Undue Effluence (nuance matters)

@UndueEffluence

“We can disagree and still love each other unless your disagreement is rooted in my oppression and denial of my humanity and right to exist.” - James Baldwin

California

Joined January 2017

4.8K Following

725 Followers

23.7K Posts

Pinned Tweet

Undue Effluence (nuance matters) @UndueEffluence

over 2 years ago

“Listen, I’ve got something very obvious to tell you. You’re not allowed to give up. If they decide to kill me, it means that we are incredibly strong…” ⁃Alexey Navalny

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Judah Friedlander @JudahWorldChamp

6 months ago

Hey @jonstewart @jonfavs @Timodc @weeklyshowpod, why are you trying to belittle people for wearing a mask? #covidisairborne #disabilityjustice #PublicHealth #WeKeepUsSafe

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UndueEffluence retweeted

DIZZY ILLY 🫧💜💛 @illythescottie

10 months ago

Iv created a donation pool for my bucket list, if anyone wishes to help, thank you so much💕 Even just commenting or resharing helps 💕 https://t.co/iV5AjfXbiu

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Joyce Carol Oates

@JoyceCarolOates

8 months ago

Truly it was out of curiosity: why a person with unlimited resources exhibits so little appreciation or even awareness of the things that most people value as giving meaning to life. Just minimally well to do people donate to charities, local museums & libraries & the like; they support the commonweal. & unlike the very wealthy these people pay high income taxes.

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Who to follow

Andrea 💜🌜✨

30 | She/They | FREE 🇵🇸🇨🇩🇸🇩 | Witch | Draws art, sometimes for money | Married 💍| Bi/ace/non binary | ΘΔ | 🔞🍃🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

Accountant by day, Star Wars enthusiast, cancer survivor, mother of two - and three puppies-still believe in fair play and love of all!

DaveOfEarth 🌎 🇨🇦

…just yelling into the void on a spectrum in the universal matrix… cishetro (he/they) late diagnosed #adhd #autisticAF #CPtsd #hEDS #openlyND #ally #demi

UndueEffluence retweeted

8 months ago

What if SARS-CoV-2 doesn’t just infect - but also self-assembles into molecular structures that keep the immune system burning? Zhang showed that after the virus breaks apart, some of its fragments re-form peptide-RNA nanocrystals that potently activate TLR3, even without live virus - a “viral afterlife.”🧵

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8 months ago

I’m just saying, but if I had just gotten completely shellacked on Tuesday, I wouldn’t be asking SCOTUS to let me starve millions of people 3 days later.

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Dreamweasel @Dreamweasel

8 months ago

TWELVE MORE THINGS MAGA WILL APPARENTLY ALWAYS BELIEVE NO MATTER HOW MUCH EVIDENCE YOU PROVIDE TO THE CONTRARY New blog post: https://t.co/3ls9oxp2jO

Dreamweasel's tweet photo. TWELVE MORE THINGS MAGA WILL APPARENTLY ALWAYS BELIEVE NO MATTER HOW MUCH EVIDENCE YOU PROVIDE TO THE CONTRARY

New blog post:
https://t.co/3ls9oxp2jO https://t.co/elBj8tUUAF

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8 months ago

I came back today. I thought I had known despair before, but what I saw today is beyond despair. It is not grief, nor horror, nor pain. It is something colder, a stillness where even God seems to have withdrawn His hand. The sky was impossibly blue. The kind of blue that mocks you, that makes you wonder whether beauty itself is a crime. I walked through streets that no longer exist, streets that were my childhood. They are now a wilderness of stone, wire, and dust. A man stood on a heap, a neighbor, I think. He pointed and said, “It’s here.” I asked him how far. He looked down. And I understood: my house was beneath his feet. I lifted my phone, as if the machine could recognize what I could not. The screen glowed; there was nothing to see. The earth had swallowed the distances. Even the smell of home was gone. It was as if the thread connecting me to life itself had been cut. I dug with my hands. The dust burned. My palms bled. My mother had told me: “Search for anything we can save.” And so I obeyed her like a son obeys the last voice that still believes there is meaning in obedience. From a house that once cost my father one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, a lifetime of labor, of hope, of decency, I found two things: a knife, and a pillow. Two relics of civilization. One for necessity, one for illusion. That is what remains of man. I sat in the ruins, the blue of my shirt turned gray with ash, and I thought: this is the end not of a city, but of meaning itself. I thought of my parents, their hands, their faith in honest work. How will they bear this? How will any man bear seeing his father’s roof turned into dust by a stranger’s hands, hands that will never know the names of those they destroyed? But what tears me apart more than ruin is silence. No one speaks to us. No one tells us where to go, who will rebuild, or who is responsible. The politicians talk of victories, the generals of strategy, the world of peace and progress. But none of them live here among the ashes. None of them stand where I stand, sifting through their own dead. And those who claim to represent us, where are they? Where is the money they collected in our name, the promises they made before the cameras, the slogans they wrote while we buried our children? Who among them will come to this ruin and say: Forgive us, we failed you? Not one. They sit in offices with clean shirts, counting our corpses as figures on paper. They say “reconstruction,” “aid,” “negotiations,” as though the vocabulary of power could fill the emptiness of a mother’s bed. I tell you the truth: there is no crime greater than indifference. The murderer at least acknowledges the victim. But those who look away, they kill the soul itself. I brushed the dust from my shirt, though I knew it was useless. I wanted to see if there was still color left in the world. There wasn’t. The blue had become the color of mourning. I looked at my hands. They were shaking, not from fear, but from the unbearable realization that we have become expendable to the world. Our suffering is entertainment, our death a policy, our endurance a statistic. I wept then, openly, shamelessly. I, who once believed in the dignity of suffering, now see that dignity itself has been annihilated. There is nothing noble in being forgotten. If you are reading this, do not admire the style or the language. Lower your head, and weep. Because this dust, this silence, this cry, is what remains of us.

ezzingaza's tweet photo. I came back today. I thought I had known despair before, but what I saw today is beyond despair.
It is not grief, nor horror, nor pain. It is something colder, a stillness where even God seems to have withdrawn His hand.

The sky was impossibly blue. The kind of blue that mocks you, that makes you wonder whether beauty itself is a crime.
I walked through streets that no longer exist, streets that were my childhood.
They are now a wilderness of stone, wire, and dust.

A man stood on a heap, a neighbor, I think.
He pointed and said, “It’s here.”
I asked him how far.
He looked down.
And I understood: my house was beneath his feet.

I lifted my phone, as if the machine could recognize what I could not. The screen glowed; there was nothing to see. The earth had swallowed the distances. Even the smell of home was gone. It was as if the thread connecting me to life itself had been cut.

I dug with my hands. The dust burned. My palms bled.
My mother had told me: “Search for anything we can save.” And so I obeyed her like a son obeys the last voice that still believes there is meaning in obedience.

From a house that once cost my father one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, a lifetime of labor, of hope, of decency, I found two things:
a knife, and a pillow.

Two relics of civilization. One for necessity, one for illusion.
That is what remains of man.

I sat in the ruins, the blue of my shirt turned gray with ash, and I thought:
this is the end not of a city, but of meaning itself.

I thought of my parents, their hands, their faith in honest work.
How will they bear this? How will any man bear seeing his father’s roof turned into dust by a stranger’s hands, hands that will never know the names of those they destroyed?

But what tears me apart more than ruin is silence. No one speaks to us.
No one tells us where to go, who will rebuild, or who is responsible.
The politicians talk of victories, the generals of strategy, the world of peace and progress.
But none of them live here among the ashes. None of them stand where I stand, sifting through their own dead.

And those who claim to represent us, where are they? Where is the money they collected in our name, the promises they made before the cameras, the slogans they wrote while we buried our children?
Who among them will come to this ruin and say: Forgive us, we failed you?
Not one.

They sit in offices with clean shirts, counting our corpses as figures on paper. They say “reconstruction,” “aid,” “negotiations,” as though the vocabulary of power could fill the emptiness of a mother’s bed.

I tell you the truth: there is no crime greater than indifference.
The murderer at least acknowledges the victim.
But those who look away, they kill the soul itself.

I brushed the dust from my shirt, though I knew it was useless.
I wanted to see if there was still color left in the world.
There wasn’t.
The blue had become the color of mourning.

I looked at my hands. They were shaking, not from fear, but from the unbearable realization that we have become expendable to the world.
Our suffering is entertainment, our death a policy, our endurance a statistic.

I wept then, openly, shamelessly.
I, who once believed in the dignity of suffering, now see that dignity itself has been annihilated.
There is nothing noble in being forgotten.

If you are reading this, do not admire the style or the language.
Lower your head, and weep.
Because this dust, this silence, this cry, is what remains of us.

ezzingaza's tweet photo. I came back today. I thought I had known despair before, but what I saw today is beyond despair.
It is not grief, nor horror, nor pain. It is something colder, a stillness where even God seems to have withdrawn His hand.

The sky was impossibly blue. The kind of blue that mocks you, that makes you wonder whether beauty itself is a crime.
I walked through streets that no longer exist, streets that were my childhood.
They are now a wilderness of stone, wire, and dust.

A man stood on a heap, a neighbor, I think.
He pointed and said, “It’s here.”
I asked him how far.
He looked down.
And I understood: my house was beneath his feet.

I lifted my phone, as if the machine could recognize what I could not. The screen glowed; there was nothing to see. The earth had swallowed the distances. Even the smell of home was gone. It was as if the thread connecting me to life itself had been cut.

I dug with my hands. The dust burned. My palms bled.
My mother had told me: “Search for anything we can save.” And so I obeyed her like a son obeys the last voice that still believes there is meaning in obedience.

From a house that once cost my father one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, a lifetime of labor, of hope, of decency, I found two things:
a knife, and a pillow.

Two relics of civilization. One for necessity, one for illusion.
That is what remains of man.

I sat in the ruins, the blue of my shirt turned gray with ash, and I thought:
this is the end not of a city, but of meaning itself.

I thought of my parents, their hands, their faith in honest work.
How will they bear this? How will any man bear seeing his father’s roof turned into dust by a stranger’s hands, hands that will never know the names of those they destroyed?

But what tears me apart more than ruin is silence. No one speaks to us.
No one tells us where to go, who will rebuild, or who is responsible.
The politicians talk of victories, the generals of strategy, the world of peace and progress.
But none of them live here among the ashes. None of them stand where I stand, sifting through their own dead.

And those who claim to represent us, where are they? Where is the money they collected in our name, the promises they made before the cameras, the slogans they wrote while we buried our children?
Who among them will come to this ruin and say: Forgive us, we failed you?
Not one.

They sit in offices with clean shirts, counting our corpses as figures on paper. They say “reconstruction,” “aid,” “negotiations,” as though the vocabulary of power could fill the emptiness of a mother’s bed.

I tell you the truth: there is no crime greater than indifference.
The murderer at least acknowledges the victim.
But those who look away, they kill the soul itself.

I brushed the dust from my shirt, though I knew it was useless.
I wanted to see if there was still color left in the world.
There wasn’t.
The blue had become the color of mourning.

I looked at my hands. They were shaking, not from fear, but from the unbearable realization that we have become expendable to the world.
Our suffering is entertainment, our death a policy, our endurance a statistic.

I wept then, openly, shamelessly.
I, who once believed in the dignity of suffering, now see that dignity itself has been annihilated.
There is nothing noble in being forgotten.

If you are reading this, do not admire the style or the language.
Lower your head, and weep.
Because this dust, this silence, this cry, is what remains of us.

ezzingaza's tweet photo. I came back today. I thought I had known despair before, but what I saw today is beyond despair.
It is not grief, nor horror, nor pain. It is something colder, a stillness where even God seems to have withdrawn His hand.

The sky was impossibly blue. The kind of blue that mocks you, that makes you wonder whether beauty itself is a crime.
I walked through streets that no longer exist, streets that were my childhood.
They are now a wilderness of stone, wire, and dust.

A man stood on a heap, a neighbor, I think.
He pointed and said, “It’s here.”
I asked him how far.
He looked down.
And I understood: my house was beneath his feet.

I lifted my phone, as if the machine could recognize what I could not. The screen glowed; there was nothing to see. The earth had swallowed the distances. Even the smell of home was gone. It was as if the thread connecting me to life itself had been cut.

I dug with my hands. The dust burned. My palms bled.
My mother had told me: “Search for anything we can save.” And so I obeyed her like a son obeys the last voice that still believes there is meaning in obedience.

From a house that once cost my father one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, a lifetime of labor, of hope, of decency, I found two things:
a knife, and a pillow.

Two relics of civilization. One for necessity, one for illusion.
That is what remains of man.

I sat in the ruins, the blue of my shirt turned gray with ash, and I thought:
this is the end not of a city, but of meaning itself.

I thought of my parents, their hands, their faith in honest work.
How will they bear this? How will any man bear seeing his father’s roof turned into dust by a stranger’s hands, hands that will never know the names of those they destroyed?

But what tears me apart more than ruin is silence. No one speaks to us.
No one tells us where to go, who will rebuild, or who is responsible.
The politicians talk of victories, the generals of strategy, the world of peace and progress.
But none of them live here among the ashes. None of them stand where I stand, sifting through their own dead.

And those who claim to represent us, where are they? Where is the money they collected in our name, the promises they made before the cameras, the slogans they wrote while we buried our children?
Who among them will come to this ruin and say: Forgive us, we failed you?
Not one.

They sit in offices with clean shirts, counting our corpses as figures on paper. They say “reconstruction,” “aid,” “negotiations,” as though the vocabulary of power could fill the emptiness of a mother’s bed.

I tell you the truth: there is no crime greater than indifference.
The murderer at least acknowledges the victim.
But those who look away, they kill the soul itself.

I brushed the dust from my shirt, though I knew it was useless.
I wanted to see if there was still color left in the world.
There wasn’t.
The blue had become the color of mourning.

I looked at my hands. They were shaking, not from fear, but from the unbearable realization that we have become expendable to the world.
Our suffering is entertainment, our death a policy, our endurance a statistic.

I wept then, openly, shamelessly.
I, who once believed in the dignity of suffering, now see that dignity itself has been annihilated.
There is nothing noble in being forgotten.

If you are reading this, do not admire the style or the language.
Lower your head, and weep.
Because this dust, this silence, this cry, is what remains of us.

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UndueEffluence retweeted

𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕒𝕖_𝔾𝕦𝕣𝕝

9 months ago

@AOC Stephen Miller looks like the villain in a movie about tax audits.

SundaeDivine's tweet photo. @AOC Stephen Miller looks like the villain in a movie about tax audits. https://t.co/otAJkNO3eA

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9 months ago

Hahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahaahhhahaha.

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UndueEffluence retweeted

9 months ago

Conservatives love to darkly say stuff like “you aren’t prepared for what’s next, we’re not going to be moderate anymore, you have no idea what you’ve unleashed” and then cry like babies when you call them fascists

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9 months ago

a few days ago brian kilmeade said homeless people should be executed. jesse waters accused the left of trying to start a civil war. fox news spent years telling verifiable lies about dominion and the 2020 election. canceling jimmy kimmel isn’t about an offensive line in a monologue. it’s about wielding state power to silence political opposition.

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@TimothyDSnyder

9 months ago

General pattern in regime change: the comedy gets better and then it gets banned.

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latke @latkedelrey

9 months ago

the whole fucking world is like we all have brain fog! you need to balance your hormones or eat more fiber with dinner or swap out cardio for yoga or be KIND to yourself! whatever you do, do NOT stop mainlining a virus that causes brain fog on. don’t even try to prevent it

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9 months ago

Amazing frankly

USA_Polling's tweet photo. Amazing frankly https://t.co/UCVGEIeNvQ

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9 months ago

Bro, they made a spreadsheet of people who said mean things about Charlie Kirk. 🤣

acnewsitics's tweet photo. Bro, they made a spreadsheet of people who said mean things about Charlie Kirk. 🤣 https://t.co/q04haxaQ22

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evan loves worf

9 months ago

esjesjesj's tweet photo. https://t.co/98IYw1heha

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UndueEffluence retweeted

JustTheFacts! ⚓️ 🇺🇸🦅 @JustTheFacts_68

9 months ago

This… 👇👇👇👇👇

JustTheFacts_68's tweet photo. This… 👇👇👇👇👇 https://t.co/GDt2OP0vwv

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UndueEffluence retweeted

Tyrone Shoelaces 🍉@tyroneshoelaces.bsky.social @TyroneS42704917

9 months ago

TyroneS42704917's tweet photo. @micah_erfan https://t.co/pV6jzUYckm

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UndueEffluence retweeted

10 months ago

Deeply disturbing rhetoric is spreading from influential MAGA figures (including the President of the United States and the owner of this website). They have no idea who the shooter is, and many of these same people mocked Democrats when they were victims of political violence in the past. In moments like this, we should be lowering the temperature and finding our shared humanity — not fueling more hatred and violence.

MeidasTouch's tweet photo. Deeply disturbing rhetoric is spreading from influential MAGA figures (including the President of the United States and the owner of this website). They have no idea who the shooter is, and many of these same people mocked Democrats when they were victims of political violence in the past. In moments like this, we should be lowering the temperature and finding our shared humanity — not fueling more hatred and violence.

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UndueEffluence retweeted

10 months ago

A new preprint study shows that the SARS-CoV-2 protein ORF6 directly kills human neurons. Not by accident, but through necroptosis - a kind of cell death where neurons burst and fuel inflammation. This may underlie the long-term brain symptoms of Long COVID.🧵

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