Nanny (2022)
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Nanny (2022)
I am (at least) bilingual and sometimes I say things that don’t sound quite right in the language you speak because language loops around itself in my head and you know what? I think you’re fortunate to get to hear my particular rendering of what languages sound like in each other’s arms.
Reblogging from myself this morning because damn lil sis was onto something
The kitty cat is rubbing his little head against my feet lately in between pets and I am . . . confused, dumbfounded, and in love.
That tweet about how convenient it is that Northerners are able to feel personal pride in their country’s accomplishments but somehow unable/unwilling to feel shame about the horrific things it’s done is . . . Yeah. Yeah.
Listening to Hozier as I cook for the man who cooks for me. Stirring the soup and peeking into the oven and humming. He made iced tea this afternoon. I’ll set it on the table.
Sometimes I wish I could reach into the past and take younger me by the hand, grasp her chilly, tapping fingers, and tell her that it gets better. That it gets so, so good. That she can let go and face forward and start anew and be safe and, if she wants, be loved and loved and loved.
Cannibalism is absolutely a rite of passage in teen girl groups, in my experience.
daughters of the dust, 1991
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Black cats + flowers
rosario & katiucia by ricardo abrahao for vogue portugal
holding my own face in my own hands and screaming “there is no connection without an open heart! you must be brave! you must be honest! you must be true!” in the mirror
Window appreciation post
nothing like rereading a book you loved when you were younger only to realize the author can't write
Imagine if people only worked six months out of the year. Half the people would be winter workers who choose to grind through the dark months and then chill and play during the summer, and half of the people would be ones who would rather work through the warm season and then rest and hibernate in peace over the winter, more or less free to choose whichever you like.
There would be families with a strong identity about which season they work in, and people who say that someone "has only ever worked one season" as a way to imply that someone isn't adventurous by nature. There would be parents who agree to take turns working opposite seasons, so one of them can always be at home with the kids, and old folks who lament that their adult children and niblings were Forced By Circumstance to work opposite seasons from them, while the youths in question welcome the work as an excuse to avoid these inconvenient relatives.
You never know if the construction worker up at 6 am in the summer spends their winters writing murder mysteries, or if the winter shift librarian spends their summer cultivating a rare breed of heirloom apples. Or simply meditating, observing nature, living quietly and baking bread. Asking someone "what do you do in your free season?" tells as much, if not more, about the person than "what do you do for a living?" And nobody answers "nothing". Everyone can think of something that they want to do, perhaps not productive, but still enlightening, constructive and cultivating.
Nobody who is in full health and well rested can stand spending half of the year simply doing absolutely nothing.
I don't know; I kind of think that our culture is based around systematic denial of human limitations. I mean, there's the eight-hour work day (which is about 4 hours longer than most people are consistently able to remain productive); buffing your qualifications on job applications (which everyone needs to do to some extent, because everyone else is doing it); the expectation of multitasking, even though it's not really possible; academics are running around with impostor syndrome, ultimately because there's only so many books that an individual is capable of reading, while a bunch of liars and grifters pretend that they're experts at *everything* and are held up as thought leaders. Billionaires are held up as if they're just incredibly hard workers, photoshopped movie stars held up as if they're just incredibly beautiful. We feel guilty for not being something that never has and can never exist.
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