Something that I realised when I first started getting more into transfeminism that really made it click for me is that even when people say "trans women are women", they rarely actually mean that. Even a lot of trans women don't fully believe it when they say it, even if they don't realise.
We're still expected to act like a third gender. Sure you fall more into the group of "woman" than the average born male but a lot of the time there's still an implicit understanding that you are to not push too hard on being a real woman. If you talk about the misogyny you face, the ways you enjoy engaging with womanhood, or start happily taking up space, people will often get weirded out. They'll look at you funny, or they may verbalise disgust. A trans woman might be a woman, but it gets awkward when it becomes apparent that the woman in question genuinely believes it to be true and doesn't just want to be humoured.
I fell into this trap for a long time. I would feel uncomfortable even calling myself a woman sincerely because it felt like I was doing something wrong. I was encroaching. I was pushing my luck with what was acceptable for a pseudo-woman to do. If you are a trans woman who feels like this, like you're a separate category of person than just a plain woman, you have to realise something. If your joy makes people disgusted or uncomfortable, that's their problem. Make them uncomfortable, make them squirm (assuming it's physically safe of course). You owe these people nothing. You are a woman, full stop. Embracing that fact without shame or asterisks does wonders for your self esteem.
I fell down a bit of a rabbit hole this week. It started when @commodorez shared the image above.
I'm a sucker for good design (having studied it for my bachelor's degree) and this is a beautiful bit of illustration. It looks like it's from a catalog or something of the sort, but the actual source was unknown. I would love to know where it came from and hopefully find a higher resolution copy of it.
Reverse image search led me to a Ukrainian language page talking about color using IBM as an example. But the machine translation had some issues and I failed to see the connection to the old computers shown nor I could not determine the image source from the page. The only other relevant result was an article about "Silicon City", an exhibit by the New York Historical Society ten years ago. The page did not actually seem to have the image in question, but it did give me something to go off of. Searching for the exhibition, I was able to find this image that showed it included a reproduction, but I could not read the info card.
Eventually I found a blog post from Adafruit recounting a visit to the exhibition which had a much higher resolution photo of the exhibit — enough that I could just make out the text; something about IBM and "Color in the Workplace". Which is indeed the title of the document, so finding the source was easy from there. It was a marketing publication for IBM designed by none other than Paul Rand.
It is absolutely lovely. The styling, the clean illustration, the colors. And the rest of the document is no less beautiful.
The name Paul Rand seemed familiar, but I couldn't immediately recall why. I never have had much memory for names & history. It didn't take long scrolling though his website to remember though. There are few designers so prolific, whose work is so iconic and recognizable to the general public.
But among retrocomputing enthusiasts, such as myself, there is perhaps one favorite piece of artwork Paul Rand created for IBM:
That was a fun rabbit hole to go down. Paul Rand's career spanned more than six decades and his work managed to capture (or perhaps even define) the look and feel of each one. I'll definitely be spending more time reviewing his vast body of work as I start in on branding and theming design for VCF Southwest 2027.
Peeling off the broken breastplate of a stoic knight who only fights and never speaks, just to realize there’s nothing in there. Not metaphorically—the armor is literally empty. It doesn’t appear to affect him. If the armor stays mostly in the shape of a knight, he just gets back up to keep fighting. But with the chest plate off he just sits there, equally impervious to curiosity as I reach up into the cavity where his body might’ve gone. Stubbornly, no answers are found anywhere in there.
So I forge him a new breastplate and on the inside, because I know he has plenty of room, I put a little pocket. Not big enough to hold anything functional of course. Just a little extra piece to see what he’ll do with it.
He comes back next time with some grievous injury to his nothing, presumably from the massive shredded gash across his thigh plates. He sits and waits. I fix it for him. He is still nothing in there. I decide to add a drawing on the inside, of the type of beast I imagine could rend metal into scraps with a single blow. He puts it back on. He no longer moves as if he is injured.
Over time the interior of the knight becomes decorated with whatever odds and ends I could think to attach to the inside of a guy who’s got room to carry it. What really gets me is that he never removes any of it. Never requests a change. Not even when I installed a curtain rod for a small tapestry, or a bud vase to carry roses for his beloved, or an accordion folder for letters. He didn’t say a word for any of the many, many drawings of mythical beasts that now fight forever inside of his shell.
There are plenty of other forges. I’m not entirely sure why he keeps coming back here anyway. We’re pretty popular, but he could get his armor fixed a lot quicker (and with fewer ridiculous modifications) literally anywhere else. I asked him if I could get a look at his nothing again. He flipped up his visor and nodded his head so I could take a look. It was the same as it had been, filled with drawings and trinkets and weird little fixtures I’d put in there. I asked if he was annoyed by it, or liked it, or felt anything at all, but he literally only ever says nothing, so I’m not sure why I asked.
There’s not much room left in his nothing now. When he comes back for repairs I’ve had to fix my own foolish additions. Some of these pieces are intricate and irritating to repair, but I fix them anyway. It feels wrong to take any of it away from him now, even though I’ve been rudely encroaching on his nothingness to the point where it’s barely even there. How he squeezes his nothing back into a body so full, I’ll never understand. But it’s a game to me now, finding a spot not yet filled and putting something there. A dark part of me wonders if he ever gets filled up completely, if whatever sorcery holds the nothing-knight together may break, and it will all clatter unceremoniously to the floor.
When he hands me his breastplate yet again, it is so shockingly disfigured that I wonder if being made of nothing has somehow kept him alive. No ordinary knight could sustain such injuries. So I fix it. And he waits, unmoving, in a quiet corner of the forge. It’s like he’s watching, even though I know the reading glasses I put inside his helmet were just for fun. I’m careful to put it all back exactly the way it was when he last left. There’s no room to add more this time.
He examines the breastplate, and pauses before putting it back on, like he’s looking for something. Is he worried about the fit? But it suits him just as it always did. He calmly points to a little space, about an inch, between a miniature shelf and one of many pockets. There’s nothing there. I ask him what’s wrong, and again he points. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from him, and it’s barely anything at all. I take it to mean he wants something there.
I spend some time engraving a little snail in the gap. He watches, as much as nothing can watch. When I’m finished he holds the breastplate, but he doesn’t put it on right away. I ask him if something’s still wrong. He says nothing, and puts it on. I tell him I can’t add anything else. Even if he could ask, there’s no room left.
Next time he comes back, there’s nothing wrong with his armor—he lets me check to make sure. I ask him what he’s doing here. Out from one of many pockets, he retrieves a tiny rusted knife. It’s in miserable condition, barely worth saving. I tell him I could make him a nice new one, but I’ll fix it if he likes. He puts it away and reaches around to find something else, a needle and thread. Better condition, but I’m not a sewist and I tell him as much. He puts them away. He then retrieves a little twisted piece of wax paper. I open it. It’s candy. I ask if I can eat it. He says nothing. I eat it. It’s flavored with cinnamon. I’m surprised he let me take it.
He keeps bringing me candy now. His armor is the most laborious to repair out of every client my forge serves, but it’s my own fault so I can’t complain. Sometimes he keeps me company while I work. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something when he hands me mints. I wonder again at the lemon lozenges. He stares at me when I eat, as much as nothing can stare.
One day he brings me a little jar of honey. I thank him, I tell him I’ll save it for dinner. He watches me work, he puts his repaired armor back on, and he stays. My shift passes slowly, and when I finally pack up to leave it’s dark outside. He follows me out of the forge. I ask him where he’s going. He points to the jar in my hand. I ask him if he wants to watch me eat it. He says nothing, but the nothing-knight clearly wants something, so I open the lid and dunk my finger in the honey. I try not to get any on my chin. He stands there, inches away, watching me try to consume this jar of honey without a utensil. It tastes like clovers. About half the jar is left when I’ve finally had enough of pretending to be a bear, but he doesn’t move to leave.
I ask if he’s going to follow me home. He says nothing. I tell him he can if he wants to. Again, nothing. I start walking, and he follows at my side. I know he’s not going to say anything ever, so I fill the silence. I tell him I’m grateful for the sweets, I tell him about how his various components are made, I tell him I’ve never met anyone made of nothing before. I tell him it’s a rare opportunity for a smith to work so much on the inside of something. He says nothing. I tell him again how much I like the candy.
It occurs to me that maybe filling me with sugar is as close as he can get to filling someone else’s empty armor with trinkets. I’m not sure if that’s really why he does it. I tell him I don’t have room to be filled with anything on the inside, not like him. I’m not a container for much besides food. He offers me another piece of candy. Maybe he likes containing something, the way I like to feel full. Maybe it’s nothing at all.
—
I didn’t edit this even a little bit. Thanks for reading!
Old Amiga lesbian who's tired because she's not been #hot# for many years who meets a young spry alienware girl and they fuck nasty and y'know what I think you get the point
This is what the arrogant Zionists who proudly hang pins in the shape of a noose against the Palestinians and the Palestinian people deserve. Thank you, Slovenia, you have done what many countries could not.
Slovenia has barred the war ministers and architects of destruction, the Nazi leaders and perpetrators of ethnic cleansing of our time, Netanyahu, Ben-Gvir, and Smotrich, from visiting, declaring them unwelcome on their soil. Thank you, Slovenia, for your solidarity and for preventing these murderers from entering your country. This is what they deserve: banishment from the entire world.
This is what all countries in the world should do. These three said that more than 70,000 Palestinians in Gaza were killed in a two-year war that destroyed everything in its path. Even today, the killing continues. Please, if you are able, donate to us so we can escape the hell of war. Please donate, because I deserve to live.
Please donate to Nader. He needs all the support and help you can get. Winter has arrived, and Nader and his family are shivering from the cold. Please donate if you are able. They need every donation. Please donate $10 or $5; it will help them cope a little with the winter cold.
It's so cold, guys. It's freezing cold. I can barely stick my hand out to write this. Please help us and donate. Please donate. We want to live like you. Please donate.
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