I go back and forth on thinking I’m drowning, and thinking I’m bobbing in place. I have to get out of this town- I keep thinking I’m seeing people from the past, which is always a sign that a town has gotten too old (though harder to back up if you’re back in a town from the past). There’s a poem I want to read, which I can’t find. Anyone have a copy of “Tend to Shout More” by Martin Bell?
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end, The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend; Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire; Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links, Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks, Under the look of fatigue, the attack of the migraine and the sigh There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall, The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall, The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss, There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.
“Sexism in 2011 is a different, more subtle beast, which shows itself in insidious ways: it is there when a man shouts out a sexualised comment as you pass in the street; it is there when your male colleague makes a joke about it being your time of the month; and it is there when you are called a slag, a bitch, a whore or told you are not as good at map-reading or driving or any of those other quintessentially “male” skills you are deemed too dim to master.
And, as Boycott points out, if a woman objects to any of this – even if it makes her feel uncomfortable – she is somehow seen as poo-faced or not a good sport.”—
Guardian UK Article “Why Sexism is no Laughing Matter”
I was trying to describe you to someone a few days ago. You don’t look like any girl I’ve ever seen before.
I couldn’t say: “Well, she looks just like Jane Fonda except that she’s got red hair and her mouth is different and of course she’s not a movie star.”
I couldn’t say that because you don’t look like Jane Fonda at all.
I finally ended up describing you as a movie I saw when I was a child in Tacoma, Washington. I guess I saw it in 1941 or ‘42: somewhere in there. I think I was seven or eight or six. It was a movie about rural electrification and a perfect 1930s New Deal morality kind of movie to show kids.
The movie was about farmers living in the country without electricity. They had to use lanterns to see by at night, for sewing and reading, and they didn’t have any appliances, like toasters or washing machines, and they couldn’t listen to the radio.
Then they built a dam with big electric generators and they put poles across the countryside and strung wire over fields and pastures.
There was an incredible heroic dimension that came from the simple putting up of poles for the wires to travel along. They looked ancient and modern at the same time. Then the movie showed Electricity like a young Greek god coming to the farmer to take away forever the dark ways of his life.
Suddenly, religiously, with the throwing of a switch the farmer had electric lights to see by when he milked his cows in the early black winter mornings.
The farmer’s family got to listen to the radio and have a toaster and lots of bright lights to sew dresses and read the newspaper by.
It was really a fantastic movie and excited me like listening to “The Star-Spangled Banner” or seeing photographs of President Roosevelt or hearing him on the radio.
“…The President of the United States…”
I wanted electricity to go everywhere in the world. I wanted all the farmers in the world to be able to listen to President Roosevelt on the radio.
That’s how you look to me.
”—“I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone” from Revenge of the Lawn - Richard Brautigan (via joolsandnigel)
“You will not destroy us. You will not destroy our democracy nor our quest for a better world. We are a small nation, but we are a proud nation … the answer to violence is even more democracy, even more humanity, but never naïveté. That is what we owe to the victims and to the those they hold dear.”—
Norwegian Prime Minister, Jens Stoltenberg
The situation in Norway is devastating. There really is nothing else I can say at the moment, I’m just watching with horror as the events unfold. I did want to take a moment and say what an enormous amount of respect I have for Norway’s PM and his speechwriter, because this was a dignified, wonderful speech.
How lucky that I ran into you When everything was possible For my legs and arms, and with hope in my heart And so happy to see any woman— O woman! O my twentieth year! Basking in you, you Oasis from both growing and decay Fantastic unheard of nine- or ten-year oasis A palm tree, hey! And then another And another—and water! I’m still very impressed by you. Whither, Midst falling decades, have you gone? Oh in what lucky fellow, Unsure of himself, upset, and unemployable For the moment in any case, do you live now? From my window I drop a nickel By mistake. With You I race down to get it But I find there on The street instead, a good friend, X— N—, who says to me Kenneth do you have a minute? And I say yes! I am in my twenties! I have plenty of time! In you I marry, In you I first go to France; I make my best friends In you, and a few enemies. I Write a lot and am living all the time And thinking about living. I loved to frequent you After my teens and before my thirties. You three together in a bar I always preferred you because you were midmost Most lustrous apparently strongest Although now that I look back on you What part have you played? You never, ever, were stingy. What you gave me you gave whole But as for telling Me how best to use it You weren’t a genius at that. Twenties, my soul Is yours for the asking You know that, if you ever come back.
We twisted, we swayed, we drank and smoked to her, like her and along with her. We listened to Amy while we knocked over candles dancing in dark bars and when we smoked cigarettes in our underwear out the bedroom window in the morning. A girl once asked me if I wanted to watch her dance to “Fuck Me Pumps.” I said yes.
An 8 year-old boy was hanged by militants in Afghanistan’s Helmand province after the boy’s father — a police officer in the southern city of Gereshk — refused to comply with militants’ demands to provide them with a police vehicle, officials said.
The first was TJ. Then came Samantha, Aaron, Nick, and Kevin. Over the past two years, a total of nine teenagers have committed suicide in a Minnesota school district represented by Rep. Michele Bachmann—the latest in May—and many more students have attempted to take their lives. State public…
If I had not met the red-haired boy whose father
had broken a leg parachuting into Provence
to join the resistance in the final stage of the war
and so had been killed there as the Germans were moving north
out of Italy and if the friend who was with him
as he was dying had not had an elder brother
who also died young quite differently in peacetime
leaving two children one of them with bad health
who had been kept out of school for a whole year by an illness
and if I had written anything else at the top
of the examination form where it said college
of your choice or if the questions that day had been
put differently and if a young woman in Kittanning
had not taught my father to drive at the age of twenty
so that he got the job with the pastor of the big church
in Pittsburgh where my mother was working and if
my mother had not lost both parents when she was a child
so that she had to go to her grandmother’s in Pittsburgh
I would not have found myself on an iron cot
with my head by the fireplace of a stone farmhouse
that had stood empty since some time before I was born
I would not have travelled so far to lie shivering
with fever though I was wrapped in everything in the house
nor have watched the unctuous doctor hold up his needle
at the window in the rain light of October
I would not have seen through the cracked pane the darkening
valley with its river sliding past the amber mountains
nor have wakened hearing plums fall in the small hour
thinking I knew where I was as I heard them fall
though that’s a bit misleading. My account is deactivated, and if in two weeks, I haven’t signed on, erroneously clicked a like button or chanced upon a Facebook page without meaning to, it’s gone-gone. I’ve gone through and downloaded the photos I wanted to keep, which brought with it the realization that I have a tendency to make the same 3.2 faces in photos. I need to work on that.
Released July 6, the report begins with a celebration of the last century of progress. One hundred years since the civil rights movement, seven decades since women took to the labor force en mass, and 16 years after then-U.S. First Lady Hillary Clinton declared that “women’s rights are human rights,” the progress is undeniable. As the first annual report of the new agency, U.N. Women, puts it: “the past century has seen a transformation in women’s legal rights, with countries in every region expanding the scope of women’s legal entitlements.” But of course there’s a catch: we’re really only halfway there. “For most of the world’s women,” the report continues, “the laws that exist on paper do not translate to equality and justice.” Too many promises haven’t been followed up with progress on the ground.
This disconnect — between rules and reality — is exactly where the report aims to enter the conversation. It begins by identifying where and why women often don’t have equal access to justice. Here, the barriers are largely expected: logistical hurdles like cost and distance, poor institutions, cultural taboos, and social stigmas. From there, it looks for answers, and suggests a barrage of solutions from supporting women’s groups, to making laws and processes more gender sensitive, to getting women personally involved in the rule of law as policewomen and judges. Post-conflict justice systems get a particular mention for their importance and sensitivity. And the report argues that using quotas to boost the number of female legislators can help ensure that women’s rights are on the books.
“Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you’re alone, if you’re with a stranger, if you’re in a group, if you’re in a group of strangers, if it’s dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you’re carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you’re wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who’s around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who’s at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn’t follow all the rules it’s your fault.”—I might just copy and paste this so I can have this perfect answer ready when people say things like “but how does this “rape culture” actually affect women?” (via fuckyeahclare)
Though I doubt that’s actually gone noticed by anyone, my apologies. I moved back to the US, was on a cot at a friend’s crowded place in NYC, and now on a futon back in Virginia, sharing time with another friend, her son, her Great Dane, and mother in law. Who are all lovely, but it makes it hard to get on tumblr, or do anything that isn’t related to looking for a job.
Anyone have connections in Denver? I’m smart, quick worker, I bake cookies, and you know, can do things.