1. bloner:

    things that should be allowed to be used in essays:

    • i shit you not
    • you feel me
    • no but get this
    • i’m just sayin
    • let me explain you a thing
    • and yeah

    THIIIIIIIS. Also “it is what it is” and “not for nothing”. And not just in essays. Let’s just not say these things. Ok bye.

    (Source: hectorstaco)

     
  2. that domain is not available dot com and you are wasting time!

    How much time is too much spent staring off into space with a domain registration page open?

    I tried the first few that popped into my head, but apparently other people thought of those before I did. THINK, woman!

    Because who blogs without the perfect design on the just-rightly-branded domain anymore? These are sophisticated waters to tread. 5000 women who know so just wrapped a conference that the President attended, for Blog’s sake. It’s a little intimidating.

    Also, I know something about brands. It’s kinda sorta what I do for a living. (Also started and abandoned blogs. Awesome at that.)

    So Much Pressure! People pay me for (somewhat-related) decisions like this. So how could I write a blog without first demonstrating expertise in blogginess and branding? Otherwise 13 years of helping companies be strategic about their websites, like, never happened. This Is A Problem. Isn’t it?

    Back to this box on my screen. Domain name, ma’am?

    I mean that’s just rude, though. There’s a lot that goes into branding. Entire extensive expensive projects and even whole companies are devoted to the cause, and here’s this open-text box on a web page asking me to do it in like 3 seconds flat. What’s BRAND ME? Are you kidding? Do you have seven hours to hear me ramble towards an answer?

    I’m LaKarune, but that’s too insidery. What IS this LaKarune you speak of? I mean what is the essence of she, the POSITION of this K’RUNE, the PROMISE the PERSONALITY THE STORY THAT BRANDING 101 JAM CHUTNEY of it all?

    If I were a brand, what would my perfume smell like? And would you wear it to the opera or a Jack White show or an elementary school recital?

    What does overthinking smell like?

    Listen. This is risky and scary for me, but here’s how I’m gonna do it: organically. And here’s when I’m starting: now.

    Oh and I typed something into the box. It stuck. It’s kinda perfect-ish, but I’m too good at getting in my own way to wait until It’s Ready to get blogging.

    Three Twelve paragraphs ago I thought I was going to ask for branding advice, but now I realize I really needed and excuse to blow up my excuses and do 30 blog posts in 30 days. Even if I’m the only one reading them and Tumblr gets all my rereading hits.

    Starting with this one. (1/30)

    *\O/*

    (Inspiration & cheerleading by Aliya, Rachel and Whitney. You lead by example. Thank you.)

     
  3. Cartographies of Silence

    1.

    A conversation begins
    with a lie. and each 

    speaker of the so-called common language feels
    the ice-floe split, the drift apart 

    as if powerless, as if up against
    a force of nature 

    A poem can being
    with a lie. And be torn up. 

    A conversation has other laws
    recharges itself with its own 

    false energy, Cannot be torn
    up. Infiltrates our blood. Repeats itself. 

    Inscribes with its unreturning stylus
    the isolation it denies. 


    2.

    The classical music station
    playing hour upon hour in the apartment 

    the picking up and picking up
    and again picking up the telephone 

    The syllables uttering
    the old script over and over 

    The loneliness of the liar
    living in the formal network of the lie 

    twisting the dials to drown the terror
    beneath the unsaid word 


    3.

    The technology of silence
    The rituals, etiquette 

    the blurring of terms
    silence not absence 

    of words or music or even
    raw sounds 

    Silence can be a plan
    rigorously executed 

    the blueprint of a life 

    It is a presence
    it has a history a form 

    Do not confuse it
    with any kind of absence 


    4.

    How calm, how inoffensive these words
    begin to seem to me 

    though begun in grief and anger
    Can I break through this film of the abstract 

    without wounding myself or you
    there is enough pain here 

    This is why the classical of the jazz music station plays?
    to give a ground of meaning to our pain? 


    5.

    The silence strips bare:
    In Dreyer’s Passion of Joan 

    Falconetti’s face, hair shorn, a great geography
    mutely surveyed by the camera 

    If there were a poetry where this could happen
    not as blank space or as words 

    stretched like skin over meaningsof a night through which two people
    have talked till dawn. 


    6.

    The scream
    of an illegitimate voice 

    It has ceased to hear itself, therefore
    it asks itself 

    How do I exist? 

    This was the silence I wanted to break in you
    I had questions but you would not answer 

    I had answers but you could not use them
    The is useless to you and perhaps to others 


    7.

    It was an old theme even for me:
    Language cannot do everything- 

    chalk it on the walls where the dead poets
    lie in their mausoleums 

    If at the will of the poet the poem
    could turn into a thing 

    a granite flank laid bare, a lifted head
    alight with dew 

    If it could simply look you in the face
    with naked eyeballs, not letting you turn 

    till you, and I who long to make this thing,
    were finally clarified together in its stare 


    8.

    No. Let me have this dust,
    these pale clouds dourly lingering, these words 

    moving with ferocious accuracy
    like the blind child’s fingers 

    or the newborn infant’s mouth
    violent with hunger 

    No one can give me, I have long ago
    taken this method 

    whether of bran pouring from the loose-woven sack
    or of the bunsen-flame turned low and blue 

    If from time to time I envy
    the pure annunciation to the eye 

    the visio beatifica
    if from time to time I long to turn 

    like the Eleusinian hierophant
    holding up a single ear of grain 

    for the return to the concrete and everlasting world
    what in fact I keep choosing 

    are these words, these whispers, conversations
    from which time after time the truth breaks moist and green. 

    Adrienne Rich

     
  4. matthewnewton:

Writer/blogger Derek K. Miller writes his own obituary. It’s a beautifully written piece, and of course, devastating to read:

And many things will now happen without me. As I wrote this, I hardly  knew what most of them could even be. What will the world be like as  soon as 2021, or as late as 2060, when I would have been 91, the age my  Oma reached? What new will we know? How will countries and people have  changed? How will we communicate and move around? Whom will we admire,  or despise?
What will my wife Air be doing? My daughters Marina and Lolo? What  will they have studied, how will they spend their time and earn a  living? Will my kids have children of their own? Grandchildren? Will  there be parts of their lives I’d find hard to comprehend right now?

(Source: Derek K. Miller | Penmachine)

And this:
"I haven’t gone to a better place, or a worse one. I haven’t gone  anyplace, because Derek doesn’t exist anymore. As soon as my body stopped functioning, and the neurons in my  brain ceased firing, I made a remarkable transformation: from a living  organism to a corpse, like a flower or a mouse that didn’t make it  through a particularly frosty night. The evidence is clear that once I  died, it was over.”
Please read, and see if you can co-sign my near-obsession with first-person obituaries. Owning your own narrative. Peace to dream hampton and neens for getting this.

    matthewnewton:

    Writer/blogger Derek K. Miller writes his own obituary. It’s a beautifully written piece, and of course, devastating to read:

    And many things will now happen without me. As I wrote this, I hardly knew what most of them could even be. What will the world be like as soon as 2021, or as late as 2060, when I would have been 91, the age my Oma reached? What new will we know? How will countries and people have changed? How will we communicate and move around? Whom will we admire, or despise?

    What will my wife Air be doing? My daughters Marina and Lolo? What will they have studied, how will they spend their time and earn a living? Will my kids have children of their own? Grandchildren? Will there be parts of their lives I’d find hard to comprehend right now?

    (Source: Derek K. Miller | Penmachine)

    And this:

    "I haven’t gone to a better place, or a worse one. I haven’t gone anyplace, because Derek doesn’t exist anymore. As soon as my body stopped functioning, and the neurons in my brain ceased firing, I made a remarkable transformation: from a living organism to a corpse, like a flower or a mouse that didn’t make it through a particularly frosty night. The evidence is clear that once I died, it was over.”

    Please read, and see if you can co-sign my near-obsession with first-person obituaries. Owning your own narrative. Peace to dream hampton and neens for getting this.

     
  5. Upstairs, in the bright, white, sterile cubicle of the bathroom, smelling of warm flesh and toothpaste, I bent over the washbowl in unthinking ritual, washing the proscribed areas, worshipping the glittering chromium, the light that clattered back and forth, brittle, blinding, from the faucets. Hot and cold; cleanliness coming in smooth scented green bars; hairs in thin, penciled lines, curving on the white enamel; the colored prescriptions, the hard, glassed-in jars, the bottles that can cure the symptoms of a cold or send you to sleep you to sleep within an hour. And then to bed, in the same potetially fertile air, scented of lavender, lace curtains and the warm feline odor like musk, waiting to assimilate you — everywhere the pallid waiting. And you are the moving epitome of all this. Of you, by you, for you. God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?
    — The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via thechocolatebrigade)
     
  6. allthingsjamesbaldwin:


BALDWIN’S OWN COPY
 (LITERATURE AND POETRY.) BALDWIN, JAMES. Blues for Mr. Charlie. Original mimeographed play script, 69, 38, 58 pages; bound in leatherette with large brass rivets; covers rubbed and creased. inscribed by  baldwin to william gunn. New York, Actors Studio, (1964) Estimate $1,500-2,500 Baldwin’s  own copy of the playscript, inscribed to fellow-writer and filmmaker  William Gunn “For Bill Gunn, at last, Jimmy B.” and additionally “J.B.”   Beneath the latter, where it’s printed: “Property of Actors Studio  Theatre, 745 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y.” Baldwin has scribbled over  that with the same black marker.   This version of the award winning  play was the one that was used in the Actors’ Studio ANTA production on  April 23, 1964 and differs in many ways from the book published by Dial  Press. The “Notes for Blues” Introduction is significantly different as  are various portions of the dialogue. Howard Taubman of the New York  Times, reviewing the play said “James Baldwin has written a play with  fires of fury in its belly, tears of anguish in its eyes and a roar of  protest in its throat. ‘Blues for Mister Charlie,’ which stormed into  the ANTA Theater last night, is not a tidy play. Its structure is loose,  and it makes valid points as if they were clichés, but it throbs with  fierce energy and passion. It is like a thunderous battle cry.” This  copy is numbered “#13,” and probably represents one of a typically small  number printed up for cast and crew. Provenance: James Baldwin to  William Gunn to the consignor, [another filmmaker.]

    allthingsjamesbaldwin:

    BALDWIN’S OWN COPY

    (LITERATURE AND POETRY.) BALDWIN, JAMES. Blues for Mr. Charlie. Original mimeographed play script, 69, 38, 58 pages; bound in leatherette with large brass rivets; covers rubbed and creased. inscribed by baldwin to william gunn. New York, Actors Studio, (1964)
    Estimate $1,500-2,500

    Baldwin’s own copy of the playscript, inscribed to fellow-writer and filmmaker William Gunn “For Bill Gunn, at last, Jimmy B.” and additionally “J.B.” Beneath the latter, where it’s printed: “Property of Actors Studio Theatre, 745 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y.” Baldwin has scribbled over that with the same black marker.
    This version of the award winning play was the one that was used in the Actors’ Studio ANTA production on April 23, 1964 and differs in many ways from the book published by Dial Press. The “Notes for Blues” Introduction is significantly different as are various portions of the dialogue. Howard Taubman of the New York Times, reviewing the play said “James Baldwin has written a play with fires of fury in its belly, tears of anguish in its eyes and a roar of protest in its throat. ‘Blues for Mister Charlie,’ which stormed into the ANTA Theater last night, is not a tidy play. Its structure is loose, and it makes valid points as if they were clichés, but it throbs with fierce energy and passion. It is like a thunderous battle cry.” This copy is numbered “#13,” and probably represents one of a typically small number printed up for cast and crew. Provenance: James Baldwin to William Gunn to the consignor, [another filmmaker.]

     
  7. but how can you be a feminist, if you have never shown respect to your body or your mother’s name?
    — warsan shire (http://warsanshire.tumblr.com/)
     
  8. "you can’t make homes out of human beings
    someone should have already told you that
    and if he wants to leave
    then let him leave
    you are terrifying
    and strange and beautiful
    something not everyone knows how to love.”

    From for women who are ‘difficult’ to love” (poem 11) by warsan shire

     
  9. The Day, and Its Splendid Parts (by Toni Morrison)

    Uncle Green was late so that meant all the Blue Gums would be late too. He was up from Alabama for 20 days with a $500 bill which never broke because nobody – nobody – had change and so he had to borrow whatever he needed until the time he could get to a store big enough to handle it. Mama and Aunt Millie looked at his big bill, then at each other, then at the sky that stretched overhead with precisely the infinite patience they had lost.

    The fish were already awake, the potatoes were sliced and simmering next to the onions, and this whole tribal effort to have a day-long fish-and-cookout at Turkeyfoot Lake in honor of the eldest member of the Alabama wing of the family was beginning to draw Mama’s and Aunt Millie’s lips together in annoyance. For one thing, the Blue Gums (the Akron group of the family) thought Uncle Green belonged to them more than to us because they were more his age and remembered Alabama the way he did long before the migration North had begun: the first day the general store down home sold light-bread; the farm of 88 acres when it was prosperous and could feed 17 people year round; and other family reunions which were never ever called cook-outs in spite of the fact that they roasted corn and skewered fish over pine-cone fires on days just like this one.

    They were possessive about Uncle Green, and so were we. For in spite of the unbreakable $500 bill – a testimony to his ancient chinchy-ness – he carried with him, on those annual visits North, like the light from a communion cup, the spirit, the recollection, the character, I suppose, of the whole tribe. A grandeur, a cohesiveness, a constant reminder of what they had all done to survive and even triumph over during the last 141 years that they knew anything about first hand. He spoke the language in the old way: called white people buckras, spoke of java, and goobers, remembered when wakes were called settin’ ups, and referred to plat-eyes, and balongas, and the Big Raid of ’61.

    And although he never buttered his own biscuits or poured his own coffee, he gave us the spark we needed to get up at 3 in the morning, pile into a 1935 Chevy and two Tin Lizzies and, loaded with eggs, milk, coffee, ham, green onions, bell peppers, tomatoes, potatoes, roastin’ ears, laid-out biscuit dough, graham-crackers-for-the-kids, and sugar-tit-for-the-baby, lard, butter, grapes, yellow cake, beer, ice, worms, poles, string, buckets, skillets, tablecloths, plates, U.S. Steel Company forks, and try to get to Turkeyfoot Lake before the fish woke up.

    So when he did come, at last, in the Blue Gum’s car, Mama and Aunt Millie forgot the $500 bill, the smug grins of the Akron folk which showed their blue, blue gums. And daddy and the uncles forgot about the fish and the dying worms and stood up to greet with loud shouts the man who made them feel their manhood anew. The man who spoke the names of trains they too had ridden as though they were old friends; the man who had beat them all at hambone contests, who had married a girl named Sing and had seven sons, the man who carried his life-savings in one bill deep in his pocket to bear witness to a million sacrifices and tiny thefts and knew, as they did, that it must never be broken into mere “change.”

    Mama stood and put her jealousy into the paper bag with the egg shells and began to whip the eggs with a slow, wide and generous beat. Aunt Millie turned the fried potatoes over, saying a little splash of beer over the frying ham would be good. Green always liked it that way.

    He brought us together. He meddled in the cooking and baiting of hooks. Told the older girls how to bile the coffee proper and to get them roastin’ ears out of the sun. He directed the boys to the coolest part of the lake to sink the beer in.

    The day moved then into its splendid parts: a ham, fried-potatoes, scrambled-egg, breakfast in the morning air; fried fish and pan-cooked biscuits on the hind side of noon, and by the time Mama – who had never heard of Gerber’s – was grinding a piece of supper ham with her own teeth to slip into the baby’s mouth, and the Blue Gums had unveiled their incredible peach cobbler, the first stars were glittering through the blue light of Turkeyfoot Lake.

    Were were all there, All of us, bound by something we could not name. Cooking, honey, cooking under the stars.

    (Originally published in the New York Times, 1973)

     
  10. From Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, author of bestseller “THE DIRTY GIRLS SOCIAL CLUB”:

    Yesterday, I posted a description of how it is that I came to be in possession of the pilot script adapted by Luisa Leschin from my bestselling novel THE DIRTY GIRLS SOCIAL CLUB, which I foolishly optioned to Ann Serrano Lopez’s ENCANTO production company after being lied to by Ann and her VP of development, Lynnette Ramirez, both of whom gave me their word that I would be given final approval over all scripts as a consultant (never happened, I’m lucky to get a call back from them at all, and never from Ann herself). I talked about how all of my black characters suddenly disappeared in Luisa’s racist, sexist, stereotypical script. If you’re just joining the party, please read that post before reading this one.

    Today I want to tell you all about how literal Luisa Leschin is, and demonstrate how, in her hands, a wildly popular story about six empowered Latinas of varying races, religions and political beliefs in BOSTON ends up being a tale of four uniformly “brown” Latina sluts and their white non-slut friend and black-n-sassy fat negress diva stereotype friend in SAN FRANCISCO…

    Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez’s full account of her Hollywood travails are devastating. That this is happening to her work in the hands of other Latinas deserves to be part of the story, as clearly the stereotypes the film developers are perpetuating in the film don’t seem to touch on any truths in the real lives of any of the women involved behind the scenes. Irony is sometimes indistinguishable from hypocrisy.

    (originally saw this on Twitter via Jamilah Lemieux)

     
  11. jonubian:

FIERCE FEMINISM  terrae:

Angela Davis and Toni Morrison….epic.

    jonubian:

    FIERCE FEMINISM  terrae:

    Angela Davis and Toni Morrison….epic.

     
  12.  
  13. The women in your family have never lost touch with one another. Death is a path we take to meet on the other side. What goddesses have joined, let no one cast asunder. With every step you take, there is an army of women watching over you. We are never any farther than the sweat on your brows or the dust on your toes. Though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, fear no evil for we are always with you.
    — Edwidge Danticat (from Krik? Krak! — Epilogue: Women Like Us)
     
  14. Don’t leave my ocean for shallow waters then ask me about the moon.