When two women construct a relationship they enter together, the anticipated satisfactions are mutual if not similar. Sometimes that relationship becomes unsatisfactory, or ceases to fulfill those separate needs. When that happens, unless there is a mutual agreement to dissolve the relationship, there must always be one person who decides to make the first move.
The woman who moves first is not necessarily the most injured nor the most at fault.
By white america’s distortions of beauty, Black women playing “femme” had very little chance in the Bag. There was constant competition among butches to have the most “gorgeous femme” on their arm. And “gorgeous” was defined by a white male world’s standards.
For me, going into the Bag was like entering an anomalous no-woman’s land. I wasn’t cute or passive enough to be “femme,” and I wasn’t mean or tough enough to be “butch.”
Increasingly, she got the message that, try as we might to make it otherwise, this space on Seventh Street was Muriel’s and my space, and she, Lynn, was a desired and sought-after visitor, but a visitor forever.
I had wanted it to be different. Muriel had wanted it to be different. Lynn had wanted it to be different. At least in all the places we consciously touched. Somehow, in never was, but neither Muriel nor I wanted to notice that, nor how unfair such a stacked deck was. She and I had each other; Lynn had only a piece of each of us, and was here on sufferance.
“Every woman I have ever loved has left her print upon me, where I loved some invaluable piece of myself apart from me — so different that I had to stretch and grow in order to recognize her. And in that growing, we came to separation, that place where work begins. Another meeting.”—Audre Lorde (via queergiftedblack)
last night i got blazed and i guess this weed is thinking weed because every time i smoke it i end up on some whirring train of thought. anyways, thinking about modes of communication and adaptability as related to race and class, and of course mimi has already replied with like a thousand pages of her own whirring brain-blather in response, about toni morrison and zora neale hurston as writer role models who are concerned with communication and identity, and who chose to write in the literary voice that felt like “home”.
fuck the academy; let’s just sit around in our kitchens/beds/parks and talk to each other. so much smarter and so much more interesting.
“So this was what I had been so afraid of not doing properly. How ridiculous and far away those fears seemed now, as if loving were some task outside myself, rather than simply reaching out and letting my own desire guide me. It was all so simple.”—Zami: A New Spelling of My Name, Audre Lorde
i just watched the first four episodes of season 3 of bsg in a row
thank fuck that kid is not actually kara thrace’s. as soon as they introduced casey i knew kara was going to improbably fall for her and have to risk her life for her.
auuughhh colonel tigh and ellen tigh you are a heartbreaking tragedy. sluts forever.
why does bsg bother with the universal sir and the fully integrated armed forces (as if this era/place is supposed to be all post-sexist) when sexism is manifest constantly in every single written plotline? no seriously i would like to hear people’s thoughts on this.
laura roslin’s face when she walked onto colonial 1 for the first time in over a year, omg
why did all these idiots marry each other? i disapprove.
i hope all the number two cylons get annihilated. if they can have a “weak” model (eight/sharon) then it stands to reason they can have a sick fuck model, and number two is it.
gaetaaaa i love you but why the fuck didn’t you shoot baltar in the face!? nothing good can come of this.
flawless lawless, constantly, always, forever. be still my heart.
so far underwhelmed by hera the cylon/human baby but i guess that’s what this season is there to change?
The difference between poetry and rhetoric is being ready to kill yourself instead of your children.
I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds and a dead child dragging his shattered black face off the edge of my sleep blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders is the only liquid for miles and my stomach churns at the imagined taste while my mouth splits into dry lips without loyalty or reason thirsting for the wetness of his blood as it sinks into the whiteness of the desert where I am lost without imagery or magic trying to make power out of hatred and destruction trying to heal my dying son with kisses only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.
A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and there are tapes to prove it. At his trial this policeman said in his own defense “I didn’t notice the size nor nothing else only the color”. And there are tapes to prove that, too.
Today that 37 year old white man with 13 years of police forcing was set free by eleven white men who said they were satisfied justice had been done and one Black Woman who said “They convinced me” meaning they had dragged her 4’10” black Woman’s frame over the hot coals of four centuries of white male approval until she let go the first real power she ever had and lined her own womb with cement to make a graveyard for our children.
I have not been able to touch the destruction within me. But unless I learn to use the difference between poetry and rhetoric my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire and one day I will take my teenaged plug and connect it to the nearest socket raping an 85 year old white woman who is somebody’s mother and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time “Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”
“And then I’m cross with Vita: she never told me she was going abroad for a fortnight- didn’t dare; till the last moment, when she said it was a sudden plan. Lord! Lord! I’m half amused though; why do I mind? What do I mind? How much do I mind? I shall fire up and accuse her, and see to the bottom of her vessel. One of the facts is that these Hildas are a chronic case; and as this one won’t disappear and is unattached, she may be permanent. And, like the damned intellectual snob I am, I hate to be linked, even by an arm, with Hilda. Her earnest aspiring competent wooden face appears before me, seeking guidance in the grave question of who’s to broadcast. A queer trait in Vita - her passion for the earnest middle-class intellectual, however drab and dreary. And why do I write this down? And whom do I tell when I tell a blank page?”—Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 5 August 1929. [Vita Sackville-West had gone for a walking holiday in the Val D’Isere with Hilda Matheson, first director of Talks for BBC, who had become one of her intimate friends.] (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)
“Although most boys figure out how to bring themselves to orgasm by age thirteen, half of girls don’t have their first orgasms until their late teens, twenties, or beyond. Teenage girls widely agree that they get the message loud and clear that masturbation is something boys do, but girls don’t, can’t, or shouldn’t. The cultural focus on intercourse tells young women to expect they’ll begin to experience sexual pleasure once they have sex with a man (whether or not they’re even interested in sex with men). Nearly all teen boys, on the other hand, experience sexual pleasure long before they get their hands—or other body parts—into a partner’s pants. Despite the massive advances in women’s equality, young women’s sexuality is stuck in a surprising paradox. Young women are sold provocative clothes but aren’t taught where to find their own clitoris. Many girls give their boyfriends oral sex, but are too uncomfortable with their own bodies to allow the guys to return the favor. It’s still a radical act to say that women need and deserve access to information about their own sexual pleasure—not just about the risks and negative consequences of sex.”—