in case you ever wanted to know what mambo number 5 sounds like with all the instruments (including the drums) replaced with bike horns
it sounds like the song is going to kill you and it’s perfect
i smiled through the whole thing because i just don’t understand what would compell someone to do this but thanks
i cannojt bretahe
play this at my funeral
I wish people wouldn’t just see me as the Asian girl who beats everyone up, or the Asian girl with no emotion. People see Julia Roberts and Sandra Bullock in a romantic comedy, but not me. You add race to it, and it became, ‘Well she’s too Asian’, or ‘She’s too American’. I kind of got pushed out of both categories. It’s a very strange place to be. You’re not Asian enough and then you’re not American enough.
of my ancestors’ chains
without rust, without decay
has survived decades.
new chains shackle
squeeze my neck
to near suffocation—
chains built of
teenage pregnancy –
new chains holding me
|—||linda benner-parker, new chains holding me. (via black-poetry)|
Roger Hutchings, A Funeral in Haiti
Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger.
But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.
|—||Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence (via yesyes)|