🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
roma★
Jar Jar Binks Fan Club
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
TMBGareOK. The Official They Might Be Giants tumblr
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titsay
Claire Keane
Product Placement
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Cosimo Galluzzi
#extradirty
Discoholic 🪩
Cosmic Funnies
occasionally subtle
YOU ARE THE REASON
Origami Around
EXPECTATIONS
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@pretendwriting-blog
Gender roles gain their power from the fact that they appear natural and eternal. By looking to the past, we can draw aside this veil and see these categories for what they are--made by people, and able to be changed by people.
http://www.alternet.org/when-women-wanted-sex-much-more-men?page=0%2C0
Why I love running hills
Whilst running this morning in the gorgeous Durham woodland, sunshine pouring in through the still bare trees, I started to think of my transformation. My very particular transformation. I used to hate hills, I would try to avoid running them at all costs. My lungs would scream, my legs burn. I would get to the top and stop. Then, like a wheezing, bumbling, drunken elephant I would continue on the path. Until that fateful day a couple of years ago now, when, after dragging myself up a particular hill in Turin over a few weeks, I realised it was easier than before. So much easier. And I felt fantastic. From that moment on, I slowly began to enjoy running hills. I enjoyed the challenge, I enjoyed the discomfort, the message coming from my brain telling me stop, walk, go home, sleep, I enjoyed denying myself that. Perhaps because I now knew that I could go on, I could go on running those hills as long as it took to get to the top. But there's something else, something perhaps a little more profound that I realised on my run this morning. After many miles on my feet, running is fairly easy, unless I'm pushing for a certain time, so easy that I can distract myself from my efforts without blinking an eye. My mind wanders to abstract places or it creates scenarios or it plans what I'll eat when I get back. I worry about my usual worries. Running was supposed to be an escape from all that, precious stolen moments of mental freedom, quiet. The monotony of the movement of running brought a calm to my loud mind. No more. That is, until I get to a hill. If the incline is sufficient, all goes quiet, and it's just me and my legs and my breath and the hill. Then, with reckless abandon, I let gravity take me down the other side and I feel, if only briefly, totally free.
http://xkcd.com/194/
Thoughts
It's funny how reading something can have such a profound affect on you, like those occasions when you smell something that transports you back in time to a very specific place or feeling. I've been reading old emails that have done just that. I wrote in such detail that I can remember the day and my state of mind. It makes me think of those missed opportunities, those paths I didn't take. This is natural, of course, you can't possibly take all the chances that come your way, unless you plan to live multiple lives, but that would get tiring. Still, it makes me think about what is to come, which path I'll take next, which opportunity I will miss in favour of another, and will I ever know if I've once made a right decision. Maybe I should leave the past alone, just look at it fondly, with my rose-tinted glasses and remember everything in the perfection of hindsight and perspective. Let the memories become glassy and whimsical, ideals that perhaps never were. That might just be the key to happiness. Maybe it's those missed opportunities that give us value, those "could've beens". There's always something beyond, another version of ourselves out there in the ether, in some parallel universe. We're only limited to what we are now by the choices we made, but we could have been this and that. Our potential is bigger than our ability to fulfil it. When you think of it that way, you suddenly become limitless, an infinite number of versions of yourself, different interpretations and choices made at various stages. You are plural.
A meat-eater with a bicycle is much more environmentally unfriendly than a vegetarian with a Hummer.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2013/jan/05/the-future-of-food
Women who feel their value lies only in their bodies feel disempowered when their bodies are revealed to be imperfect – they believe they are worthless without a flat belly or wobbleless arm, and they are less likely to speak up. Less likely to ask for a raise, less likely to vote, and less likely to run in politics. Less likely to affect any change except upon their bodies.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/dec/09/wobbly-arms-women-body-image
Ageing is beautiful because experience is beautiful because experience is all we have
My brother
We, as any women with an ounce of self-confidence would, prefer our men to be confident enough in themselves to not feel emasculated by the fact that we aren’t weak and feeble.
http://zoepablosmith.wordpress.com/2012/07/23/thanks-but-no-thanks/
When to stop friendships
Is fervent monarchism reason enough to stop being friends with someone?
The state of things
One of my students is a five-year-old girl called Sophia. She has had a problem with boys. There were two boys that liked her and she liked them both. Her classmate asked which was her boyfriend, she said she has chosen both because when she's with either one she likes them both as much.
I saw a girl a few years older than Sophia pole dancing whilst waiting for a tram with her older brother. She clearly had no idea what these moves signified or were intended to signify. She looked bizarre, as yet devoid of any womanly charm yet dancing like she did have. This form of dancing has become acceptable in the main stream, so acceptable that little girls are copying it and presumably assume it to be a fairly normal dance style. What will the night clubs of the future look like? Will they be filled with poles and platforms for the female club-goers? All eager to put on a show as they have watched countless women do since they were children?
This fad for porno shoes and hyper-sexual dancing is not sexual liberation, it is a continuation of the same objectification, only women are asking to be objectified under the guise of empowerment. Their value now not only comes from their sexual attractiveness but also their availability and willing to be a sex toy.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/gallery/2012/mar/04/ten-best-female-pioneers#/?picture=386781457&index=0
Lifestyle of the modern girl condemned
Originally published in the Manchester Guardian on 18 February 1926
http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2012/feb/18/archive-1926-modern-girls-lifestyle-condemned
Snow
It began to fall on Saturday, a fine snow that was just a bit too slow to be rain. It steadily became heavier and softer simultaneously in the way that only snow can. When I picked up my bike to cycle home there was a layer a few centimetres thick on the seat and handle bars. I cautiously made my way over the bridge and locked up the bike for the night.
The next morning I went to open the window to assess the conditions: the forecast had said it would snow all night. It had. Excitedly, I put on my running things and headed outside, bounding down the stairs like a spring lamb. The pavements were covered in about 30 cms of snow at the deepest points. I made my way to path that runs along the river, I joined the tracks of runners and, with a wide grin frozen to my face, ran. The tracks eventually dwindled down to three, then two and then I was alone with the footsteps of one other person, the deep snow numbing my lower legs and making each step difficult. I began to lose my energy until I saw a stretch of perfect, untouched white. I ploughed through, most probably giggling audibly in delight.
I reached the turn around point and stopped. I looked around me and saw no one, I listened and heard nothing. I was alone with the winter. With heavy legs, I started to make my way back, retracing my steps, using them to lessen the effort of running through such deep snow. I had told myself I would take the roads to make it easier. However, when I reached the point where I had to decide, I took one look at the easy route, one at the stunningly beautiful and exhausting route and said "Come on, how often do you get to do this?"
A realisation
Thank god for the passing of time; I am so glad I'm no longer an adolescent.
It is only upon teaching these strange creatures that I have been able to realise how absurdly wrong they are and always have been. Teenagers think they are the best things going and they know it all. They know what's important: opinions of other teenagers, and what's not: everything else. They regard the teacher as a ridiculous being who should be obeyed but not taken seriously. You should not be seen to sympathise with the teacher, either.
I felt as if I were able to find peace with my adolescent self and let go of some of the angst that I'd been holding. None of it matters, it's all so clear now.
moledro
n. a feeling of resonant connection with an author or artist you’ll never meet, who may have lived centuries ago and thousands of miles away but can still get inside your head and leave behind morsels of their experience, like the little piles of stones left by hikers that mark a hidden path through unfamiliar territory.
On Saturday morning, women will march down Harley Street to protest against the pornification of our private parts
Where can I get my hands on arrowmint?
