human disaster: a novel

queer - 29 -mentally ill and super chill 🤙🏻🤙🏻

[some-textposts]

Imagine your OTP

Person A: B asked me if I slept well last night and I didn’t know whether to say good or okay and I panicked.

Person C: What did you say?

Person A: Gay

[is-this-cottagecore]

[1884647573462-deactivated201707]

v for vendetta is a film with a female protagonist that criticises capitalism, condemns pedophilia, encourages the viewers to question their governments, has a central plot about how LGBT people are condemned in right wing societies (more than three LGBT characters are in it) and was directed by a trans woman and her brother.

why has this become a fuckboy classic

[rhymingteelookatme]

because they mistake V for the protagonist and Evey as simply the viewpoint character, wilfully ignore the part of the plot about LGBT discrimination, and concentrate on how cool V is with his mask and his government-rebelling plots. 

[shinosarna]

What I find interesting is that - V is actually, imo, coded as trans, especially in the original graphic novel. Alan Moore claims that clues to identity of V ‘are all there’, which implies it might be a named character. If it was one, the only person matching would be Valerie, the woman whose journals V gives to Evey. Everything would match - Valerie was an actress, which would fit with both costume and tastes of V, and also why said letter was so important - and really, how the hell an occupant of a high-security concentration camp under constant observation had ability to write a letter, and also how a letter written on toiler paper would survive all these years, and burning down of Larkhill camp. (answer - by being written AFTER all these events).

Except, V appears to be male. Everyone is using male pronouns for him, in the movie he speaks in a masculine voice, and in the novel we do see a panel of his silhouette naked in Larkhill, and he definitely has a masculine physique.

But, if Valerie becoming V was metaphor for transition, that’d make sense.

That’s in addition to well, the fact that a lot of trans men begin their self-discovery as butch lesbians? It’d sure fit.

Why do I believe that theory? In addition to whole LGBT themes thing, and the letter thing, there’s one more reason. Well, I think this was skimmed by in the movie, but in the novel, we get a pretty solid clue. See, in the movie, exact nature of experiments performed on Larkhill inmates is kept rather dubious if I recall - we know they gave V abilities slightly above normal humans, but that’s it.

But in the novel, it’s more specific. So, what is the field of experiments that are being performed Larkhill concentration camp that they needed human specimen?

Hormone research.

V got strength to throw off chains of opression and fight back and yadda yadda, became a character who ticks off literally every single checkbox on definition of a superhero, including superpowers…

By literal fucking hormone therapy.

Administered to him, ironically, by the very oppressors.

From what I’ve read of Alan Moore’s stories, he doesn’t leave details up to a chance. Everything has a reason, and everything is interconnected with each other. And this, this doesn’t look like a bit of dark irony Alan Moore would pass up, since he loves that shit.

So, those are my reasons for this particular interpretation.

[little-miss-rasputin-pageant]

this is a really incredible

also I just wanted to add that both the directors are transgender woman, the Wachawowskis, and they also directed Matrix

[fisharescary802]

Holy shot I did not pick up on this

[jenniferrpovey]

I really don’t understand how anyone could not know V was Valerie. To me it’s as obvious as day. It’s actually somehow MORE obvious in the movie.

[eruvadhril]

It became a fuckboy classic in the same way that Watchmen turned from a direct critique of Objectivism and a statement on How Superheroes Should Absolutely Not Behave, into a badly-understood blueprint for how a bunch of writers and fans decided All Superheroes Should Absolutely Be At All Times Because It’s Gritty And Dark And Realistic (including Zack “I never really liked comics except for Watchmen and also I want Warner Brothers to let me make a movie version of The Fountainhead” Snyder).

[mrloveballad]

Blackout | Voodoo 🌘

[haitianartlover]

J P Lucien

[yerisgirl-deactivated20201106]

collective individuals

[arcana-majeure-deactivated20200]

1.  Golden Shishi Black Oriental Cotton Fabric by Alexander Henry

2. Heron print wallpaper by Gucci

3. IXXI wall art: kimono with cranes

4. Tigers in the night by Erik Olson

5. Parallel by Fiona Hsieh

6.  Ahaṃkāra by @artofmaquenda

[artofmaquenda]

Thanks so much for the credit! Much appreciated :)

[70sscifiart]

John Berkey’s 1974 cover to The Undefeated, by Keith Laumer

[deforest]

MARTY (1955) dir. Delbert Mann Essayist Judith Smith explains in her discussion of Marty that its writer Paddy Chayefsky “meant Marty’s love story to rebuke Hollywood’s conception of glamour: ‘I didn’t want my hero to be handsome, and I didn’t want the girl to be pretty. I wanted to write a love story the way it would literally have happened to the kind of people I know.’ “He also meant for Marty’s world of the ordinary to provide an alternative to drama that uncritically reproduced the privileges of wealth and power. ‘These values are dominant in our way of life and need to be examined for what they are… [Marty] was a comment on the social values of our times… I am just now becoming aware of this area, this marvelous world of the ordinary.’” In a 2008 interview with Henry Colman and Jenni Matz, Ernest Borgnine recalled his audition for Marty before director Delbert Mann and Chayefsky. The three were in a motel room in Lone Pine, California, where Borgnine had been on location. “And we got to the part where she says, ‘Why don’t you put on the blue suit or the grey suit and go down—there’s a lot of tomatoes’—you know, and it—and I turn to her and I said, ‘Mom, don’t you understand? I’m just an ugly, ugly man!’ And I—I started to cry, because I was that much into it, you know? And they turned away, and I came back for my retort—said, ‘Alright, I’ll put on my blue suit,’ but then I saw [Chayefsky] crying. And I looked at Delbert and he was crying. And inwardly I said, God, I’ve got the part! [boisterous laughter] It was the best performance of my life, that day, to try to prove to those two men that I could do it.” Borgnine’s portrayal of Marty Piletti was unforgettable. The following year, he would—to his own bewilderment—receive the Academy Award for Best Actor. Marty would also win additional Awards for Best Picture, Best Screenplay, and Best Director.

[perioddramasource]

BELLE 2013 | Director: Amma Asante

[alrauna]

The remains of the Roman aqueduct of La Bouillide near Valbonne, France                    

[konfessor]

[sevenseptember]

To be shame-bound means that whenever you feel any feeling, need or drive, you immediately feel ashamed. The dynamic core of your human life is grounded in your feelings, needs and drives. When these are bound by shame, you are shamed to the core.

John Bradshaw

[halohiding-deactivated20200807]

Okay but you can’t compliment folklore while dissing taylor’s previous work because it was too bubblegum for your manly brain. The woman who wrote folklore is the same girl who wrote “so i start a fight cause i need to feel something and you do what you want cause i’m not what you wanted”, “I’ve never been anywhere cold as you” at 16 and she’s the same girl who wrote “you paint me a blue sky then go back and turn it to rain. And i lived in your chess game but you changed the rules everyday” about a grown man who dated her when she was only 19. She’s the same girl who wrote “so you were never a saint and I loved in shades of wrong we learn to live with the pain mosaic broken hearts”. I could go on for hours talking about how great she has always been as a writer but i know you won’t listen cause you have a superiority complex, i mean god forbid you like something or someone a lot of “teenage girls” like, right? 

[humansofnewyork]

“My mom cried before they even said cancer. But my dad was stone cold, listening to every word the doctor said. It wasn’t until a few days later, when we were going through a list of my possible treatments, that he started sobbing like a child. I was the one hugging him, telling him it was going to be OK. Dad was my best friend. He was the favorite of everyone in our family. He spoiled all my little cousins. He’d let them sleep on his belly. Everyone got a little motorized jeep for their birthday. And he had the biggest laugh, he was always cracking jokes and telling stories. Our house was so lively that I never even felt like I had cancer. My tumor was shrinking, and it was easy to assume that things were going to get better. Then a few months into my treatment, Dad started getting fevers every night. Really high fevers. When we finally took him for a biopsy, he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I knew that his was the worse of the two. But I didn’t think much about it. I didn’t research survival rates. I was only fourteen, it honestly never occurred to me what could happen. I wasn’t wondering: ‘Will I make it? Will he make it?’ I just focused on getting better. Dad and I started doing our chemo together. We’d give each other encouragement. He’d tell me that I looked like a model with my bald head. I’d tell him the same thing. Whenever I wasn’t nauseous, he’d cook me his signature dish: South Indian Chicken Curry. He taught us all the recipe before he got really sick. We all huddled in the kitchen one night and he explained it to us step-by-step. I’m so thankful that my sister wrote it all down, because a couple months later he was in the ICU. I don’t think my family wanted me to know how bad it was. They didn’t want to jeopardize my recovery. So they kept me from the hospital until the very end. By that time he was heavily sedated. He couldn’t talk anymore. I wasn’t allowed to enter the room because I was still immunocompromised. But they told him: ‘Mani, your daughters are here.’ And he struggled so hard to open his eyes. He had the biggest eyes. Even from the other side of the glass, I could see his eyes. And he opened them as wide as he could.”

[humansofnewyork]

“I’d never given it any thought. But when my boss’s husband got a kidney from a newscaster in town, it sorta became a local story. And I began to learn more about it. I found out that a kidney from a living donor can give someone more than twenty years of life. And there were 2500 people in Ohio on the waiting list. So after confirming that I’d still be able to drink, I signed up for the registry. Two months later I got an email saying that they’d found a match. They’d only say that it was a local man. But I was excited. I think I needed a little purpose in my life. I didn’t have any children. I didn’t have anyone to carry on my whatever. And I loved thinking that I could help someone in such a major way. Not everyone meets their donor. But since both of us agreed, a meeting was arranged for after the surgery. They sat me in a conference room at the hospital. I had no idea who was going to walk in the door. And when Tom walked in, I could only think one thing: ‘Oh my God. I’ve given my kidney to Wesley Snipes.’ He was really quiet, so I did most of the talking. But at the end he said: ‘I only have one question. Why would you do this for someone you didn’t know?’ And I said: ‘Why not?’ After that it was like a light switched on. We were going to be friends forever. That’s just how it was going to be. Tom became like a brother to me. He makes fun of me a lot, but he’s also extremely protective. Not that I’d ever need someone killed, but if I did, I’d know who to call. Three years after the transplant I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a nasty kind. And I didn’t have any family around. But Tom called my sister in Florida and said: ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got this. It’s my turn to take care of her.’ He took me to every single one of my chemo appointments. He kept me company the entire time. A few weeks after my treatment ended, I threw myself a 50th birthday party. At the end I gave a little speech. I was looking out at all the people I loved. All the people who’d helped me. And I couldn’t even speak. I turned into a big sobbing mess. Tom got up from his chair and walked to the side of the stage, and grabbed my hand. And he held it until I could speak again.”

[cyberebyc]

The Wall of Mom in Portland being gassed by Trump Paramilitar Gestapo.

[yeahiwasintheshit]

Leftist pissbabies look at this and think im not gonna vote for biden so trump can do this for another 4 years

[humansofnewyork]

“My grandparents had a tiny house, but it was full of love. And there was structure. Breakfast was always at 8. Dinner at 5:30. And there was an expectation that this would happen every day. It created a buffer from the chaos in my home. It was never an official adoption, but I stayed over there as much as I could. My grandfather was an entertainer. He’d sit for hours on a bench outside the grocery store, and strike up conversations with strangers. He’d tell them how he served in the Navy for thirty years. And how he survived Pearl Harbor. He’d even been reported dead in the local paper. As I grew older, these stories became more detailed and more emotional. On the holidays he’d have a couple beers, and he’d sit with me, and he’d start crying. He’d talk about the things he’d seen and the friends he’d lost. He told me that when his ship was bombed at Pearl Harbor, one of his best friends was stuck in a stairwell, and he had to make a choice to leave him behind. I’d already moved away for college by the time my grandfather died. And my grandmother passed away soon afterward. It felt like I’d lost my two lifelines in the world. My mother cleaned out their house and took all their possessions, so I had little to remember them by. Then a few years ago I started researching my grandfather on the internet. It was coming up on his birthday, so I was searching for a little bit of connection. Maybe just an old crew member that he’d served with. But what I found made my whole world stop. An old Ebay listing came up. My grandfather’s military jacket had been auctioned to the highest bidder. For $62. It was like a punch to the gut. I felt betrayed. So much childhood trauma came swirling to the surface. I was scared to reach out. I didn’t want to overstep or seem vulnerable. But I emailed the highest bidder—a woman named Deborah in California. We arranged to speak on the phone. And after a few minutes, both of us were crying. Her grandfather’s uniform had been lost too. And she’d only bought the jacket as a way to feel close to him. Not only did she agree to return it, but she arranged for a group of local veterans to escort the package to the post office. It arrived on my grandfather’s birthday. When I got married the next year, we set aside two empty seats for my grandparents. And I was able to wrap his jacket around one of the chairs.”