Natural selection produces intelligence.
Intelligence produces technology.
Technology destroys natural selection.
The lack of natural selection destroys intelligence.
This is a ridiculously powerful picture.
reblog this twice, to make sure you really see it.
This is so frustrating
this is the shit that makes me feel terrible living my life like the average person
![vintagegal:
Gun 1, New York, 1955 photographed by William Klein (x)
“… This seems to be considered my key image… It’s fake violence, a parody. I asked the boy to point the gun at me and then look tough. He did, and then we both laughed… [I see it] as a double self-portrait. I was both the street kid trying to look tough, and the timid, good little boy on the right.”](http://25.media.tumblr.com/8c8331384ce6548c2055f96f0adf7eb5/tumblr_mmr06aopxx1qa70eyo1_500.png)
Gun 1, New York, 1955 photographed by William Klein (x)
“… This seems to be considered my key image… It’s fake violence, a parody. I asked the boy to point the gun at me and then look tough. He did, and then we both laughed… [I see it] as a double self-portrait. I was both the street kid trying to look tough, and the timid, good little boy on the right.”
For An Old Kentucky Anarchist, By: Michael McCathy (nogodsnomastersonlyfreedom)
I awoke into a haze of withdrawals, the past night had hit temperatures below freezing and I didn’t have much to keep myself warm through such a hardship. Neither did Patrick, who I began to see, as the blur of my vision lessened, a skinny silhouette with a leather belt strapped securely around his arm, the flicker of a flame in his hand, and its faint reflection in the dull, silver spoon that had helped us get through the cold winter nights of this dead city.
He called it the Devil’s piss, that thick brown liquid that we’d both inject into ourselves, and then watch, as the world around us faded into a tortured bliss; we knew we were addicts, junkies, the old chewing-gum stuck to the soles of society’s shoe. We knew it was killing us, but it was all we had ever known. Patrick was the only family I had ever had, and I was the only one he had ever had; no one supported us, tried to save us, and why would they? We weren’t worth saving.
Quitting wasn’t an option for us either; we had tried that before, but withdrawal is a symptom much like starving. As any living creature cannot function without energy, without food, Patrick and I could not function without our drugs, without the heroin.
“Are you alright, Erik?” Patrick slurred out at me, through moments of fading in and out of reality. He knew I wasn’t, neither of us were; but I nodded and staggered my body upright, the rotted floorboards of our squat moaning as I moved, even under my abysmal weight. Once he had gathered himself, Patrick gave me the instruments to start my morning ritual; for the next few hours, I would be free from the cold, I would feel good again.
It’s Friday today, and that meant that Patrick and I were to put on our show, to become something, somebody, until the sun went back down and we slept again. This was the day we went busking out in front of the local grocery store a few blocks down. No one knew any of our songs, and most took a look at our dirty clothes, our scabbed faces, and sped their pace, or looked at us in disgust; but, that odd charitable person, the one who would stop to listen to us, or to spare their morning coffee change to help us get by, those people kept us going. Those people got us through our nights, those people fed us. Those people gave us the liberty we could never afford on our own.
Every Friday was the same, I prayed that Patrick and I would hit our big break; I prayed that some big shot record executive would walk by, that He’d see us while we were playing our songs and offer us a record deal. Or that the pastor of our local church would take pity upon us heathens, and that he’d share the Sunday church donations with us, or allow us to take shelter in his church when nature became hostile to us, when the weather became inhospitable. For ten long years I’ve prayed for this; for almost half my life, the only thing I have ever asked for was a chance, a chance for Patrick and I to live.
It this cold Kentucky morning, though, that we had that chance. She was an older woman, with crow’s feet against her wizened eyes, eyes that had seen the world, eyes that spoke of the adventures they’d seen, and a welcoming smile that crossed her aged face, a smile that spoke to me more than the conversation that ensued. This woman knew where we’d been, what we’ve been through; she knew, and she cared.
This woman, this stranger, she welcomed us into her home, she kept us warm when it got cold, she kept us from starving. Her only request of us, to tend to her garden, to tell her the stories of our lives, and allow her to tell us her own; all she really wanted was to teach us, teach us of freedom, and to show us what we had never known, joy and love. Patrick and I, we may still be relapsed addicts, and society still holds a knife to our throats, but for the first time in our lives, we live in more than a house, or a run down squat, we live in a home; we’re human too, and for the first time in our lives we’ve felt that. While the rest of the world may dehumanize us, while the government, and the law, may want to lock us in cages, here, in our new home, we are loved, we are free. Patrick and I, we are people; people just like you.
If you read it through, thanks for taking that time. Any thoughts, comments, or criticisms are appreciated!
