The world is a mean place, so I’m bringing this picture back.
“Serena McKellen” - Sir Ian McKellen
i think this makes for a good 10,000th post
i just reblogged this but i liked it and showed my mom and five minutes later i hear her laugh really loudly as she’s cleaning dishes and i ask her what she’s laughing about and she just calms her laughter down and whispers
“gandalf the gay”
Please school these children Solange. (This was taken from tweets that she shared this morning.) I cannot think of anything more irritating and reprehensible than having cultural writers write about something they know little of, and having some abstractly-related degrees as “proof” of their qualifications. And to be clear, no shade on formal education. I have 3 college degrees. The point is, having them does not make me an expert on something as intricate as Black music MORE than the experience of listening, studying and embracing (and for some people, creating) said music LONG before said music reaches the final stage of the cycle of cultural appropriation when (primarily White) people deem it “acceptable” and “mainstream.”
I feel this so fucking much. Sometimes I read reviews of an R&B or Hip Hop album and there is just so much eye-rolling that I just can’t finish the damn thing.
that marriage has to happen.
Ask the poets
about their unrequited love
and they’ll sigh after it
like it’s the newest accessory
for their newly shaped souls.
Falling in love is easy.
Making it unrequited is easier.
All part of the job, they say.
Put on your yearning shoes, your aching gloves,
your painfully rejected suit.
Dazzle the collective of admirers.
Open your chest and make a tour
of your soul, fashionably tortured.
Isn’t it strange?
Nobody says a thing about
how ugly it is.
The waxy yellow line inside the collar
of the stolen shirt I’ve been wearing
for too long; the stifling smell
of laundry, waiting in a hopeless heap.
There are dishes rotting loudly in the sink.
Dust gathers on my hairbrush.
My soles grow thick and white, cracking
when I walk, barefoot, across the dirty floor.
I understand. Nobody wants
to see this. Nobody wants
to read about how I stumble
off to work, clothes a failed puzzle,
paint smeared across my face
in a sad corpse of a mask.
Nobody wants to know
that I’m an old vinyl record
stuck replaying your mouth
or that getting lost in thoughts of
your face is more natural than breathing.
Nobody will read about any of this.
Not even about that one evening
when you were a scream, unending
under my skin, and I couldn’t afford
alcohol, so I went out and found
a man to fuck me hard and not ask
There is no tortured soul here.
Only a body, withering. The soul
is off somewhere, getting blind
drunk. She hasn’t come
to see me for weeks.
She left barefoot, eyes swollen
and hidden behind broken sunglasses.
“Shall I take care of your body while you’re gone?”
I yelled after her, but she didn’t even look back.
I’m alone now.
But hey, where’s the romance in this?
I should write a poem about my soul.
I’ll do it. As soon as she comes back.
The Elegy for my Tortured Soul (copyright Dali Regent, May 2013)
Hey, this didn’t show up in my tracked tags back when you posted it. (WTF, Tumblr?) I love it, though! Especially the “dishes rotting loudly in the sink” line. Really that whole stanza is lovely and visceral. So well done!(via havingbeenbreathedout)
look, i mean, quite aside from the idea that the kirk shirtless scene cancels out the underwear scene (although: nope) or that a cut brindlebee shower scene would’ve done it (although: still nope), could somebody please tell jj abrams that watching a dude ignore a request to avert his eyes in favor of open-mouthed gaping at what is essentially a woman in a bikini suuuuuper doesn’t make me think “womanizer” or “ladies man” or whatever? it makes me think “teenage boy who has never seen a naked lady before.” it makes me think “would be terrible in bed.” it makes me think “ew.”
like, o b v i o u s l y that’s not the biggest problem here — there are so many bigger problems here — but i feel like the line i keep hearing people come back to in defense of this is that the underwear scene was meant to like, establish kirk’s ~exciting personality trait~ of seducing and banging everything in sight, but like? that’s also??? a failure??? because that kind of graceless gawping doesn’t indicate someone who is good at sex or has a lot of it?? for pretty much the same reasons that i wouldn’t look at someone poking at a palette of paints with an expression of shocked and bemused wonder and think wow i bet they are a master painter??? i just???
i mean i’ve got a thousand objections to the kirk-as-a-womanizer argument anyway — can’t kirk just be someone who likes sex, why does it have to have this ~power~ piece to it, what is with all the weird women-are-bodies-first-and-people-second cues, this is supposed to be the future i mean for real, did we really have to go with literal sex kittens, tos kirk would punch this dude in the face — but i also just wanted to write this down somewhere because like. jj. if you’re going to do a bunch of super gross shit to convince me someone is wham-bam-thank-you-ma’aming it with half the federation, the least you could do is not… also… do a really bad job of convincing me of that? again, it’s so far from my biggest issue with all this that it’s laughable but like, insult to injury, c’mon now.
I wish I could like this post a couple thousand times.
My assumption: JJ Abrams shows Kirk treating women as bodies, and bodies that are novel and kind of weird to him, because that’s what *he* does in RL. He doesn’t really think woman are people, not, ya know, *people* people, he uses his undoubted power to get women to (at least partially) strip for him, but he doesn’t touch them — because if he did *that*, he’d be a creep! And he’s not a creep, he’s a liberal guy! Just ask his (male) friends!
What’s *really telling is that it’s quite apparent that not only are women not really people, but *our money isn’t really money*.
freedom of speech means that the government is not allowed to tell you to shut the fuck up. it doesn’t mean that i am not allowed to tell you to shut the fuck up.
Stay in school, kids!