I guess i have a thing for women who look like they just got done saving the world
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
will byers stan first human second
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I guess i have a thing for women who look like they just got done saving the world
book: mention Derrida me: starts screaming
being known is being loved
"i know your pizza order" "you have freckles on your ears" "you make this face when you're tired" "you order green tea on a good day black on a bad day" "you always make that face before you try something" "the tips of your ears turn red when you're angry" "i knew you'd say something" "you must be exhausted to miss the class" "your favorite pie is pumpkin, right?" "i know your phone number, don't worry" "you miss me, i can tell" "you fiddle with your pens when you're bored" "you don't like converse unless they're high tops" "your favorite cereal is cinnamon toast crunch and you first ate it when you were 8"
being known is being loved.
Can I watch a great film knowing the actresses in it were terrorized and mistreated the entire time? Can I watch a football game knowing that the players are getting brain injuries right before my eyes? Can I listen to my favorite albums anymore knowing that the singers were all beating their wives in between studio sessions? Can I eat at the new fancy taco place knowing when the building that used to be there got bulldozed eight families got kicked out of their homes so they could be replaced with condos and a chain restaurant? Can I wear the affordable clothes I bought downtown that were probably assembled in a sweatshop with child labor? Can I eat quinoa? Can I eat this burger? Can I drink this bottled water? Can I buy a car and drive to work because I’m sick of taking an hour each way on the subway? Whose bones do I stand on? Whose bones am I standing on right now?
This post is the very essence of “No ethical consumption under capitalism.” It reminds me of a poem I once read by Robert Pinsky called The Shirt, wherein the poet examines the shirt he’s wearing and discovers between its fibers the whole history of human suffering that brought it to him.
Robert Pinsky - The Shirt
The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes— The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity. A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers— Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers To wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader, The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields: George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit And feel and its clean smell have satisfied Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone, The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.
my followers who have been here since i made this blog in 2012 watching me make zero impact over the course of 8 years:
Jenny Slate, Little Weirds
Łukasz Stokłosa (Polish, b. 1986), Untitled, 2014. Oil on canvas, 30 x 40 cm.
“Even angry she was beautiful”. Even tired. Even sick. Even one crazy night later. Even with two broken ribs. Even, even, even.
An eye hangs in front of me. Always watching. How silly for me to care about being pretty. But I care about being pretty.
Do men feel like this? Even alone sometimes I catch myself fixing, tidying. I cross windows no one can see in and I worry that someone will see in. I lock the bathroom door and have strange, unlikely thoughts about people who will sneak in and rip the curtain off the rod and see me naked. Sometimes, in the worst moments, I wonder: what if there’s a camera and people are seeing this ugliness.
My mother taught me to plan underwear in such a way that if they found your body you wouldn’t be embarrassed. It seems insane until you watch six seconds of television; where our dead bodies are almost always mostly naked, even beautiful in death. I worry I will die in an unflattering position.
“Who cares what they think?” I ask myself. I don’t even want the attention of men. Dressing for the attention of men on a daily basis is a dangerous thing and isn’t sustainable on the metro system. I want the attention of other women.
But I still look in the mirror and adjust things. I do this and don’t think about men. I wear makeup and it’s not for men. I sit pretty in traffic and it’s not for men. This eye, I guess. The “them”. It never blinks. Maybe I am the one who is watching.
The woman in the comic book has been kidnapped and tortured. We zoom in on her lips. Beautiful. Even then.
i have rude bitch disorder and it makes me say things like this
Guess that’s why I try not to think about you anymore
76th Venice International Film Festival, Italy “The King” screening — September 2, 2019 TIMOTHEE CHALAMET
Letter from cartoonist Alfred Joseph Frueh to his wife Giuliette Fanciulli, sent on Jan. 10th, 1913. The letter opens up to form a model of a gallery hung with paintings. Frueh made this model to inform his wife about the details of a specific art gallery before her visit.
#if your love letters can’t be folded into a mini art gallery are you even trying bro
this short story just mugged me
i was re-watching ‘maya angelou: still i rise’ & lost my mind & heart during this reading of ‘the mask’ so i decided to record + upload for anyone who would also like to be brought to tears.
please take this and understand what i mean