“One of the not so cool things about the internet is that it has helped to produce a class of people who are, relatively speaking, quite comfortable in their general anti-oppression stance. Anti-oppression discourse, nowadays, isn’t even about a politics (i.e. working collectively to change the world you inhabit) as much as it is about style—about speaking the right language, using the right terms, expressing outrage at the right moment, etc. Unlike previous generations of people discussing anti-oppression ideas, we who are members of this class don’t need to go to long, drawn-out meetings or to join activist groups in order to satisfy our desire to be against oppression. The discussion, in many ways, comes to us—just follow the right people, read the right blogs, etc. Anti-oppression, that is, arrives to us with the slick, polished sheen of a mass-marketed commodity.”—
madeleine sent me this link recently + it has been on my mind a lot
I’m also interested in the intersection between class and access to thory. Being at Penn or at any university or simply having means enables knowledge that few others have. In connection to what we’re reading here, it’s as if knowledge creates a culture of anti-oppression that can be easily dissociated from conscious political work. Glad this was shared; something to think about.
yeah, i think that “dissociation from conscious political work” is really the crux of the discomfort i’ve felt recently re: online social justice. the way that spaces like tumblr can facilitate the superficial brandishing of anti-oppression rhetoric as a form of cultural capital.
“My father had taught me to be nice first, because you can always be mean later, but once you’ve been mean to someone, they won’t believe the nice anymore. So be nice, be nice, until it’s time to stop being nice, then destroy them.”—Laurell K. Hamilton (via ballofawkwardness)
“Get excited about the little things. About wearing a new outfit for the first time. About Sunday brunches with your best friends. About the new cute guy in your class. About finding an extra dollar in your pocket. About anything that even remotely makes you happy because as you grow up, passions fade and enthusiasm gets mistaken for foolishness. So don’t let the grey world stop you from shining.”—note to self (via mcllscott)
“Too many young women I think are harder on themselves than circumstances warrant. They are too often selling themselves short. They too often take criticism personally instead of seriously. You should take criticism seriously because you might learn something, but you can’t let it crush you. You have to be resilient enough to keep moving forward, whatever the personal setbacks and even insults that come your way might be. That takes a sense of humor about yourself and others. Believe me, this is hard-won advice I’m putting forth. It’s not like you wake up and understand this. It’s a process.”—Hillary Clinton on how to handle criticism & other advice for young women, The Cut (via fetchalgernon)
“My mother tells me
that when I meet someone I like,
I have to ask them three questions:
1. what are you afraid of?
2. do you like dogs?
3. what do you do when it rains?
of those three, she says the first one is the most important.
“They gotta be scared of something, baby. Everybody is. If they aren’t afraid of anything, then they don’t believe in anything, either.”
I met you on a Sunday, right
one look and my heart fell into
my stomach like a trap door.
on our second date,
I asked you what you were afraid of.
“spiders, mostly. being alone. little children, like, the ones who just learned how to push a kid over on the playground. oh and space. holy shit, space.”
I asked you if you liked dogs.
“I have three.”
I asked you what you do when it rains.
“sleep, mostly. sometimes I sit at the window and watch the rain droplets race. I make a shelter out of plastic in my backyard for all the stray animals; leave them food and a place to sleep.”
he smiled like he knew.
like his mom told him the same
“how about you?”
I’m scared of everything.
of the hole in the o-zone layer,
of the lady next door who never
smiles at her dog,
and especially of all the secrets
the government must be breaking
its back trying to keep from us.
I love dogs so much, you have no idea.
I sleep when it rains.
I want to tell everyone I love them.
I want to find every stray animal and bring them home.
I want to wake up in your hair
and make you shitty coffee
and kiss your neck
and draw silly stick figures of us.
I never want to ask anyone else
The path is wider than I remember.
They refurbished the wooden railing and added benches along the way,
but the branches from the gnarled trees curl over the railing
and drape over their backs,
a steadying arm.
Here nature dissolves in the sunlight,
the decay permeates into murky waters,
soggy lily pads, wilting reeds.
filmy remnants of the Sound
cling to the remains of old dock posts
that leave splinters along the shores.
Years ago, every week,
I walked with my grandfather down this moss-lined road.
I’d try and read the information signs about the park,
though they would eventually turn into stories of us,
his ears always seemed so eager.
I can feel his hands,
large, warm brown paws.
One hand picking flowers at my side
the other always holding on to mine as I tried to frolic away,
to maintain a connection,
a thin string,
like the fishing lines we cast off the docks,
I pulled and he followed.
In gnarled trees I see him:
a stiff gait, a slanted spine,
an old roof-top, weathered.
Roots that cling to the earth,
frail branches that struggle to blossom in spring.
Sometimes we still walk the paths,
though he falls behind at the slowest of tempos.
He tries so hard to linger.
I fall in step with him, grasp his hand harder
as dark leaves crunch beneath our feet
on the way back to the car.
Though I lead, I’m terrified of the day
he’s pulled away to a place I can’t follow.
It was only for a moment. A second. You looked in pain. I remember when you’d get migraines, or when everybody around you just got a little too much, and this look was what plagued your face. I stopped, and we made eye contact for the first time in months.
My thing is, have sex whenever you decide to want to have sex. You want to have sex on the first night, go ahead. You want to have sex after 20 dates, go ahead. You want to never have sex, go ahead. People think that someone’s sexual choices actually coincide with their personality. If all you can think of someone’s worth is whether they want to have sex or not, then the problem is probably you.
Was there a guide somewhere about how to write in cities that you've never visited? Or am I just making this up? My story takes place in Atlanta, somewhere I have never visited and most likely won't be able to any time soon but my characters have lived there all their lives. do you know how I would be able to make Atlanta believable? Or that guide I've seemed to have misplaced? (If it existed at all.)
(If such a guide exists in the Tumblrsphere of writing blogs, I cannot seem to find it. Tumblbuds?)
The short answer is research, and lots of it. Books with maps and pictures, Google Maps, and Google Earth can show you what it looks like. Reading books, blog posts, articles about Atlanta can help you get a feel for what it might be like there. Get in touch with people who currently live in Atlanta and ask them your questions.
Nothing will beat firsthand research, but we can make do with books and the Internet. Let us know if you have further questions for us.
A lift and what follows, what follows is charm and what is charming. Supposing it showed what is slimy, all that is showed is sublime. Eager the beat that follows, the beat is followed by what is kept within. What is the use of what is kept within, if only to distinguish what is kept without. To draw upon, to change the way things are, perhaps it is better to be left opaque. Actually, by chance if left frosted the beat will follow. It is not a disgrace to let out what’s within, it’s distinguished. In between the lift there is plenty and more, more is almost enough.