traversefamilypicnic

Toad Words

traversefamilypicnic:

jumpingjacktrash:

the-real-seebs:

ursulavernon:

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

!.

You know how if you go through years and years of “best science fiction short stories”, every so often you find some short story you’ve never heard of before, but it’s just amazing and brilliant and leaves you wondering why you never read stories with that plot before? This is one of those.

Seriously, wow.

this made me smile.

i’m still smiling.

this rules

ohnoproblems

HERES WHAT WENT DOWN TODAY IN THE CANADIAN PARLIAMENT

allthecanadianpolitics:

until-i-find-you:

Warning: the following may be too badass for you to handle.

Today the Conservatives filed out of the House of Commons in Ottawa early. The NDP followed. Moments later, all the NDP MPs came back into the house and took their seats. They had realized that, with time still on the parliamentary clock and no Conservatives in attendance, they had a very rare majority. In Canada, the conservatives have a majority-controlled house. What followed knocked my socks off. We have a big problem in Canada. Aboriginal women and children have been disappearing for decades from their communities. Sometimes the bodies are found, but often times they’re simply forgotten by everyone but their family and the aboriginal communities. This is a growing problem all across Canada, with the numbers of missing or murdered aboriginal women becoming more and more alarming. The police won’t do anything. The government, despite the pressure that’s been put on them by the NDP, won’t do anything or even talk about the issue. So with a sudden majority in the house and no Conservatives there to mess things up or heckle too loudly for us to be heard, the NDP forced the debate on the Missing or Murdered Aboriginal Women of Canada. It was a stunning moment, made even more so by the fact that the Opposition (NDP) had to literally trick the government to get the issue to the floor. I’m amazed. What a moment. Well done, especially to Mr. Romeo Saganash and Mr. Tom Mulcair. Bravo, New Democrat MPs. Jack would be so proud. To see a video of the incredibly emotional moment in the house, see my blog, I just posted a link.

One correction. The majority of the conservative MP’s had left the house but there were a small number still in attendance. But definitely less than the full NDP caucus which is why they were able to force the debate.

What an amazing moment.

Anyone who hasn’t seen it needs to read the speech and watch the video of Mr Romeo Saganash's appeal for justice.

nanrie
fatbodypolitics:

professorfangirl:

lupusdraconis:

usagimaree:

gobeautiful:

thelatestkate:

my therapist taught me to start thinking of my anxiety as my panicky friend
it’s working???

this is so cute omg

Woah this is super useful!!

For all my anxious friends out there.

This totally works! Some of us get stuck in the sense that we *are* our emotions, so they overwhelm us and we can’t do anything about them. When you give your emotion an identity separate from you, it gives you the distance to make better judgments about it, and to comfort yourself better. 10/10 therapy veterans would recommend.

Needed this today.

gonna remember this
cute art is useful mnemonic for useful mnemonic

fatbodypolitics:

professorfangirl:

lupusdraconis:

usagimaree:

gobeautiful:

thelatestkate:

my therapist taught me to start thinking of my anxiety as my panicky friend

it’s working???

this is so cute omg

Woah this is super useful!!

For all my anxious friends out there.

This totally works! Some of us get stuck in the sense that we *are* our emotions, so they overwhelm us and we can’t do anything about them. When you give your emotion an identity separate from you, it gives you the distance to make better judgments about it, and to comfort yourself better. 10/10 therapy veterans would recommend.

Needed this today.

gonna remember this

cute art is useful mnemonic for useful mnemonic

ohnoproblems
This dominant narrative surrounding the inevitability of female objectification and victimhood is so powerful that it not only defines our concepts of reality but it even sets the parameters for how we think about entirely fictional worlds, even those taking place in the realms of fantasy and science fiction. It’s so normalized that when these elements are critiqued, the knee-jerk response I hear most often is that if these stories did not include the exploitation of women, then the game worlds would feel too “unrealistic” or “not historically accurate”. What does it say about our culture when games routinely bend or break the laws of physics and no one bats an eye? When dragons, ogres and magic are inserted into historically influenced settings without objection. We are perfectly willing to suspend our disbelief when it comes to multiple lives, superpowers, health regeneration and the ability to carry dozens of weapons and items in a massive invisible backpack. But somehow the idea of a world without sexual violence and exploitation is deemed too strange and too bizarre to be believable.
Tropes vs Women in Video Games, Women as Background Decoration: Part 2 (via femfreq)
traversefamilypicnic
  • Anita Sarkeesian: Your appointment to EA should be finalized within the week, I have already discussed the matter with the Editor
  • Zoe Quinn: I take it he was agreeable?
  • Anita Sarkeesian: He didn't really have a choice.
  • Zoe Quinn: Has he been compromised?
  • Anita Sarkeesian: Oh yes, most certainly. When I mentioned we could put him on the priority list for hot gaming tips and tricks he was so willing it was almost pathetic.
birdologist
amomiu:


— the angels revealed themselves to her; said they were ten feet tall, radiant, and one of them was black; said they helped her with various household chores. One of them changed a light bulb for her, the porch light.

After working on this piece on and off for almost a year, I think it’s finally more or less done. It’s so difficult to decide when something is “finished”.
I’m intrigued by the idea of Night Vale angels looking like something one wouldn’t traditionally call an angel. Heads like those of ancient Egyptian gods and bodies like distorted modern sculptures. Tall, ominous and creepy, but happy to help an old lady with simple household chores.

amomiu:

— the angels revealed themselves to her; said they were ten feet tall, radiant, and one of them was black; said they helped her with various household chores. One of them changed a light bulb for her, the porch light.

After working on this piece on and off for almost a year, I think it’s finally more or less done. It’s so difficult to decide when something is “finished”.

I’m intrigued by the idea of Night Vale angels looking like something one wouldn’t traditionally call an angel. Heads like those of ancient Egyptian gods and bodies like distorted modern sculptures. Tall, ominous and creepy, but happy to help an old lady with simple household chores.

glossylalia

Frank Ocean | Wisemen

“Frank Ocean wrote a fantastic ballad that was truly lovely and poetic in every way, there just wasn’t a scene for it. I could have thrown it in quickly just to have it, but that’s not why he wrote it and not his intention. So I didn’t want to cheapen his effort. But, the song is fantastic, and when Frank decides to unleash it on the public, they’ll realize it then.”

— Quentin Tarantino explaining why he didn’t use the song in “Django Unchained.”