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@beanotype
'Peanut Butter,' Eileen Myles
I am always hungry & wanting to have sex. This is a fact. If you get right down to it the new unprocessed peanut butter is no damn good & you should buy it in a jar as always in the largest supermarket you know. And I am an enemy of change, as you know. All the things I embrace as new are in fact old things, re-released: swimming, the sensation of being dirty in body and mind summer as a time to do nothing and make no money. Prayer as a last re- sort. Pleasure as a means, and then a means again with no ends in sight. I am absolutely in opposition to all kinds of goals. I have no desire to know where this, anything is getting me. When the water boils I get a cup of tea. Accidentally I read all the works of Proust. It was summer I was there so was he. I write because I would like to be used for years after my death. Not only my body will be compost but the thoughts I left during my life. During my life I was a woman with hazel eyes. Out the window is a crooked silo. Parts of your body I think of as stripes which I have learned to love along. We swim naked in ponds & I write be- hind your back. My thoughts about you are not exactly forbidden, but exalted because they are useless, not intended to get you because I have you & you love me. It’s more like a playground where I play with my reflection of you until you come back and into the real you I get to sink my teeth. With you I know how to relax. & so I work behind your back. Which is lovely. Nature is out of control you tell me & that’s what’s so good about it. I’m immoderately in love with you, knocked out by all your new white hair why shouldn’t something I have always known be the very best there is. I love you from my childhood, starting back there when one day was just like the rest, random growth and breezes, constant love, a sand- wich in the middle of day, a tiny step in the vastly conventional path of the Sun. I squint. I wink. I take the ride.
Eileen Myles (1949) is an American poet. Her strength is her frankness (in ‘A Poem’ she writes: “There is an argument/for poetry being deep but I am not that argument”) which makes sharing what I love about this poem harder than usual as it’s the section where she addresses her lover that I think are the greatest part and repeating it would be a game of diminishing returns. It’s probably the title which is in fact the most intriguing part of the poem–and given the text it’s actually not too hard to imagine Myles choosing it somewhat tongue-in-cheek. But it draws attention to an image that might otherwise be unremarkable, which in turn we can use to give a fuller body to our understanding of the poem.
It of course fits the idea of the poem, and even as a possible description of Myles’ poetry, but there are other elements. Firstly it fits in with the theme of comfort to the poem, in both reinforcing Myles’ ironic “conservativism” and peanut butter being a staple comfort food (or is that just me). However, the focus on it being low-quality, cheaply bought peanut butter might offer another angle, that of Myles not trying to explain her poetry but actually reassuring a lover she can be happy as a non-radical.
There’s a lovely old English myth that if someone who truely loved and trusted the werewolf called it by name that it would turn back to human.
Others include throwing their human clothes at it and it’d turn back but that’s a bit less romantic
#ok i understand ppl would take the romancey route here#but imagine the werewolf’s mother#or grandmother#some wizened old woman or middle aged woman#with wrinkles or hands toughened from years of labor#just going out into the woods#where even the men with axes won’t go anymore#and facing down the ravening beast#and saying#it’s time to come home
imagine a son or a father or a brother or a best friend. the throwing clothes thing is hilarious, though. “OH MY GOD MITCHELL JUST PUT YOUR FUCKING CLOTHES BACK ON AND COME IN THE GODDAMN HOUSE YOUR MOTHER IS WORRIED SICK.”
So I was rereading Harry Potter, when I came across this and thought- what if instead of Cedric Diggory, Cassius Warrington had been chosen to compete in the Triwizard Tournament?
Imagine Dumbledore calling out the name of the Hogwarts champion and it isn’t a Gryffindor, or a Ravenclaw, or even a Hufflepuff, but it’s a Slytherin. A student from a House most people hate.
Imagine Cassius Warrington getting up, and three out of four Houses are booing at him and shouting things like “NO!” or, “We can’t have a Slytherin champion!” or demanding a retry. But he’s a Slytherin- he’s been dealing with this shit since he got sorted, so he keeps his head high and joins the other champions.
Imagine Harry trying to catch Warrington alone because he doesn’t really want to associate with Slytherins (plus Malfoy has this tendency of being around the guy ALL THE TIME since he got chosen), but at the same time he’s also fair enough not to want him to walk into the first task unprepared.
Imagine Warrington walking over to Harry a few months later, and Ron and Hermione both jump into a protective stance, wands out, but instead of attacking Harry he just tells him to stick the egg underwater. (Because Slytherins don’t forget those who helped them out).
Imagine Warrington and Harry helping each other out in the labyrinth.
Imagine Harry being devastated when Peter kills Warrington- because Voldemort doesn’t care what house they’re form, a spare is a spare.
Imagine the uproar that causes among the Slytherins, because some of their parents really are Death Eaters and they know what really happened.
Imagine Slytherins fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts and shouting “This is for Cassius!”
Imagine Harry returning with Warrington’s body, and the crowd realizes what’s happened, but Warrington’s parents don’t show up. There’s no one to mourn him, to cradle him in their arms and cry for their son. The Slytherins know why. His parents were Death Eaters, too.
Imagine Slytherins reaching out, asking for help from classmates from other houses. They’re terrified, truly terrified because the being their parents claimed would never hurt them because they’re pureblood, they realize that he does not care.
Imagine Slytherins in the 5th book sneaking off to join Dumbledore’s Army, to learn more about who Voldemort is without their parents acting as a filter.
Imagine the shock when they’re told what he’s really done.
Imagine that a few talented Slytherins went with Harry and the others into the Ministry of Magic. The others are a bit wary but they prove themselves as friends.
Imagine them being confronted by Lucius Malfoy in the the Hall of Prophecy, and when the Death Eaters descend, they know that any one of them could be their parents.
Imagine the shocked gasp of a Death Eater as they realize their own child, a pureblood, is standing defiantly with Harry Potter. They choke back a cry. They can’t let their child know that they were about to duel to the death.
Imagine a DA Slytherin facing off against their own Death Eater parent. That they make the decision to let their child defeat them, because in that moment, they realize that they love their child more than they fear Voldemort. They go down, mask unveiled, and the Slytherin kid has to be dragged from the fight before he gets killed.
Imagine Book 6 Slytherins getting more friendly and cooperative with the other houses. Two years of Voldemort terrorizing the muggle and Wizarding world, two years where their parents just up and leave some days, cringing from the pain in their arm, two years after the death of the first Slytherin pureblood, Cassius Warrington, killed by Voldemort’s right-hand man, and they’re slowly hitting the breaking point.
Imagine Slytherin kids keeping tabs on their parents, sending the information to Harry, who shares it with the Order of the Phoenix, and hoping that their parents won’t be killed.
Imagine Book 7 Slytherins low-key rebelling against the new oppressive Hogwarts staff.
Imagine the final siege on Hogwarts, where Slytherins stand proudly by their fellow houses, knowing full-well they could be fighting their own parents. Some Slytherins know their parents were in the fighting. They hope to find them first and sneak them away. Their fellow students understand. Professor McGonagall allows 7th Year Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson, to duel a death eater in her stead; her father is under that veil. She knows it.
Imagine the aftermath of the battle; every house suffered loses. Slytherin students crying over the deaths of friends they made in every house.
Imagine a Cassius Warrington statue made in his honor, the first Slytherin to fight and die nobly with Harry Potter, the boy who lived, in the face of ultimate evil. He was a true Slytherin, and it’s in his name that Slytherin children and their families have cut all ties with the Death Eaters, denounced Voldemort, and are finally living in peace.
#i do enjoy cedric #but this would have been immensely wonderful in many ways (via batty4u)
Imagine a story in which Harry wasn’t in love with his fellow champion’s girlfriend, but after her boyfriend’s death just hugs her so long, so hard, and says “he wanted to win for you. You should know–you should know he won, he did it for you” and gives her the best hug and shoulder he knows how to be because her parents aren’t there either and she must know why.
Imagine Harry staring over her head at everyone else until Hermione steps up–it doesn’t take long, but it takes long enough that when she does all eyes are on her as a source of motion–and says “we’re never going to forget this. They’re not going to get away with it” and the girlfriend just latches onto Hermione and everyone is in wands-out stance convinced she’s about to attack the shit out of Hermione, and then the girlfriend stares into her eyes and says “do you promise me” and Hermione just gives her this super-firm nod and says “I promise” and the girlfriend just collapses on her, sobbing.
Imagine Dumbledore trying to give some flowery speech about inter-wizard solidarity while glossing over why, because Slytherins have always been a touchy subject, and Ron gets to his feet and says “Professor, I need to say something important” and Dumbledore is so surprised he just cedes the floor, and Ron–after that awkward moment when he realizes everyone is staring at him–says he didn’t know Warrington particularly, but he knows how Warrington and Harry played. That each was always cheering on the other. Both wanted to win, but neither was willing to undercut the other by underhanded means. He finishes up saying “I think–I think it’s important everyone should know he died being what a champion should be. Because he could have abandoned Harry and instead he stood up with him to play the game the honest way, and he died for it. And–and Slytherin House should be proud, and we should all be proud, because Warrington was a good bloke.” He sits back down all flustered because he didn’t actually stand up meaning to make a speech. And then Pansy Parkinson stands up before Dumbledore can take back control of the room and says “I want to tell Weasley thank you.” And all of Slytherin House raises a glass–to Warrington, to Weasley, to Potter–and the other houses follow suit. Many years later, Wizarding scholars will say that was the moment Voldemort truly lost.
Imagine later that summer. Harry gets several owls on his birthday, all unsigned. The birds are plump and pretentious and well-cared-for. He will never know which Slytherins sent him their treasures: parchments with hexes developed by the Death Eaters; a strange locket that will only open if he whispers a special spell but that always shows him the picture he most needs to see; a page torn from a potions book that, brewed properly, will allow him extra time to summon a Patronus by giving him a few crucial seconds not just of happiness but of bliss. It doesn’t matter. Harry knows these gifts not as birthday gifts but for what they really are, and he treasures the locket and copies out the potion to send to Hermione and Mrs. Weasley, and when first summoned by the Order of the Phoenix he marches straight up to Dumbledore with the hexes and says “I can’t tell you where I got these, Professor. But they’re in use by the Death Eaters and I think you should have them.” Months later, Sirius will recognize the spell Bellatrix shoots at him, and will dive out of the way just in the nick of time.
The final battle. Everyone is there. Sirius somehow ends up herding a group of Slytherins. They all stare at him and he at them, across a centuries-old divide Voldemort has only succeeded in deepening. Then he remembers the hexes. Harry’s locket, now tucked under Sirius’ shirt because Harry’s friends are with him in this battle but most of Sirius’ are dead. The moment that happiness potion saved Remus’ life, his very soul. Snape’s final words to Harry, finally seen not as mockery but real true advice. What Harry said Voldemort said–his first words in his new form. They are kids, and they are sharing the same kind of hurt he once wouldn’t admit to, watching his mother burn his name off the family tree. “When we go in there, it’s going to be hell,” he tells the Slytherins. “Some of you are probably going to die. I might go down too, and if I do I want your best curser in the front. But I want you all to remember one thing. There are no spares.” Later retellings of the battle never fail to mention the moment a group of angry, screaming teens burst into the Great Hall, wearing their green and silver as the badge of honor it should be, shouting NO SPARES, NO SPARES at the tops of their voices in between hexes and curses and the occasional physical punch. When Hermione is present, she always interrupts the storyteller to be sure everyone knows about the moment Blaise Zabini shoved her to the floor, dropped on top of her, fired off three curses in rapid succession and said “stay alive, Granger, we need you” before jumping back to his feet and vanishing into the melee–how, for all anyone knows, those may have been his last words, and she will not let his sacrifice go unnoted.
The aftermath. Malfoy holds out a hand to Sirius, badly injured on the floor. Sirius asks how Malfoy is willing to trust him. Malfoy nods at his chest. “You’ve got my godfather’s locket,” he says, and when Sirius and Harry finally speak after the battle Harry gives his full agreement to the very first thing out of Sirius’ mouth. They give the locket to Malfoy. Sirius grits his teeth and closes his eyes and opens them and says “He probably saved my life, giving Harry that.” He doesn’t say thank you. Malfoy hears it anyway.
The school reopens under a single banner: the four Houses united. The House rivalry is reduced to just that–a competition in fun–with those deep divides slowly healing to scars, and eventually away to nothing at all.
Imagine it.
Y'all see what Chris Rock is doing?
Very smart man…
(heads up for talk of suicide)
I wish that I could genuinely have told younger me that “it get’s better”. That the world of adults is less cruel than the world of teens and high school. And it does still break my heart sometimes that that is not true.
But even if it was true and someone could say it honestly, I feel like it would be essentially useless information to me as a suicidal 13 year old. When I didn’t know if I wanted to live or die, an ambiguously less dystopian future would not have felt like a comfort.
What I do wish that I could tell my young self, is that I got better (we got better). I got better at coping and surviving. I got better at learning to love myself truly in spite of others. I got better at recognizing dangerous and untrustworthy people. I got better at advocating for myself and others. I got better at building lasting friendships. I got better at knowing and asserting my own boundaries. I got better at living my truth. I got better at truly enjoying life. I got better at finding my place in the world and investing in myself. I got better at being grateful, and at turning the most positive and constructive lens towards the world that I can muster.
The world is still cruel and awful (and certainly crueler now than it was for me as a cis-ish teen). But I’ve grown a set of survival skills I never thought I could grow. And with them I have built a beautiful lattice of safety nets around me, planted a garden to block the worst people, and found the true meaning of love and friendship. That is the kind of true hope I could give my younger self. That is the honest shift that has made life not just bearable, but at times magnificent.
I don’t want to say “it gets better”. I want to say, “stay alive because you will grow gardens full of magic you cannot yet imagine.” I want to say “learning to love yourself, to let yourself be loved, truly, by others like you… the depth of that love is vaster than the ocean.“ I want to say “you will have a space in this world, you will touch other people’s lives, you will help someone else stay alive.“ I want to say “you will get through it, please don’t be scared to ask for what you need to get there.”
“I don’t want to say “it gets better”. I want to say, “stay alive because you will grow gardens full of magic you cannot yet imagine.”
oh my gdO CAN YOU DRAW GODZILLA MOMMA CARRYING LIKE A HUNDRED LIZARD BABIES ON HER BACK FOR TAKE YOUR CHILD (lizard) TO WORK DAY
oh SHOOT well i cant swing 100 but how bout
the queen has returned
Long live the queen
shamekh شامخ
Art, architecture and fashion collide in the best possible way in the the work by shamekh شامخ, an architect and fashion illustrator that has found an ingenious way to combine both of his passions.
aaaaaa negative space + clothes + paper art
!!!! now if we could just do this with fat cuties…
reminder series: bleak yet comforting thoughts.
i specifically chose animals that are (or believed to be) extinct due to human influence: thylacine, great auk, baiji, west african black rhino, golden toad, dodo, passenger pigeon, and quagga. there are many other species i could have included. the plants are also based on extinct species, but i found much less information about extinct plants, unfortunately.
the text doesn’t necessarily relate to each animal or their extinction. it’s all basically the same idea: let’s all be nice to each other, because today, the universe is vast and incomprehensible, we are all suffering, we are all going to die, and we’re all in this together. for today.
i’m busy for a couple weeks with conventions, but after that i’m considering a companion series with ancient extinct animals, so feel free to send me your favorites :)
these are so beautiful
‘game over, man’
my love for you is the 1979 movie Alien
it bursts a bloody mess from my chest chases you around a little bit and then hides in the dark corners of your home
you will be looking for your cat but you will find my love for you instead it will snatch you away before any of your friends notice
my love for you is the 1984 movie The Terminator
you will have no knowledge of my future love for you until it arrives in your life naked and muscular
my love for you will mow down a slew of innocents and follow you without exhaustion
it will take the crushing embrace of factory machinery to destroy my cold and calculated love for you but it doesn’t matter
my love for you will be back in the sequel
my love for you is the 1986 movie Aliens (plural)
you will arrive at a place infested with my love for you you will have to battle your way out before your heart goes thermonuclear and destroys your entire world
no amount of sentry guns or flamethrowers can stop my growing (and rapidly multiplying) love for you
my love for you will haunt your dreams and tear your new friend to shreds when you least expect it
my love for you is the 1991 movie Terminator 2: Judgement Day
at first you will be terrified by my love for you but it has been reprogrammed to obey your every command
someone else’s love will come to take you and my love for you will seem old and worn in comparison
we will embark on a mission to save our future love together and my love for you will protect you the best that it can
but when the times comes my love cannot self-terminate you will have to lower my love for you into the fire yourself
// - john mortara, originally published in Barrelhouse - //
Bree Newsome takes down the Confederate Battle Flag at the South Carolina State Capitol [x]
Wow. I literally don’t have any words.
caab, a legendary marine animal
Petrus Candidus Decembrius, De animantium naturis, Italy ca. 1515
Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Urb.lat.276, fol. 128v
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The nastiest habit of medieval cats seen via illuminated manuscripts.
10. Regular licking
Thomas of Cantimpré, Liber de natura rerum, France ca. 1290 (Valenciennes, Bibliothèque municipale, ms. 320, fol. 72r)
9. Licking and mouse-hunting
Ashmole Bestiary, England...