Archive for February 13th, 2012

February 13th, 2012

I’m gonna commit some valencrimes

rgr-pop:

fromthemitten:

valentines day drinking game on tumblr:

whenever somebody on your dash makes a “forever alone” post or complains about being single on valentines day do a shot.

depending on how many tumblrs you follow you may need your stomach pumped by 10am to keep playing

can we also all drink for:
mean valentines or candy hearts
love songs
and can we also drink for valentine’s sex

as solidarity

sex solidarity

Yes. And get your own candy.

February 13th, 2012

theswingingsixties: The boudoir in Hugh Hefner’s private…



theswingingsixties:

The boudoir in Hugh Hefner’s private jet.

Villains, in real life and cinema, have the best shit. Remember Mubarak’s pinstripes?

February 13th, 2012

"I couldn’t name it, the sweet sadness welling up in me for weeks. So I cleaned, found myself…"

I couldn’t name it, the sweet
sadness welling up in me for weeks.
So I cleaned, found myself standing
in a room with a rag in my hand,
the birds calling time-to-go, time-to-go.
And like an old woman near the end
of her life I could hear it, the voice
of a man I never loved who pressed
my breasts to his lips and whispered
“My little doves, my white, white lilies.”
I could almost cry when I remember it.

I don’t remember when I began
to call everyone “sweetie,”
as if they were my daughters,
my darlings, my little birds.
I have always loved too much,
or not enough. Last night
I read a poem about God and almost
believed it—God sipping coffee,
smoking cherry tobacco. I’ve arrived
at a time in my life when I could believe
almost anything.

Today, pumping gas into my old car, I stood
hatless in the rain and the whole world
went silent—cars on the wet street
sliding past without sound, the attendant’s
mouth opening and closing on air
as he walked from pump to pump, his footsteps
erased in the rain—nothing
but the tiny numbers in their square windows
rolling by my shoulder, the unstoppable seconds
gliding by as I stood at the Chevron,
balanced evenly on my two feet, a gas nozzle
gripped in my hand, my hair gathering rain.

And I saw it didn’t matter
who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone.
The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty
of the Iranian attendant, the thickening
clouds—nothing was mine. And I understood
finally, after a semester of philosophy,
a thousand books of poetry, after death
and childbirth and the startled cries of men
who called out my name as they entered me,
I finally believed I was alone, felt it
in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo
like a thin bell. And the sounds
came back, the slish of tires
and footsteps, all the delicate cargo
they carried saying thank you
and yes. So I paid and climbed into my car
as if nothing had happened—
as if everything mattered—What else could I do?

I drove to the grocery store
and bought wheat bread and milk,
a candy bar wrapped in gold foil,
smiled at the teenaged cashier
with the pimpled face and the plastic
name plate pinned above her small breast,
and knew her secret, her sweet fear,
Little bird. Little darling. She handed me
my change, my brown bag, a torn receipt,
pushed the cash drawer in with her hip
and smiled back.



- Dorianne Laux, “After Twelve Days of Rain” (via grammatolatry)
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February 13th, 2012

kveltkunt: lydia lunch on a feminist insurrection.



kveltkunt:

lydia lunch on a feminist insurrection.

February 13th, 2012

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February 13th, 2012

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February 13th, 2012

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February 13th, 2012

"When the floor drops out, as it has now, you cannot hear the squirrel on the wire outside your…"

“When the floor drops out, as it has now,
you cannot hear the squirrel on the wire
outside your window, the wheels spinning
on the road below. You want only pity
and are presented with the unbelievable
effrontery of a world that moves on.
But wait: this is not the person you are.
You’re the kind of person who
sits in dark theaters crying at the collarbones
that curve across the dancers’ chests,
at the proof of a perfection they represent;
a person who goes out walking in a four-day drizzle,
sees a pot of geraniums and is seized, overcome
by how they can bring so much (what else
can you call it?) joy. You love the world,
are sure, at least, that you have. But be truthful:
you only love freely things that have nothing
to do with you. You’re like a matchstick house:
intricately constructed but flimsy and hollow inside.
You’re a house in love with the trees beside you -
able to look at them all day, aware of how faithful they are -
but unable to forgive that they’d lie down
leaving you exposed and alone in a large enough storm.”

- “Another Poem About The Heart,” Jenn Habel  (via clavicola)
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February 13th, 2012

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February 13th, 2012

"Of course, this is one of the profound ways in which oppression works—to mire us in body hatred…."

“Of course, this is one of the profound ways in which oppression works—to mire us in body hatred. Homophobia is all about defining queer bodies as wrong, perverse, immoral. Transphobia, about defining trans bodies as unnatural, monstrous, or the product of delusion. Ableism, about defining disabled bodies as broken and tragic. Class warfare, about defining the bodies of workers as expendable. Racism, about defining the bodies of people of color as primitive, exotic, or worthless. Sexism, about defining female bodies as pliable objects. These messages sink beneath our skin.”

- Eli Clare, “Stolen Bodies, Reclaimed Bodies”  (via thenewwomensmovement)