hello new followers
that is my new blog and the only one i update now
hello new followers
that is my new blog and the only one i update now
does not include shorter articles, essays, shorter zines. also probably left some things out due to memory lapses.
The Cow - Ariana Reines
Mercury - Ariana Reines
The Little Black Book of Griseladis Real - Ariana Reines, trans.
I Love Dick - Chris Kraus
Torpor - Chris Kraus
Aliens & Anorexia - Chris Kraus
Simone Weil - Francine du Plessix Gray
Definitive History of 5 Years on the Lower East Side - Sylvere Lotringer, David Wojnarowicz
Close to the Knives - David Wojnarowicz
Beyond Recognition - Craig Owens
Fire & Ice - Andrea Dworkin
The Gift - Lewis Hyde
Art Objects - Jeanette Winterson
Gramsci is Dead - Richard Day
Change the World Without Taking Power - Josh Holloway
The Collected Stories - Franz Kafka
The Human Condition - Hannah Arendt
Isadora: A Sensational Life - Peter Kurth
The Dispossessed - Ursula K. Leguin
Otherwise Than Being - Emmanuel Levinas
Totality and its Other - Emmanuel Levinas
The Coming Insurrection - The Invisible Committee
LIES Journal - Multiple authors
Blood Wedding - Federico Garcia Lorca
Why Are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots? - Matthilda Bernstein Sycamore
The Promise of Happiness - Sara Ahmed
Undoing Sex - Negatecity
Dangerous Spaces - Untorelli Press
The Queerest Insurrection
Sorry, Tree - Eileen Myles
How Nonviolence Protects the State - Peter Gelderloos
My Common Heart - Anne Boyer
Caliban and the Witch - Silvia Federici
The Passion According to G.H. - Clarice Lispector
Feminist Politics: From Margin to Center - bell hooks
Anarchism and its Aspirations - Cindy Milstein
Just Kids - Patti Smith
Are Prisons Obsolete? - Angela Davis
Assata: An Autobiography - Assata Shakur
The Truth About Ted - Bruce Boone
My People Shall Live - Leila Khaled
Century of Clouds - Bruce Boone
The Iliad, the Poem of Force - Simone Weil
Sex, Race, and Class: The Perspective of Winning - Selma James
Germinal - Emile Zola
Women, Race, and Class - Angela Davis
Heartbreak: A Political Memoir of a Militant Feminist - Andrea Dworkin
Still Black, Still Strong - Dhoruba Bin Wahad, Mumia Abu-Jamal, Assata Shakur
The North China Lover - Marguerite Duras
Incubation: A Space for Monsters - Bhanu Kapil
Slow Lightening - Eduardo C Corral
The New Jim Crow - Michelle Alexander
Towards a Phenomenology of Sex-Right - Kathy Miriam
so uh, i have another blog, follow it if it seems interesting to you ok!
In “Fashion is a Feminist Issue,” author Greta Christina opens with the following question: “Can you be a feminist and still care about fashion?” Her answer is yes. She argues that fashion is an artistic form of expression has been historically devalued or trivialized because it is one of the…
i want to tell my dad’s keurig that it will be okay
i want to tell the christmas tree ornaments that it will be okay
i want to tell nietzsche that it will be okay
i wish i didn’t give so much of a shit about what my hair looked like
You have never had chance to speak of how
particularly love mattered in your life, nor of the
many ways it so invaded you, chafed, rubbed,
itched, “grew wet with desire,” long, soft, hard, etc.
You were observant of cares in such matters, bulks
of person, legs, arms, heads, etc. It’s hard to budge
the real if it’s not your own. Born very young into a
world already very old… Even spitting it out was often
awkward. Seemingly unseemly, uncertain. Curtain.
Hide it from view, then, until they’ve all gone.
In these terms, woman’s erogenous zones never amount to anything but a clitoris-sex that is not comparable to the noble phallic organ, or a hole-envelope that serves to sheathe and massage the penis in intercourse: a non-sex, or a masculine organ turned back upon itself, self-embracing. (23)
dove shampoo, mint tea, brut cologne, a certain kind of morning breath, wet dirt
Days of giving gifts, of watching with delight how the gift opens the desire of the beloved. Gestures of generosity, of spirit, a kind of expenditure, a risky business perhaps, because it is always an unconditional loss. The work of art, like the giving of the gift, always requires an/other, its circulation demands an economy of sharing, a partition, a partner, and yet is always a departure, always a parting, a loss. Yet in making the advent of giving as an openness towards the other, as a parting, it also serves to signal change. As in other work, the openness represents a refusal to foreclose meaning, and always the appeal for hope and desire for renewal.
arendt says this is the only real question
whether to remain silent or not
camus says the only real philsophical question is that of suicide
i think the two projects are not so different
Under monotheism, patriarchy attained full grandeur. For women, the world had been bureaucratized, wrapped in red duct tape like a massive work by Christo. The old sources of strength were gone: the ballast of nearby blood relations, the deed to one’s body, and the reflection of the female self on larger stages—the mortal stage of the polis and the immortal stage of the gods. To gain what they needed to survive and feed their young, women had to go through their intermediaries, their middle men. A man was no longer a mate. A man was air. You don’t argue; you have to breathe. With this gradual, complex and revolutionary transofrmation from foraging to the fatherland, the worth of women to one another also changed, for much the poorer. The strategic sorority was swept aside. If there are no tubers to be dug or forests to rummage through, and if vast tracts of resources are held by men, what can a woman do for you?
In the neohuman brain, a woman who is not your relative is a potential threat beyond anything seen elsewhere among primates. The woman may be your in-law, beholden to your husband by genotype or the affections cultivated by longstanding proximity. Or she may be a stranger and a potential competitor in a new, ultimate terrifying sense of the term. Another woman may take your man, and if your man is your air, that woman is a succubus, a true femme fatale, fatale to you and yours, to the sum of necessity, your food, your shelter, your young. What good can one woman do for another in the land of the middle man, of agraria and animus husbandry? Not much, practically speaking, not much at all. But the harm she can do is immeasurable. She can scratch your eyes out. She can rob you blind. Or so it can feel to the daughters of Eve, who are not shut out of the garden but locked within it. The costs of camaraderie begin to look exorbitant, and the risks of rebellion untenable.
Women are not and never have been innocents. Many have concurred with the process of being deprimatized. They have fed and accelerated their loss of autonomy. They have complied with customs that control female sexuality, such as infibulation, purdah, and claustration, and they have insisted that their daughters comply as well. They may even be active agents of such customs.
They, we, are not fools, and we want our families. We want what is best for our children, and for thousands of years we have needed the help and love of men to keep our children safe. Many of us still do, and we still suffer in the absence of men. In this country, the vast majority of the people living in poverty are single women and their children. When a couple with children divorces, the woman usually gets poorer than she was during her marriage, while the man gets richer. It is still too costly to behave in a way that risks the investment and tolerance of a man, of the greater male coalition that is our post-tuber planet. And so at times we perform little clitoridectomy equivalents on ourselves. We reject the idea of sisterhood and female solidarity. We make fun of it. We scorn the term feminist, roll our eyes at it. We say we’re beyond it, we’re all fine, we’ve fixed all the problems feminism can fix, which were never problems to begin with anyway. We organize antifeminist groups and give them smart, snappy names with words like ‘freedom’ and ‘independent’ in them. We have so much aggression in us, we’re so alive, we’re wild, golden-eyed, and strong, and we take out our pistols and shoot at each other, or at the floor, at our glass-slippered feet.