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#share

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eileen@despora.de
Eileen Brophy

TAKE ACTION: Tell Wholly Guacamole To Stop Deforestation!

As Climate Rights International has revealed, the forests of Michoacán are being invaded, burned by arsonists and illegally logged to serve our insatiable appetite for guacamole. Not even the Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve is safe! Deforestation is expected to double by 2050 if Michuacán’s avocado plantations continue to expand.

U.S. companies like the top-selling guacamole brand Wholly Guacamole are profiting from the “green gold” rush while turning a blind eye to the devastation caused by the avocado boom.

They can stop the deforestation by refusing to buy avocados grown on recently cleared land.

TAKE ACTION: Tell Wholly Guacamole To Stop Deforestation!

https://orgcns.org/3wULXFn

#STOP #DEFORESTATION #SIGN #SHARE

Tell Wholly Guacamole: Stop Deforestation!

U.S. companies like the top-selling guacamole brand Wholly Guacamole are profiting from the “green gold” rush while turning a blind eye to the devastation caused by the avocado boom. They can stop the deforestation by refusing to buy avocados...

vertruc@diaspora-fr.org
vertruc

MIRLO 🐦 une alternative à Bandcamp libre et collective 🎶

Mirlo: a free and collective alternative to Bandcamp

https://mirlo.space/

Mirlo logo

🇫🇷 Un magasin de musique en ligne libre et collectif fait son apparition ! ✊🎶 Leur objectif: proposer un outil simple, efficace et adapté aux artistes qui veulent vendre leur musique en ligne. Le site fonctionne déjà et les futures mises à jour risquent de vous plaire: 🤝 fédération, 👕 vente de merch et CD, 💸 rémunération récurrente ou ponctuelle, 👔 gestion d'artistes et labels... le tout porté par des valeurs anticapitaliste et anarchistes ! Ses 3 fondateurs, vétérans dans ce domaine (Ampled, FunMusicPlace) sont actuellement à la recherche de financements *pour l'année 2024... *Donnez-leur un coup de main !
⏩ Partagez ce post, faites un tour sur leur site et sur leur kickstarter, et voyez par vous-même ;)
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/mirlo/mirlo

🇺🇸 An opensource and collective music storefront appears ! ✊🎶 Their objective: build a simple efficient and adapted tool for the artists selling their music online. The website is already up and running but future updates might interest you even more: 🤝 federation, 👕 disc & merch store, 💸 recurring patronage or one-off payments, 👔 artists and label management... all brought together by anticapitalistic and anarchistic values ! Its 3 veteran founders (Ampled, FunMusicPlace) are currently seeking infrastructure funding for the rest of 2024... Help them out !
⏩ Share this post, have a look around on their website and kickstarter page, and see for yourself ;)
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/mirlo/mirlo

#mirlo #bandcamp #layoff #layoffs #musician #musicien #collective #collectif #music #musique #musica #distribution #distributionplatform #corporate #startup #jeunepousse #bigtech #share #support #kickstarter #crowdfunding #crowdfunder #financementparticipatif #opensource #libre #anarchist #anarchiste #anarchy #anarchie #anticapitaliste #anticapitalisme #anticapitalist #queer #lgbt #lgbtqia+ #lgbtqiap+ #lgbtqiap #lgbtq #lgbtqia #community #communauté #network #label #e2c #exit2community #exittocommunity #solidarity #solidarité #economy #economie #économie #ampled #new-york #newyork #funding #label #musiclabel #productivity #partage #entraide #social #internet #online #travail #work #cooperation #collaboration #ethique #ethics #culture #storefront #magasin #federated #fédéré #federation #2024 #patronage #mécénat #remuneration #funmusicplace

3 Likes
2 Shares
libramoon@diaspora.glasswings.com
libramoon

#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence

Please #Share! short #story about #rape #abortion #political insanity which I am trying to get seen

could you offer suggestions as to where/who/how to further this effort.

https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
#fiction

not fallen

Pushing, always about pushing.
Pushing his weight off me too late,
exhausted, spent, his rage into me,
breaking, bruising, pain and shame
and devastation.

Him, a sudden force, pushing me into that
alley, so near my home I had no thought
of danger. So routine, my walk from the
subway after my work day, even though, late
Fall, well past twilight. I expected just another
evening of my uneventful life since I came to
this city to pursue my career.

I didn’t know the attacker who pushed me
from behind, covered my face with a huge,
hard hand so I wouldn’t scream, or see him,
too close to count on darkness. After,
released to drag myself home, I drank
sloppy mugs of red wine and cried, on my
way to blessed unconsciousness.

The morning alarm brought me back, to
understand my desperate need for
normalcy to push this whole melodramatic
mess out, out, out! Keep moving, one foot
at a time, eyes forward, focused on each
next chore. Somehow my face, my body,
lied for me, kept to my habitual script.

I very much didn’t want to talk about it,
to seek comforting or support. I wanted it
to go away — to never be.

I found a new route home, discovered
along it that I had become hypervigilant
while walking alone through city streets.
This city of strangers that I had hoped
would be my home had become a hostile
place to push away in self defense.

Pushed into an unwanted future where
the test comes up “Pregnant” after those
ugly symptoms could no longer be ignored.

Pushed now to find a way to take care
of my needs, to confront politics, that
whole divisive headache I had believed
not part of my life.

Suddenly I’ve become a victim of
multiple powerful men — the power
of physical force and the power of
unjust law pushed through by cynical,
deceitful misogynists using pumped
up hate to get ahead.

Much as I desperately try to normalize
these agonizing days, weeks, this
nightmare escalates. Those nonignorable
symptoms keep getting more and worse.

Pushed to accept, take in, this unacceptable
situation because these symptoms
seem serious. I have heard of high risk
pregnancies that require constant
monitoring, even sometimes termination
to save the vessel for future use. Surely I
would not be forced to continue having
this thing growing in me if it would kill me.

Barely holding my multiply suffering
body and mind together, I push myself
to take control and get to the closest ER.

Look! I yell into me, trying to center,
to find refuge in rationality. I am a
normal person, leading a narrow,
normal life. These health crisis
professionals will know what to do,
will make everything alright!

I have made it to what I have built up
in my anxious imagination as the blessed
temple of healing. Unfortunately, it is
more like Purgatory — the endless
waiting. I do understand the many more
needy of immediate care. I submerge
my fear and pain in silent singing, measured
breathing, hearing again my father’s wrath
when he had been drinking or sometimes
when he hadn’t but was feeling bitter honestly.

Family, memories, never consoling.
Certainly no one I can call for help or advice
or anything but judgement of an unkind kin.
I had been so happy to get so far away, to
reframe my life to be mine, hopeful with possibilities.

Yes, possibilities unanticipated. So many
sick days out, fallen (failing) performance,
there goes my once so bright, golden
promising job and its perks, like health insurance.

Pushed to realize my life is meaningless
beyond my private sphere. Pushed to understand
that my fragile forming friendships here are
far from strong enough to be burdened with
what has become my Truth.

At long last it is my turn to be seen. I have
become so weak, barely aware of being
lifted onto a gurney, hooked up to a fetal
monitor and IV, prodded, needle poked to
take my blood. The hands and voices are
concerned that the baby is in distress.
“Take it out of me!” I scream, crying snot
and tears and fear and rage. They inject a
fluid to induce labor, ready me to push
at their command.

Finally! It’s out, my nemesis expelled,
pushed from its unwelcome lodging.
I feel only pure exhaustion, running blood.
Fading, I hear from above:
“Yay! We saved the baby.”

Apparently too far gone for further
ministration, I am left with
the agony of life falling out of me. Faintly,
plaintively, I hear a sober retort:
“Yes, we saved this child to live, while it
does, with severe health issues requiring
extensive expensive care. It enters this
tragic life alone, parentless. Who will take
on this responsibility?
Letting the mother choose, to have the
chance to live, maybe have future healthy
children, would have been responsible, and humane.”

libramoon@diaspora.glasswings.com
libramoon

any suggestions for places to post where this will be seen?
and, Please #Share! [and don't forget to #vote]

#fiction
#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence

not fallen

https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681

Pushing, always about pushing.
Pushing his weight off me too late,
exhausted, spent, his rage into me,
breaking, bruising, pain and shame
and devastation.

Him, a sudden force, pushing me into that
alley, so near my home I had no thought
of danger. So routine, my walk from the
subway after my work day, even though, late
Fall, well past twilight. I expected just another
evening of my uneventful life since I came to
this city to pursue my career.

I didn’t know the attacker who pushed me
from behind, covered my face with a huge,
hard hand so I wouldn’t scream, or see him,
too close to count on darkness. After,
released to drag myself home, I drank
sloppy mugs of red wine and cried, on my
way to blessed unconsciousness.

The morning alarm brought me back, to
understand my desperate need for
normalcy to push this whole melodramatic
mess out, out, out! Keep moving, one foot
at a time, eyes forward, focused on each
next chore. Somehow my face, my body,
lied for me, kept to my habitual script.

I very much didn’t want to talk about it,
to seek comforting or support. I wanted it
to go away — to never be.

I found a new route home, discovered
along it that I had become hypervigilant
while walking alone through city streets.
This city of strangers that I had hoped
would be my home had become a hostile
place to push away in self defense.

Pushed into an unwanted future where
the test comes up “Pregnant” after those
ugly symptoms could no longer be ignored.

Pushed now to find a way to take care
of my needs, to confront politics, that
whole divisive headache I had believed
not part of my life.

Suddenly I’ve become a victim of
multiple powerful men — the power
of physical force and the power of
unjust law pushed through by cynical,
deceitful misogynists using pumped
up hate to get ahead.

Much as I desperately try to normalize
these agonizing days, weeks, this
nightmare escalates. Those nonignorable
symptoms keep getting more and worse.

Pushed to accept, take in, this unacceptable
situation because these symptoms
seem serious. I have heard of high risk
pregnancies that require constant
monitoring, even sometimes termination
to save the vessel for future use. Surely I
would not be forced to continue having
this thing growing in me if it would kill me.

Barely holding my multiply suffering
body and mind together, I push myself
to take control and get to the closest ER.

Look! I yell into me, trying to center,
to find refuge in rationality. I am a
normal person, leading a narrow,
normal life. These health crisis
professionals will know what to do,
will make everything alright!

I have made it to what I have built up
in my anxious imagination as the blessed
temple of healing. Unfortunately, it is
more like Purgatory — the endless
waiting. I do understand the many more
needy of immediate care. I submerge
my fear and pain in silent singing, measured
breathing, hearing again my father’s wrath
when he had been drinking or sometimes
when he hadn’t but was feeling bitter honestly.

Family, memories, never consoling.
Certainly no one I can call for help or advice
or anything but judgement of an unkind kin.
I had been so happy to get so far away, to
reframe my life to be mine, hopeful with possibilities.

Yes, possibilities unanticipated. So many
sick days out, fallen (failing) performance,
there goes my once so bright, golden
promising job and its perks, like health insurance.

Pushed to realize my life is meaningless
beyond my private sphere. Pushed to understand
that my fragile forming friendships here are
far from strong enough to be burdened with
what has become my Truth.

At long last it is my turn to be seen. I have
become so weak, barely aware of being
lifted onto a gurney, hooked up to a fetal
monitor and IV, prodded, needle poked to
take my blood. The hands and voices are
concerned that the baby is in distress.
“Take it out of me!” I scream, crying snot
and tears and fear and rage. They inject a
fluid to induce labor, ready me to push
at their command.

Finally! It’s out, my nemesis expelled,
pushed from its unwelcome lodging.
I feel only pure exhaustion, running blood.
Fading, I hear from above:
“Yay! We saved the baby.”

Apparently too far gone for further
ministration, I am left with
the agony of life falling out of me. Faintly,
plaintively, I hear a sober retort:
“Yes, we saved this child to live, while it
does, with severe health issues requiring
extensive expensive care. It enters this
tragic life alone, parentless. Who will take
on this responsibility?
Letting the mother choose, to have the
chance to live, maybe have future healthy
children, would have been responsible, and humane.”

tpq1980@iviv.hu
T Q

The 9 Nations that Collectively Possess 51% of the World's Land Area, plus population and population density data, 2023.

There are currently 241 Countries and Dependencies on Earth, 3.7% of them are currently in possession of 51% of the land area, with the remaining 49% shared among the remaining 96.3% of polities.

#data #statistics #information #facts #usa #uk #un #nato #globalism #neoliberalism #russia #china #unitedstates #canada #eu #brazil #australia #india #argentina #earth #kazakhstan #land #landarea #nations #graph #chart #wealthofnations #world #context #proportion #share #landshare

1 Comments
libramoon@diaspora.glasswings.com
libramoon

#coping centers

Long ago, in the high ‘60s, I met a happy couple whose hobby was talking with strangers. They put up signs on billboards to the effect of: Want to talk? Call [their number] between 8 pm and 2 am (or whatever the hours were that they were hanging out at home). That is how I met them. It was a simpler time, even in deepest Manhattan. They didn’t get harassing calls, rather mostly people who just wanted to be heard. Maybe they had a great idea, or something happened (good or bad) they wanted to share, or they wanted a sounding board to figure things out, or they liked conversation, or they were lonely.

Seeing a news report about the problems with accessing #psychotherapists these days, it occurred to me that we would all do better to have #neighborhood and online coping centers. Places anyone can access to talk, to #share emotional content, perhaps to engage in group #therapies, art, #community projects. If no one needs payment, there are no barriers from insurance or lack of affordability. Expenses could be shared by those who can, because this is a community effort for all of our benefit. #Health care professionals who like can not so much donate time as do their part as they see it. The point is, we can all be heard, all share our human burdens of pain and confusion and our human resources of being #listeners, growing a healthier future of #companionship instead isolating into hate.

One person like that
libramoon@diaspora.glasswings.com
libramoon

any suggestions for places to post where this will be seen?
and, Please #Share!

#fiction

not fallen

https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681

https://yprophecies.wordpress.com/2023/09/03/not-fallen/

Pushing, always about pushing.
Pushing his weight off me too late,
exhausted, spent, his rage into me,
breaking, bruising, pain and shame
and devastation.

Him, a sudden force, pushing me into that
alley, so near my home I had no thought
of danger. So routine, my walk from the
subway after my work day, even though, late
Fall, well past twilight. I expected just another
evening of my uneventful life since I came to
this city to pursue my career.

I didn’t know the attacker who pushed me
from behind, covered my face with a huge,
hard hand so I wouldn’t scream, or see him,
too close to count on darkness. After,
released to drag myself home, I drank
sloppy mugs of red wine and cried, on my
way to blessed unconsciousness.

The morning alarm brought me back, to
understand my desperate need for
normalcy to push this whole melodramatic
mess out, out, out! Keep moving, one foot
at a time, eyes forward, focused on each
next chore. Somehow my face, my body,
lied for me, kept to my habitual script.

I very much didn’t want to talk about it,
to seek comforting or support. I wanted it
to go away — to never be.

I found a new route home, discovered
along it that I had become hypervigilant
while walking alone through city streets.
This city of strangers that I had hoped
would be my home had become a hostile
place to push away in self defense.

Pushed into an unwanted future where
the test comes up “Pregnant” after those
ugly symptoms could no longer be ignored.

Pushed now to find a way to take care
of my needs, to confront politics, that
whole divisive headache I had believed
not part of my life.

Suddenly I’ve become a victim of
multiple powerful men — the power
of physical force and the power of
unjust law pushed through by cynical,
deceitful misogynists using pumped
up hate to get ahead.

Much as I desperately try to normalize
these agonizing days, weeks, this
nightmare escalates. Those nonignorable
symptoms keep getting more and worse.

Pushed to accept, take in, this unacceptable
situation because these symptoms
seem serious. I have heard of high risk
pregnancies that require constant
monitoring, even sometimes termination
to save the vessel for future use. Surely I
would not be forced to continue having
this thing growing in me if it would kill me.

Barely holding my multiply suffering
body and mind together, I push myself
to take control and get to the closest ER.

Look! I yell into me, trying to center,
to find refuge in rationality. I am a
normal person, leading a narrow,
normal life. These health crisis
professionals will know what to do,
will make everything alright!

I have made it to what I have built up
in my anxious imagination as the blessed
temple of healing. Unfortunately, it is
more like Purgatory — the endless
waiting. I do understand the many more
needy of immediate care. I submerge
my fear and pain in silent singing, measured
breathing, hearing again my father’s wrath
when he had been drinking or sometimes
when he hadn’t but was feeling bitter honestly.

Family, memories, never consoling.
Certainly no one I can call for help or advice
or anything but judgement of an unkind kin.
I had been so happy to get so far away, to
reframe my life to be mine, hopeful with possibilities.

Yes, possibilities unanticipated. So many
sick days out, fallen (failing) performance,
there goes my once so bright, golden
promising job and its perks, like health insurance.

Pushed to realize my life is meaningless
beyond my private sphere. Pushed to understand
that my fragile forming friendships here are
far from strong enough to be burdened with
what has become my Truth.

At long last it is my turn to be seen. I have
become so weak, barely aware of being
lifted onto a gurney, hooked up to a fetal
monitor and IV, prodded, needle poked to
take my blood. The hands and voices are
concerned that the baby is in distress.
“Take it out of me!” I scream, crying snot
and tears and fear and rage. They inject a
fluid to induce labor, ready me to push
at their command.

Finally! It’s out, my nemesis expelled,
pushed from its unwelcome lodging.
I feel only pure exhaustion, running blood.
Fading, I hear from above:
“Yay! We saved the baby.”

Apparently too far gone for further
ministration, I am left with
the agony of life falling out of me. Faintly,
plaintively, I hear a sober retort:
“Yes, we saved this child to live, while it
does, with severe health issues requiring
extensive expensive care. It enters this
tragic life alone, parentless. Who will take
on this responsibility?
Letting the mother choose, to have the
chance to live, maybe have future healthy
children, would have been responsible, and humane.”

#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence

libramoon@diaspora.glasswings.com
libramoon

any suggestions for places to post where this will be seen?
and, Please #Share!

#fiction

not fallen
https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2681
https://yprophecies.wordpress.com/2023/09/03/not-fallen/

Pushing, always about pushing.
Pushing his weight off me too late,
exhausted, spent, his rage into me,
breaking, bruising, pain and shame
and devastation.

Him, a sudden force, pushing me into that
alley, so near my home I had no thought
of danger. So routine, my walk from the
subway after my work day, even though, late
Fall, well past twilight. I expected just another
evening of my uneventful life since I came to
this city to pursue my career.

I didn’t know the attacker who pushed me
from behind, covered my face with a huge,
hard hand so I wouldn’t scream, or see him,
too close to count on darkness. After,
released to drag myself home, I drank
sloppy mugs of red wine and cried, on my
way to blessed unconsciousness.

The morning alarm brought me back, to
understand my desperate need for
normalcy to push this whole melodramatic
mess out, out, out! Keep moving, one foot
at a time, eyes forward, focused on each
next chore. Somehow my face, my body,
lied for me, kept to my habitual script.

I very much didn’t want to talk about it,
to seek comforting or support. I wanted it
to go away — to never be.

I found a new route home, discovered
along it that I had become hypervigilant
while walking alone through city streets.
This city of strangers that I had hoped
would be my home had become a hostile
place to push away in self defense.

Pushed into an unwanted future where
the test comes up “Pregnant” after those
ugly symptoms could no longer be ignored.

Pushed now to find a way to take care
of my needs, to confront politics, that
whole divisive headache I had believed
not part of my life.

Suddenly I’ve become a victim of
multiple powerful men — the power
of physical force and the power of
unjust law pushed through by cynical,
deceitful misogynists using pumped
up hate to get ahead.

Much as I desperately try to normalize
these agonizing days, weeks, this
nightmare escalates. Those nonignorable
symptoms keep getting more and worse.

Pushed to accept, take in, this unacceptable
situation because these symptoms
seem serious. I have heard of high risk
pregnancies that require constant
monitoring, even sometimes termination
to save the vessel for future use. Surely I
would not be forced to continue having
this thing growing in me if it would kill me.

Barely holding my multiply suffering
body and mind together, I push myself
to take control and get to the closest ER.

Look! I yell into me, trying to center,
to find refuge in rationality. I am a
normal person, leading a narrow,
normal life. These health crisis
professionals will know what to do,
will make everything alright!

I have made it to what I have built up
in my anxious imagination as the blessed
temple of healing. Unfortunately, it is
more like Purgatory — the endless
waiting. I do understand the many more
needy of immediate care. I submerge
my fear and pain in silent singing, measured
breathing, hearing again my father’s wrath
when he had been drinking or sometimes
when he hadn’t but was feeling bitter honestly.
Family, memories, never consoling.
Certainly no one I can call for help or advice
or anything but judgement of an unkind kin.
I had been so happy to get so far away, to
reframe my life to be mine, hopeful with possibilities.

Yes, possibilities unanticipated. So many
sick days out, fallen (failing) performance,
there goes my once so bright, golden
promising job and its perks, like health insurance.

Pushed to realize my life is meaningless
beyond my private sphere. Now I understand
that my fragile forming friendships here are
far from strong enough to be burdened with
what has become my Truth.

At long last it is my turn to be seen. I have
become so weak, barely aware of being
lifted onto a gurney, hooked up to a fetal
monitor and IV, prodded, needle poked to
take my blood. The hands and voices are
concerned that the baby is in distress.
“Take it out of me!” I scream, crying snot
and tears and fear and rage. They inject a
fluid to induce labor, ready me to push
at their command.

Finally! It’s out, my nemesis expelled,
pushed from its unwelcome lodging.
I feel only pure exhaustion, running blood.
Fading, I hear from above:
“Yay! We saved the baby.”
Apparently too far gone for further
ministration, I am left with
the agony of life falling out of me. Faintly,
plaintively, I hear a sober retort:
“Yes, we saved this child to live, while it
does, with severe health issues requiring
extensive expensive care. It enters this
tragic life alone, parentless. Who will take
on this responsibility?
Letting the mother choose, to have the
chance to live, maybe have future healthy
children, would have been responsible, and humane.”

#shortstory #women #rights #responsibility #tragedy #metoo #politics #herstory #health #violence

junefromthemoon@diaspora-fr.org
Easy

Easy Velvet

Next step after a survival lifestyle...
Materialize the Unknown, bring to this world tools to raise Awareness through Art and Creativity, offering other perspectives, soothing our senses and those of others.
Do you see what a magical world we live in?! We are blessed as Spirits to be given a body to experience this realm! Honor and share! 🤟😻👌 Sunny Day to You!
Thank you to Sweo & Nikita for your Art!

#art #love #create #share #shine #EasyVelvet

7 Likes
2 Comments
2 Shares