October 21, 2014
ottoman-empire:

OTTOMAN CASES FOR QURAN
Osmanlı Kuran Muhafaza Kapları

ottoman-empire:

OTTOMAN CASES FOR QURAN

Osmanlı Kuran Muhafaza Kapları

(via ancient-serpent)

6:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zmcaau1ThIoeb
  
Filed under: queue 
October 21, 2014

11:14am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zmcaau1TgTGC0
Filed under: my photos oman beach 
October 20, 2014

I’m sure she feels bad because she hears stories. Stories about bad things happening to queer people, and the prejudice people have about bipolar people. Perhaps she’s upset because of that.

Maybe that’s it.  It hadn’t occurred to me that she might be worried for me.

October 20, 2014

If you both were close and somehow it has changed, then it’s a worry. But it doesn’t mean it necessarily has to do with you. Because you have not yet confided in her, you need to do it to know. Iam sorry, i pray things get better :(

I hope it doesn’t have to do with me.  But we aren’t close, I don’t really even know her, so it’s hard for me to predict her.  Thank you for your prayers.

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Filed under: besabaati replies 
October 20, 2014

The thing is, I don’t confide in my sister.  I tell her ‘oh yeah I’m trans’ or ‘oh yeah they think I might be bipolar’ and that’s as far as it goes because I’m crap at feelings and I don’t tell people things.  I’m not sure how that’s overwhelming.  Does my trans-ness or my mental illness really weigh so heavily on her mind that she can’t talk to me anymore?  Is it just my anxiety telling me that she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore because I came out to her?

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Filed under: wittering 
October 20, 2014
medievalautumn:

Follower of Rogier van der Weyden

medievalautumn:

Follower of Rogier van der Weyden

October 20, 2014

ahguzelistanbul:

Rüstem Paşa Camii Çinileri-İstanbul

By 

(via 3ammah)

6:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zmcaau1TcH8Yc
  
Filed under: queue 
October 20, 2014

Good news:

 - my sister stopped talking to me because she says she’s just overwhelmed by my issues.  She doesn’t hate me.

 - My boss isn’t mad at me for getting sick.

 - my case of food poisoning was relatively mild.

October 20, 2014

ceallaig1:

ghoulnextdoor:

Firebird  - Works - Rob Goodwin

Headpieces and other costume accessories designed by Rob Goodwin for the English National Ballet’s new production of Stravinsky’s Firebird - performed at the London Coliseum in March 2012 as part of their ‘Beyond Ballets Russes’ programme. The ballet was choreographed by George Williamson with designs by David Bamber - who is Design Director at Tom Ford. Photography: Diego Indraccolo - Ballerina: Ksenia Ovsyanick

She is living, breathing artwork!

(via acaranalogy)

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Filed under: dance 
October 20, 2014

Yusuke Asai Paints Sprawling Earth Art Murals From Texan Soil

at Rice Gallery

Japanese artist Yusuke Asai just unveiled his latest immersive mud art masterpiece right in the heart of Texas. Like Asai’s other artworks, his new sprawling Yamatane installation in Houston’s Rice Gallery is made from locally-sourced soil mixed in with other natural materials. His versatility with the medium is astounding—although Asai started with just ten pigments, he managed to create no less than 27 different shades in his mural.

(Source: asylum-art, via themindislimitless)

October 19, 2014
animus-inviolabilis:

Illuminated Leaf
Iran
16th Century(via https://www.flickr.com/photos/125761528@N06/15350413157/ and The Metropolitan Museum)



Poem by Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī

My heart is like an oyster shell, the Beloved’s phantom is the pearl; now I am no more contained, for this house is filled with Him.
Night split the lip of my soul with the sweetness of His talk; I am surprised at him who says, “Truth is bitter.”
Mortals’ food comes from without, but the lover’s food is from within; he regurgitates and chews, for the lover is like a camel.
Be swift-faring like a peri, denude yourself of your body; nakedness is not allowed to him who has the mange.
Salah al-Din has come to the chase; all the lions are his quarry; that man is his servant who is free from the two worlds.

animus-inviolabilis:

Illuminated Leaf

Iran

16th Century

(via https://www.flickr.com/photos/125761528@N06/15350413157/ and The Metropolitan Museum)

Poem by Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī

My heart is like an oyster shell, the Beloved’s phantom is the pearl; now I am no more contained, for this house is filled with Him.

Night split the lip of my soul with the sweetness of His talk; I am surprised at him who says, “Truth is bitter.”

Mortals’ food comes from without, but the lover’s food is from within; he regurgitates and chews, for the lover is like a camel.

Be swift-faring like a peri, denude yourself of your body; nakedness is not allowed to him who has the mange.

Salah al-Din has come to the chase; all the lions are his quarry; that man is his servant who is free from the two worlds.

(via ancient-serpent)

6:00pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zmcaau1TWm6MD
  
Filed under: queue 
October 19, 2014
thecatsintophats:

China the calico cat
Guadalajara, Mexico (X)

thecatsintophats:

China the calico cat

Guadalajara, Mexico (X)

1:02pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zmcaau1TV-G20
  
Filed under: cats 
October 19, 2014

micdotcom:

Powerful portraits of the Liberians who beat Ebola 

To help humanize the overwhelming statistics, Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer and senior staff photographer at Getty Images, John Moore, visited an Ebola treatment center of the organization, Doctors Without Borders in Paynesville, Liberia. At the treatment center, survivors spoke about the brothers, sisters, husbands and wives they lost due to the disease. They also spoke of recovery, stigmas they continue to face in their villages and renewed hope.

Follow micdotcom

(via yagazieemezi)

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Filed under: liberia ebola 
October 19, 2014
"My grandmother’s name is Sala
Sa-la
A hard L- the kind where your tongue has to push against the back of your front two teeth
My grandfather’s name was Mustafa
But we always called him Tati
Ta-tee
They grew up in the same village
And played together until the age that boys and girls are separated to learn their roles
My grandmother retreated to her father’s house, learning to cook and clean
And my grandfather started going to school
My grandmother blushes when she admits to me that she used to sneak up to the roof of her house when dawn came
Just to see my grandfather walking to school, books clutched against his chest
Every morning, him and the sun
It seemed to her that the sun rose with him,
That it could only be coaxed eastward if he pulled it with him
My grandmother married the boy who pulled the sun up for her every day
And they had six children
Seven, if you count the one who died before his first birthday cake could be made
My grandfather was, as they say, “ahead of his time”
He was an intelligent and forward-thinking academic living in Communist times
His children came home from school each afternoon singing songs about the benevolent nature of their leader
Tito belongs to us and we belong to Tito, they hummed
But when Tito died, the tides changed
And when my grandfather spoke up opposing the nationalistic movement against Albanians- which would one day grow into full-fledged ethnic cleansing-
He didn’t make it home from work
And my grandmother wondered how to explain ‘political prisoner’ to her children
One night, months after my grandfather’s disappearance,
My grandmother saw a blue-eyed stranger trudging up the village hill
In his hands- a note scrawled in my grandfather’s handwriting
Sell everything. Meet me in Rome.
So she did
She sold everything, kissed her weeping relatives goodbye
And trudged across Europe with her children
In Rome, a reunion
We’re going to America, my grandfather said
We’re refugees, he said
America- the word was bulky in my grandmother’s mouth on that sundrenched day in Rome
And even now she can’t quite wrap her tongue around it
Amer-eek, she said
Amer-eek, their children mimicked in high-pitched voices Amer-eek!
My mother, an 8-year old pig-tailed refugee in Rome
On her way to Amer-eek
New York City, to be precise
Their first house was right off of Ditmas Avenue in Brooklyn
A crumbling 3-family home shared with other Albanian refugees
Where, during that first year, English was spoken so rarely that you could almost forget you’d left home
The house was right underneath the Cortelyou Road subway station
Every time the trains rumbled past, the walls of the house shook and trembled and my grandmother prayed under her breath
My grandmother- a woman who gave birth to seven children and raised six of them
But never learned to read
Every morning she sent her children to school, a place she would never set foot in, a mystical land where knowledge and learning were the status quo
They came home speaking English, which my grandmother was glad for only so that they could translate for her at the grocery store or the doctor’s office
My grandfather worked days in a factory and spent his nights smoking and reading about the land that he’d left behind
As his sons and daughters grew into young men and women,
Their old country smoldered-
A fire quietly growing
It would spread soon, my grandfather knew
It wouldn’t be long before the name of his country became famous for all the wrong reasons
Blasted out of radios, smeared across CNN
Serbian forces move to Kosovo
Ethnic cleansing
Genocide

But that wasn’t until the ‘90s
And in the decade before his country was ripped apart by misplaced nationalism,
My grandfather sent my 18-year old mother back home
Go to college, he said, get a degree
Meet a nice boy
, my grandmother said, get married
She did both
And when she finally returned to America a couple of years later,
It was with my father and oldest sister in tow
My parents made their own home in America in the mid-80s
By 1985, my second sister made her appearance-
the first of the Latifi’s to be born in America
Meanwhile, my father was studying for his medical boards and his ESL class at the same time
And my mother was raising my sisters in the bustle of Brooklyn
The 80’s faded and in the first year of the 90’s, my brother joined our family
My father named him Kushtrim, which means battle cry
And was fitting because as my brother was taking his first steps,
Our Bosnian neighbors were being brought to their knees
By the time the war spread from Bosnia to Kosovo,
I was 5 years old and living in Virginia with my family
In a sprawling brick house surrounded by a lush green lawn that my father mowed every Sunday
Just like a real American
But the news was on every hour of every day
And some of my earliest memories are of peeking over the living room couch,
Straining to see what was happening in the country where my family started-
Where my grandparents met as children
Where my parents fell in love as college students
My brother and I were deemed to young to watch the news with my parents
So we snuck looks from behind doorways,
Sat on the stairs that wrapped around the back of our house-
Anything to catch a few words from Christiane Amanpour’s mouth that would explain why my mother jumped every time the phone rang
And my father sat in front of the TV with his mouth pulled into a tight line
My brother and I whispered to each other from our hiding spots,
Pulled dictionaries into our room and blew the dust from their pages
Genocide: the deliberate killing of a large group of people, especially those of a particular ethnic group or nation
My brother read the definition aloud and I tilted my head to the side
Why us?
He slowly shook his head side to side
8 years old
How was he supposed to know?
In the spring of 1998,
I sat on top of my father’s shoulders as we marched through Times Square,
Chanted in front of the United Nations building in Midtown Manhattan
Around us, the crowd swarmed
Red and black t-shirts, the Albanian eagle stamped on every single one
Free Kosova, U.S.A.! we yelled
Free Kosova, U.S.A.!
In 1999, Bill Clinton became the hero of Albanians everywhere when he ordered NATO to launch an air strike against Serbia
78 days later, the war was over
But what we didn’t understand then was that it had just began
The first time I saw the country of my ancestors was in the summer of 1999
British army tanks rolled down the streets instead of cars
And my mother tried to distract me by pointing out landmarks
That’s where your father and I used to have coffee
That’s where my dorm was

But all I could see was the soldiers guarding the entrance to my aunts’ apartment building
And the pile of rubble that used to be my father’s childhood home
I looked out with my big brown eyes
And saw an entire country bleeding and breaking
I went back to America after the summer of 1999 with the taste of my homeland burning my tongue
My grandfather-
Tati, remember?
He lived to see the war start and end
But died before anyone recognized our independence
A snowy New Year’s Eve
2003 slipping into 2004
A heart attack
A widow
A funeral
The first time I saw my mother cry
My youngest uncle washing my grandfather’s body
My baby sister only three months old, screaming like she felt our pain
It’s been 10 years and my grandmother is still mourning my grandfather
It’s been 15 years and my country is still mourning our lost souls
But my grandmother has stopped wearing all black and she laughs with her grandchildren like we’re the only thing that keep her breathing
And my country just celebrated 6 years of independence
I know my grandmother is lonely
She talks about my grandfather like he just stepped out of the room for a moment
And I know my country is hurting
We still hang flowers on the mass graves of our countrymen
But we’re all healing
Which reminds me of the best advice my grandfather ever gave me-
Shpresa le te v’des e fundit-
Let hope die last
"

— Fortesa Latifi - The Plight of the Refugee & Their Family (via madgirlf)

(via besabaati)

October 18, 2014
thecatsintophats:

Calico cat (X)

thecatsintophats:

Calico cat (X)

6:42pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zmcaau1TRi8q3
  
Filed under: cats