It’s been a year of discomfort—this body is not mine, is not who I want to be, or so I say to myself. Draping, I think, is the answer. Look graceful but concealed. Look feminine. So cruel, these standards of beauty, that even in exile you yearn to kiss their faces.
I spend the greater half of my time before work lying naked, completely incapable of dressing myself. A tower of clothes deemed unfitting (or actually unfitting) takes the place of my former chair. When you run out of chairs, there’s no reason to get out of bed.
I asked him why he didn’t want to argue with me, and he said that doesn’t happen when you’re like this, you just want to move forward. It seemed both very wrong and very right.
- Susan Sontag, via brainpickings
I blogged about homes and cities last night and thought a lot about the people I knew in Montreal, including the beautiful Caroline who wrote this song. Since then I haven’t been able to stop listening to this.
[If it doesn’t play, the link is here.]
Julie Delpy avec une cigarette. Paris, Novembre 1989
I was 4 months old at this moment in time. Now I have dexterity and have acquired both language and wrinkles and she still looks pretty much the same.
(via forgottenness)
By the Flowers at the Supermarket —Matthew Siegel
At the supermarket the floral woman asks me
if I need any help. Complicated question I reply,
and spend a few minutes dipping my face
into the dripping breath of the flowers.
I’m ready to be helped now I tell her
and she asks me what my intentions are.
I’d like the girl to see that I can have flowers
inside a big glass jar on my coffee table just to look at
and I don’t need them to be beautiful,
just a little scent in case she does not return.
Of course she knows which ones. Her picks
are quiet, subtle, barely looking like flowers.
The magenta I pick glows among the shades
of green and feathery gray. She lays the bunch
on tissue, ties them together. The serrated knife
wets its metal teeth on the lengths of stems
leaving the ends angled, open-mouthed.
This movie means everything to me, EVERYTHING.
(via theriomorphic)
We tell ourselves stories in order to live
(via pleatedjeans)
Beyoncé Tells Oprah Jay-Z Is Her ‘Foundation,’ Kinda Makes It Sound Like She’d Be Nothing Without Him
If accepting and welcoming someone’s partnership and support is a sign of weakness or over-reliance, we need to revisit what we consider strength. The beauty of being a woman is how we grow in the company of others, and how we value collectivity as much as individuality. It’s how we fortify and are fortified by our companions. I see no interest in differentiating whether that’s a group of girl friends or the love of a man. My best friend is a man — a flawed, challenged and learning man — but we are better in the presence of each other. This doesn’t mean (and should never mean) that we are worse off alone.
German Museum of Military History.
Designed by Daniel Libeskind, who also designed a jewish museum in Berlin. Originally built in 1873 as military base.
Dan Libeskind you are the singular scintillating unicorn of one trick ponies.
Last night I was working late, so my art director and I ordered sushi for pick-up. As we were walking back from the restaurant, a guy hidden in the shadows greeted me with an amicable “HEY CHINK!” and then lunged forward, feigning a punch. My first thought was “Really? How did you know I was Chinese?” followed by the violent desire to bash him over the head with my package. I decided to not reward racism with sushi. I was glad I didn’t, because this is what greeted me when I opened my order. Joke’s on you, asshole. Asians are the fucking best.
