with humiliation.

“How do I say your name?” she asks.

“Tazbee,” I say.

“Can I just call you Tess?”

I want to say yes. Call me Tess. But my mother will know, somehow. She will see it written in my eyes. God will whisper it in her ear. Her disappointment will overwhelm me.

“No,” I say, “Please call me Tazbee.”

I don’t hear her say it for the rest of the year.

v.

My history teacher calls me Tashbah for the entire year. It does not matter how often I correct her, she reverts to that misshapen sneeze of a word. It is the ugliest conglomeration of sounds I have ever heard.

When my mother comes to parents’ night, she corrects her angrily, “Tasbeeh. Her name is Tasbeeh.” My history teacher grimaces. I want the world to swallow me up.

vi.

My college professors don’t even bother. I will only know them for a few months of the year. They smother my name in their mouths. It is a hindrance for their tongues. They hand me papers silently. One of them mumbles it unintelligibly whenever he calls on my hand. Another just calls me “T.”

My name is a burden. My name is a burden. My name is a burden. I am a burden.

vii.

On the radio I hear a story about a tribe in some remote, rural place that has no name for the color blue. They do not know what the color blue is. It has no name so it does not exist. It does not exist because it has no name.

viii.

At the start of a new semester, I walk into a math class. My teacher is blond and blue-eyed. I don’t remember his name. When he comes to mine on the roll call, he takes the requisite pause. I hold my breath.

“How do I pronounce your name?” he asks.

I say, “Just call me Tess.”

“Is that how it’s pronounced?”

I say, “No one’s ever been able to pronounce it.”

“That’s probably because they didn’t want to try,” he said. “What is your name?”

When I say my name, it feels like redemption. I have never said it this way before. Tasbeeh. He repeats it back to me several times until he’s got it. It is difficult for his American tongue. His has none of the strength, none of the force of my mother’s. But he gets it, eventually, and it sounds beautiful. I have never heard it sound so beautiful. I have never felt so deserving of a name. My name feels like a crown.

ix.

“Thank you for my name, mama.”

x.

When the barista asks me my name, sharpie poised above the coffee cup, I tell him: “My name is Tasbeeh. It’s a tough t clinging to a soft a, which melts into a silky ssss, which loosely hugs the b, and the rest of my name is a hard whisper — eeh. Tasbeeh. My name is Tasbeeh. Hold it in your mouth until it becomes a prayer. My name is a valuable undertaking. My name requires your rapt attention. Say my name in one swift note – Tasbeeeeeeeh – sand let the h heat your throat like cinnamon. Tasbeeh. My name is an endeavor. My name is a song. Tasbeeh. It means giving glory to God. Tasbeeh. Wrap your tongue around my name, unravel it with the music of your voice, and give God what he is due"

Tasbeeh Herwees, The Names They Gave Me (via cat-phuong)

Hard life, be proud

(via ananthymous)

When I was young, I never understood why my uncle was “Chris” and not “Vinoo”. Or why my aunt was “Jenny”, not “Geeta”. We’d get mail for them, sometimes, when they needed to use an American address, and I never knew these strange people pretending to be my relatives. Then I went to school. I found myself stopping them after my first name was garbled, saying things like no, it’s okay, I’m like Cher. Or Madonna, just one name. Just one. Stop, please.

But I grew older, wiser, and watching someone choke around my name like fishbones became a badge of honor. “Shee-vay-nee?” No, Shi-vah-nah. “Sa-vahn-a?” No, Shi-vah-nah. “Skoo-de-oh?” No, Sook-deo. “Sook-de-yow?” No, Sook-deo. Embarrassment as my classmates waited for the ordeal to end became ferocious joy: “Jennifer” only occupied seconds but me? I took up space. I took work

My mother would gleefully tell me, “there is Shiva in your name, he destroys ignorance under his feet. Be proud!” I was. It became a weapon. It became me, in ways deeply inseparable. So I would stand there, chin up, watching another teacher stumble over vowels and consonants that seemed to give them no trouble when in McDonough or Schwarzkopf or Lipinski.

"Oh," they’d finally say. And to cover their failure, "that’s a beautiful name."

It is, isn’t it?

(via rockpaperscissorsglue)
Thursday, January 9, 2014
kinfolkyarn:

Oregon Grape - Superwash Merino Hand Spun Yarn from Kinfolk Yarn and Fibre.

Started spinning my first ever yarn tonight, and THIS is my goal. This is so beautiful! Someday, someday.

kinfolkyarn:

Oregon Grape - Superwash Merino Hand Spun Yarn from Kinfolk Yarn and Fibre.

Started spinning my first ever yarn tonight, and THIS is my goal. This is so beautiful! Someday, someday.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014
 
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