“who taught you
value of a woman
is the ratio
of her waist
to her hips
and the circumference
of her buttocks
and the volume
of her lips?
infinite.”—‘Greater than’ by Della Hicks-Wilson (via brwnsknladi) (via jamesfrancoe)
In the arts mecca of New York City, subway buskers are often overqualified. But they’re not usually world-class jazz singers with the lungs and charisma of old-school soul stars. Accompanied only by a pianist, Porter performs “Be Good (Lion’s Song)” on a vintage subway car in downtown Brooklyn.
“Really, we’re fighting because she raised me to never ever forget I was on parole, which means no black hoodies in wrong neighborhoods, no jogging at night, hands in plain sight at all times in public, no intimate relationships with white women, never driving over the speed limit or doing those rolling stops at stop signs, always speaking the king’s English in the presence of white folks, never being outperformed in school or in public by white students and most importantly, always remembering that no matter what, white folks will do anything to get you. Mama’s antidote to being born a black boy on parole in Central Mississippi is not for us to seek freedom; it’s to insist on excellence at all times. Mama takes it personal when she realizes that I realize she is wrong. There ain’t no antidote to life, I tell her. How free can you be if you really accept that white folks are the traffic cops of your life? Mama tells me that she is not talking about freedom. She says that she is talking about survival.”—How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America: A Remembrance (via panickyintheuk)
No words. Nothing to add…. No additions necessary.
I was talking to one my homies and she was talking about how she no longer finds Dave Chappelle funny because she believes misogyny permeates through far too many of the sketches that involve women. I can’t really offer any sort of rebuttal to that…
“Forget the room of one’s own - write in the kitchen, lock yourself up in the bathroom. Write on the bus or on the welfare line, on the job or during meals, between sleeping and waking. I write while sitting on the john. No long stretches at the typewriter unless you’re wealthy or have a patron - you may not even own a typewriter. While you wash the floor or clothes listen to the words chanting in your body. When you’re depressed, angry, hurt, when compassion and love possess you. When you cannot help but write.”—Gloria Anzaldua, ‘Speaking in Tongues: A Letter to 3rd World Women Writers’, in This Bridge Called my Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, (New York: KITCHEN TABLE: Women of Color Press, 1981), p. 170. (via feministquotes)
Instead of telling people not to name their children ~funny names~ how about you tell your children not to be sociopathic fucks who feel that because someone has a ~funny name~ that they deserve 2nd class citizen treatment. Stop cultivating and coddling sociopathic tendencies.
“The Spanish men left babies right and left. When most of the indias had given birth to mixed-blood children, when all the lands had been divided, our labor shared out in the encomienda, and no more caciques went out to battle them, they said the people were gone. How could we be gone? We were the brown and olive and cream-colored children of our mothers: Arawak, Maya, Lucaya, stolen women from all the shores of the sea. When we cooked, it was the food our mothers had always given us. We still pounded yuca and caught crabs. We still seasoned our stews with ají and wore cotton skirts. When we burned their fields, stole their cattle, set fire to their boats, they said we were someone else. What was wrong with their eyes? We mixed our blood together like sancocho and calalú. But the mother things stayed with us.”—Remedios: Stories of Earth and Iron from the History of Puertorriqueñas (via onthemargin)
“In the serious play of questions and answers, in the work of reciprocal elucidation, the rights of each person are in some sense immanent in the discussion. They depend only on the dialogue situation. The person asking the questions is merely exercising the right that has been given him: to remain unconvinced, to perceive a contradiction, to require more information, to emphasize different postulates, to point out faulty reasoning, and so on. As for the person answering the questions, he too exercises a right that does not go beyond the discussion itself; by the logic of his own discourse, he is tied to what he has said earlier, and by the acceptance of dialogue he is tied to the questioning of other. Questions and answers depend on a game—a game that is at once pleasant and difficult—in which each of the two partners takes pains to use only the rights given him by the other and by the accepted form of dialogue.
The polemicist , on the other hand, proceeds encased in privileges that he possesses in advance and will never agree to question. On principle, he possesses rights authorizing him to wage war and making that struggle a just undertaking; the person he confronts is not a partner in search for the truth but an adversary, an enemy who is wrong, who is armful, and whose very existence constitutes a threat. For him, then the game consists not of recognizing this person as a subject having the right to speak but of abolishing him as interlocutor, from any possible dialogue; and his final objective will be not to come as close as possible to a difficult truth but to bring about the triumph of the just cause he has been manifestly upholding from the beginning. The polemicist relies on a legitimacy that his adversary is by definition denied.”— foucault.info/foucault/interview.html (via jsmooth995)
During states of intense comfort, silliness happens to me…. and may be turned on you in the blink of an eye. Some victims of my comfort fueled silliness include….. anyone who has spent an hour with me since my turning 30. I’m sorry….. kinda, but not really.