so pretty 


new favorite photo

this had like 1,000 notes last week omg

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Jena Malone by Magdalena Wosinska


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Open Source Clothing.

Now I feel it imperative to reblog this, because the project seems to have hit a snag: The video they put up has been taken down because of claims of 3rd-party content, whatever whatever corporate lawyer stuff internet throttling stuff. That makes me think that Bennetton or one of the others whose stores were glimpsed in the background got their hooks in Vimeo.
So I thought I’d tell you a yarn about how this thing works:
You download the open-source plans for the machine.
You build it.
You download their open-souce clothing-maker program.
You enter the desired measurements into the fields (the ones I remember from the video were arm and neck and chest measurements, so I’m sure they have waist and/or hips too)
You print out your sweater, or hat, or scarf, or cardigan, or whatever it was that you selected. It takes an hour to print out the sweater, working off of the two yarn spools that you can see in the bottom right corner of this .gif
That’s it. Custom-fit, custom-color clothing in an hour, for the price of yarn. Can you see why one of the clothing companies targetted in the video might have felt threatened enough to force the video to come down?

I know if I sold overpriced manufactured clothes, I’d see this as a looming menace.


Yes I would download a shirt omfg

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excuse me favorite character did i give you permission to die

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*writes “like” on a cigarette and puts it in my mouth*

It’s a simile.


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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

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.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be.  (via oliviacirce)

When I lose hope in the world, I remember this poem.

(via bookoisseur)

I’m really glad I read that.

(via selfesteampunk)

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We are the champions, Chicken Little’s cover.

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My town is really pretty

(via https://www.facebook.com/HumansOfSackville)

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