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Cake day: March 6th, 2025

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  • It is Marching Season in Northern Ireland, when Protestants hold parades, marches and bonfires celebrating a Protestant victory over Catholics in 1690. The season runs from Easter to September, but the peak is in July.

    This effigy is definitely a product of ultra right-wing talking points and mounting tension from anti-immigrant sentiment. It’s not a healthy expression of a valid concern. There are mannequins depicting human beings at the top of the pyre. Under it is a sign that tells you exactly the group they want to harm. Further, a sign that says “veterans before immigrants” sets up a false dichotomy that pits two unrelated groups against each other. It has all the tropes of this type of propaganda.

    The designers and builders of the pyre should not be celebrated and should face some legal backlash.


  • Semisimian@startrek.websitetoMicroblog Memes@lemmy.worldThoughts?
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    27 days ago

    In the immediate aftermath of a traumatic event, this response is completely warranted. After 9/11, it was difficult in America to celebrate anything immediately after. You had to address it. “I know we are all in pain, but my son was born today and I’m happy.”

    The reelection was traumatic for those that remember the insanity of the 1st term. And it ended in a worldwide trauma that we are all still trying to wrap our minds around.

    After a while, though, it can be seen as performative. But let’s give people time to grieve if they need it.







  • Pets help us understand our own mortality in ways that continue to surprise me. When I was young, the first pet I lost was a young cat, just a few years old. I raised her from a kitten that was probably too young to ween so we had a close bond. She was indoor/outdoor and was attacked by a neighbor’s dog during the day when I was gone. Holding her and watching her die broke me, like she waited all day to die in my arms. She was mine and I felt like I let her down. Woof, it hurt. Still does.

    But while I was holding her, our family dog (Allison) was next to me. She was older than I was, a feisty Lhasa Apso that had lost her ability to hold her bladder. We diapered her: we’d cut a hole in human diapers to pull her tail through to keep the hardwoods from getting ruined. She died a year later, after living a full life.

    I buried both of them in the front yard, under a couple of pines that bordered our neighbor’s pet cemetery. Both times, digging those holes gave me the time I needed to be able to return them to the earth and say goodbye. I learned so much from their passing. It is the last gift our pets give us, their final act of love.

    Now, older, with kids of my own, we have Sadie, who I am looking at as I write this. She’s a rescue, probably a golden mixed with some border collie, at least 16 years old. Her sister died last year and it was the first close death my kids experienced. Her passing taught my kids the alchemy of aging gracefully, the privilege of old age. Now, they find charm in Sadie’s rickety hips and excuse her incontinence. Getting old is okay; we are lucky to be able to do it. Watching your loved ones get old is a privilege we should cherish.

    Edit: I wanted to thank OP for posting this. Reading your observations of your aging cat brought It all forward.