I was scrambling to get stuff out of the dryer just now, and dropped my underwear and felt really embarrassed. This other girl getting her clothes out saw, purposefully dropped hers and shrugged and smiled as a sort of “Don’t worry, me too”.
I made a vow before I left for Colchester that I’d only be seen here looking as decent as possible. Yeah, no. I really like that I can just roll out into the kitchen and sit down for a chat, looking like a greasy arse mess. I mean, I sometimes go to the convenience store having just washed my hair, doing nothing with it. It doesn’t sound like much, but when my hair’s just dried, it looks like a pet sitting atop my head, and that’s taken most of my adolescence to accept.
I booked train tickets to London for Friday earlier. The return on Sunday hasn’t been sorted out yet, but I’ll get to it (I hope). I don’t feel excited so much as I do happy. Just really, really happy to be spending this weekend at home. I can feel this year drawing to a close even though we don’t break up until March 23rd, and even then we have the summer term. But that’ll be exams, mainly, and I’m starting to miss my first year here even though I’m still in it. I feel a little like I’m running downhill and I can feel the end of term but I can’t distinguish it from the work I have to do now. Being back in Caesar’s Walk will provide some sort of marking point, like a moment to stop and let things sort themselves out. I need that.
And I just want to be home for a little while. Go to sleep one night in my bedroom and pad barefoot into the kitchen, not having to worry about when to sort out breakfast or lunch or dinner. I haven’t seen my mum or my sister since January 12th, I think. Phone conversations don’t count, even if they are almost daily. Truth be told, above all else, I just want a hug from them both. I keep thinking about how I’ll be able to sprawl out on my mum’s bed and chat on Saturday morning, and eat junk and laugh like an idiot with my sister at everything on the t.v late at night, and I feel a little giddy.
“I love animation because in the world of animation, you can be anything you wanna be. If you’re a fat woman, you can play a skinny princess. If you’re a short, wimpy guy, you can play a tall gladiator. If you’re a white man, you can play an Arabian prince. And if you’re a black man, you can play a donkey or a zebra.”—CHRIS ROCK, introducing the Best Animated Film Oscar. (via inothernews)
“There’s such romance in a well-buttered slice of toast. In an amateur Snickers (two malted milk biscuits, one spread with peanut butter, the other Nutella, sandwiched together with love). In Nutella, full stop. Nutella eaten from the jar with a teaspoon warmed in a cup of Yorkshire Tea. Crap food (and by that I mean food you can eat alone, with your hands, quickly) is one of the great loves of my life. Eating this way is both very childish and very grown-up – by ignoring the supermarkets’ recipe cards, by eating only exactly what I like, I feel as though I’ve transcended tradition. I’ve damned the man! But just as real cooking is notoriously tricky, it can be hard to get crap food just right. First rule: there are no rules. Ketchup goes with everything, including pasta. Breakfast works best at dinnertime. Second rule: no shame, no guilt. No sitting at the table when a perfectly good bath has just been run. Third rule: things that started hot can be eaten cold, and vice versa (see hot Ribena). Fourth rule: eggs.”—Eva Wiseman on comfort food. (via dylzo)
“Some may blackly (angrily) accuse me of trying to blacken (defame) the English language, to give it a black eye (a mark of shame) by writing such black words (hostile). They may denigrate (to cast aspersions) me by accusing me of being blackhearted (malevolent), of having a black outlook (pessimistic) on life, of being a blackguard (scoundrel)- which would certainly be a black mark (detrimental fact) against me. Some may black brow (scowl at) at me and hope that a black cat crosses in front of me because of this black deed. I may become a black sheep, who will be blackballed (ostracized) by being placed on a blacklist in an attempt to blackmail or blackjack (compel by threat) me will have a Chinaman’s chance of success, for I am not a yellow-bellied Indian-giver of words, who will whitewash (cover up or gloss over) a black lie (harmful, inexcusable). I challenge the purity and innocence (white) of the English language. I don’t see things in black and white (entirely bad or entirely good) terms, for I am a white man (marked by upright firmness) if there ever was one. However, it would be a black day when I would not “call a spade a spade,” even though some will suggest that a white man calling the English language racist is like the pot calling the kettle black. While many may be niggardly (grudging, scanty) in their support, others will be honest and decent- and to them I say, that’s very white of you (honest, decent).”—Robert B. Moore, “Racist Stereotyping in the English Language” (via lowkeys)
I’ve started doing this thing where I read through my posts. I need to stop, because I start realising that this blog really isn’t as credible as I like to think. And then I don’t know whether to be grateful that you all follow me, or just judge you for it. It’s the former, always. But sometimes I wonder…
We had a Gilmore Girls night last night, and everyone left at around 1am. I felt so happy and energetic, and I told myself I was gonna wash my hair and stay up all night writing a post about being a nice person. And then I’d have time to do my hair and eat a good breakfast, and go to both my lectures feeling all chirpy and chipper.
I made a post about paedophiles, went to bed at 6am, got out of bed at 3pm and changed into a different set of pyjamas. Breakfast/lunch consisted of porridge and raspberryade.
It’s completely justified to feel sick at the thought of what paedophilia means, but you have to remember that it’s defined by a sexual attraction, not a sexual attraction and no control. Whilst acting on the urges is a definite component in the definition, a paedophile can also be somebody with the attraction who does not act on the urges, but is distressed by them. There’s a difference between wanting something that is fundamentally wrong, and acting on it. There’s no disputing that the desire isn’t right, but the desire is not a conscious decision. It doesn’t condone or justify it, but it does mean that threatening a paedophile with capital punishment or imprisonment is essentially turning a blind eye to an issue. Whilst detaining a paedophile may keep them at bay from any potential harm they could cause, you’re not making any progress if you make no effort to piece things together while they’re being held there.
It’s not a given that a paedophile will leap at the chance to be with a child; some acknowledge the dangers of their attraction and are frightened by it because they’re also aware of the importance of the child’s welfare and the subsequent damage they could cause to them. If you assume a paedophile is the same thing a child molester, you’re allowing a system that punishes two different types of behaviour in the same way. I’m not saying that a sexual attraction to children isn’t a cause for concern, I’m saying that any potential legal consequence of child molestation can act as a deterrent to a paedophile with no intention of harming a child, who would otherwise admit themselves for some sort of analysis or treatment but can’t because of definite punishment. Which, unaffected and unhelped, may evolve into the type that actively pursues children. I’m not saying that it isn’t worthy of punishment, or that there isn’t something ‘wrong with you’ if you feel what they feel, or that you should let a paedophile babysit your kids, and that you shouldn’t feel uneasy, sickened, uncomfortable and/or disgusted. But it is a reminder that a distinction between the two things - and the ‘types’ of paedophiles - has to be made.
“Look how your children grow up. Taught from their earliest infancy to curb their love natures — restrained at every turn! Your blasting lies would even blacken a child’s kiss. Little girls must not be tomboyish, must not go barefoot, must not climb trees, must not learn to swim, must not do anything they desire to do which Madame Grundy has decreed “improper.” Little boys are laughed at as effeminate, silly girl-boys if they want to make patchwork or play with a doll. Then when they grow up, “Oh! Men dont care for home or children as women do!” Why should they, when the deliberate effort of your life has been to crush that nature out of them. “Women can’t rough it like men.” Train any animal, or any plant, as you train your girls, and it wont be able to rough it either.”—Voltairine de Cleyre (via liberationfrequency)
A delivery man buzzed our flat so I picked up over the intercom to let him through. He said he had a delivery for someone in 2.5. I told him we were 3.1 and that he was probably looking for the building next to us, so he headed that way.
The delivery was flowers.
Somebody ordered someone in 2.5 flowers.
And they arrived.
On Valentine’s Day.
I don’t want to talk to you if you don’t appreciate how adorable that is.
I feel a lot closer to the people I follow than I actually am. Especially when you all post about what happened during your day, and I feel like dropping you a message that’s all, “Heeeeeeey”, until I remember that the last time we spoke was a ‘Thanks for the follow!’ message several months ago.
I say this every year, but I love Valentine’s Day. Beyond the usual jokes about reduced chocolate prices in the following week, and backhanded comments involving judging couples and eating ice cream.
It makes sense. All the songs and movies and books and plays and adverts that involve love. There’d be an uproar if there wasn’t a day to celebrate it. I really do understand the dislike; if not for personal experiences, than for being alone on a day where everything centres around having someone else. But it just seems so petty sometimes. For every song about a significant other, there’s a magazine article or short film about the joys of being alone. It’s nice to see the colour red everywhere without it meaning something dangerous and upsetting, though somebody will probably twist that to make a joke about love being that way. I feel like it’s almost too easy to hate it, and the effort to do otherwise doesn’t seem cool. It’s twenty-four hours to celebrate something that makes people happy. For every rubbish thing in the world that it’s possible to feel, it exists too. There’s something so fundamentally nice about having a day that makes you shut up and acknowledge it.
And it’s just one day. One day, out of an entire year.
“I think we can all recognize that the “it’s a joke excuse” is the most dismissive, self-righteous loophole, created by those who refuse to examine their power, and assume they have not only the right to say whatever they want to people, but the right to control how other people react to what they have said.”—Loose Talk: You can take your “just joking” and shove it. (via fox-power)
“I don’t think it’s a virtue or an accomplishment to hide or deny your pain so that you can take care of others. We tell people they are “strong” when we are uncomfortable with their pain and would prefer that they shut up and not bother us with it. To say “but you are strong” is telling someone “I don’t think you should feel that way,” and it’s not a compliment. I don’t think that strength means being invulnerable, or pretending that you are. The belief that silence and stoicism are inherently good qualities is how you end up dressed up like a bat punching criminals in an alley – it’s not a good road to emotional health.”—
oh, how this brings me back to the last time someone told me I was “really strong” when I was asking for their help. Even then, it sounded a hell of a lot like, “but thinking about this is itchy & takes away from my being-frivolous time!”
Before I begin this poem, I’d like to ask you to join me in a moment of silence in honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and the Pentagon on September 11th, 2001.
I would also like to ask you to offer up a moment of silence for all of those who have been harassed, imprisoned, disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes, for the victims in Afghanistan, Iraq, in the U.S., and throughout the world.
And if I could just add one more thing…
A full day of silence… for the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have died at the hands of U.S.-backed Israeli forces over decades of occupation.
Six months of silence… for the million and-a-half Iraqi people, mostly children, who have died of malnourishment or starvation as a result
of a 12-year U.S. embargo against the country.
…And now, the drums of war beat again.
Before I begin this poem, two months of silence… for the Blacks under Apartheid in South Africa, where “homeland security” made them aliens in their own country
Nine months of silence… for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, where death rained down and peeled back every layer of concrete, steel, earth and skin, and the survivors went on as if alive.
A year of silence… for the millions of dead in Viet Nam—a people, not a war—for those who know a thing or two about the scent of burning fuel, their relatives bones buried in it, their babies born of it.
Two months of silence… for the decades of dead in Colombia, whose names, like the corpses they once represented, have piled up and slipped off our tongues.
Before I begin this poem,
Seven days of silence… for El Salvador
A day of silence… for Nicaragua
Five days of silence… for the Guatemaltecos
None of whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years.
45 seconds of silence… for the 45 dead at Acteal, Chiapas…
1,933 miles of silence… for every desperate body
That burns in the desert sun
Drowned in swollen rivers at the pearly gates to the Empire’s underbelly,
A gaping wound sutured shut by razor wire and corrugated steel.
25 years of silence… for the millions of Africans who found their graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could poke into the sky.
For those who were strung and swung from the heights of sycamore trees
In the south… the north… the east… the west…
There will be no dna testing or dental records to identify their remains.
100 years of silence… for the hundreds of millions of indigenous people
From this half of right here,
Whose land and lives were stolen,
In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand Creek, Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears
Names now reduced to innocuous magnetic poetry on the refrigerator of our consciousness…
From somewhere within the pillars of power
You open your mouths to invoke a moment of our silence
And we are all left speechless,
Our tongues snatched from our mouths,
Our eyes stapled shut.
A moment of silence,
And the poets are laid to rest,
The drums disintegrate into dust.
Before I begin this poem,
You want a moment of silence…
You mourn now as if the world will never be the same
And the rest of us hope to hell it won’t be.
Not like it always has been.
…Because this is not a 9-1-1 poem
This is a 9/10 poem,
It is a 9/9 poem,
A 9/8 poem,
A 9/7 poem…
This is a 1492 poem.
This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written.
And if this is a 9/11 poem, then
This is a September 11th 1973 poem for Chile.
This is a September 12th 1977 poem for Steven Biko in South Africa.
This is a September 13th 1971 poem for the brothers at Attica Prison, New York.
This is a September 14th 1992 poem for the people of Somalia.
This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground amidst the ashes of amnesia.
This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told,
The 110 stories that history uprooted from its textbooks
The 110 stories that that cnn, bbc, The New York Times, and Newsweek ignored.
This is a poem for interrupting this program.
This is not a peace poem,
Not a poem for forgiveness.
This is a justice poem,
A poem for never forgetting.
This is a poem to remind us
That all that glitters
Might just be broken glass.
And still you want a moment of silence for the dead?
We could give you lifetimes of empty:
The unmarked graves,
The lost languages,
The uprooted trees and histories,
The dead stares on the faces of nameless children…
Before I start this poem we could be silent forever
Or just long enough to hunger,
For the dust to bury us
And you would still ask us
For more of our silence.
So if you want a moment of silence
Then stop the oil pumps
Turn off the engines, the televisions
Sink the cruise ships
Crash the stock markets
Unplug the marquee lights
Delete the e-mails and instant messages
Derail the trains, ground the planes.
If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window
of Taco Bell
And pay the workers for wages lost.
Tear down the liquor stores,
The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the Penthouses
and the Playboys.
If you want a moment of silence,
Then take it
On Super Bowl Sunday,
The Fourth of July,
During Dayton’s 13 hour sale,
The next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful brown people have gathered.
You want a moment of silence
Then take it
Before this poem begins.
Here, in the echo of my voice,
In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand,
In the space between bodies in embrace,
Here is your silence.
Take it all.
But don’t cut in line.
Let your silence begin at the beginning of crime.
We will keep right on singing
For our dead.
“If your first instinct when you hear the word “feminist” is to say “those man-haters want equality, but they still want me to pay for everything, hurf durf!” then you currently have as accurate an understanding of feminism as a confectioner would have of a Titan II missile schematic. You know those congressmen who say that Grand Theft Auto IV is a “crime simulator” that is “training new felons?” That’s you, and feminism.”—Geordie Tait (via insomnius)
It seems to always snow in February, but now doesn’t feel right. It’s not that I dislike this kind of weather; it’s great to look at and fun when in the mood for it. The impracticality is what gets me. And I like snow the way I like snow. I don’t have a problem with anyone wanting to be pelted by snowballs, but I prefer sitting inside and just knowing it’s there. Or taking a walk at my own pace. I think it’s the obligation to act like you’ve never seen it before, when there’s nothing at all wrong with enjoying it the way you want.