Cath Beard

The impossibility of good mental health in a dystopian world We are interconnected to the world around us and that is where our problems and solutions reside.

"It’s okay not to be okay if it’s temporary and quickly remedied, getting you to return to work and not disrupt the state."

Jay explores the impossibility of good mental health in a dystopian world, on the NSUN blog.

www.nsun.org.uk/the-impossib...

Posted this last night. In case you missed it, Hope Projects does amazing work with people utterly abandoned by the state. Giving them some money will annoy Nigel Farage, Shabana Mahmood, Lee Anderson, Tommy Robinson and the Daily Mail.

What perfect album came out the year you turned 16?

Well it was 1996 so stiff competition. So I’m going with this

I just woke my husband up laughing

Phone might be good? It’s … interesting

It’s absolutely terrible. Actually- can I run something past you? Would appreciate your union eyes

Oh lord

The line “vote for us or you’ll get the far right” doesn’t really work when the policies you’re enacting are barely distinguishable from what the far right propose.

2015 Shabana Mahmood really needs to have a word with 2025 Shabana Mahmood

Have a hug. I’m sorry it’s been so awful. You’re a light in my darkness often.

It’s quite, quite shit though friends

The luxury of a chance to say what is happening and not have to consider a single other human beings feelings. Alas. No such luxury for me (or for many women caught into that Venn diagram of teenage children/aging parents/carer fuckwittery)

About to brave Birmingham’s public transport system

New hyper fixation seems to the Father John Misty. Could be worse?

Aurora seen: 0 (damn clouds)
Zombies avoided: all of them

I went out to try and see the aurora when my app pinged. I am 45 and managed approx 3 minutes before making my husband get out of bed and come outside with me to keep the zombies away

What's your favourite 'lost' line from The Waste Land? Phantasmal gnomes, burrowing in brick and stone and steel! Carrying/Away the little light dead people Something which we knew must be a dawn -A different darkness flowed above the clouds I should like to be in a crowd of beaks without words But it is terrible to be alone with another person My God man there's bears on it

Giving a lecture on the drafts of The Waste Land tomorrow and all the strange and haunting lines that Eliot and Pound decided to cut

there are no bad Jen Frantz poems

via Bennington Review

He’s a beauty. Hope the rest and meds make a difference soon xx

Check your listings! It’s currently impossible to search for items using size criteria too. Such a mess. Manually changing everything was ‘fun’.

A watercolor painting depicting a landscape with a dark, cloudy sky. A green hill takes up the lower half of the image, with two power line towers standing on its crest. Wires run between the towers. A single, dark bird is flying against the gray sky on the right side of the painting.

Morning.
🖼️ Carson Ellis

I’ve just finished another near future AI-takes-over-the-world-and-this-book-is-a-story-generated-by-that-AI-bet-you-didn’t-see-that-coming novel. Third I’ve read this year. Heavily eco-speculative. Is this the New Thing?

And patients can be too intimidated to travel to their appointments.

Can confirm this is the case 🙁

Can anyone recommend a book about cryptids suitable for a 12/13 year old girl who is a precocious reader and a bit of a weirdo (I made her)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

This morning at the Remembrance Sunday service at our parish church, I read Wilfred Owen's Dulce Et Decorum Est.

It is an excoriatingly angry poem and I delivered it as such.

If what war does to human beings, especially the young, does not make you incandescently angry there is something wrong.

‘For the women who gave birth in the dark’: a portrait of motherhood in Gaza Diana Shams wrote a book because ‘no one explains how to carry your baby through fire, hunger and fear – and still sing to her at bedtime’

‘For the women who gave birth in the dark’: a portrait of motherhood in Gaza

How horrible. I’m sorry you’ve been kept up at night. I’m finding it’s the price for principles in the current world. Saying that at graduation is disgusting.

Happy birthday to me, who did something brave yesterday and has spent all day with a tummy ache as a result.

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