I always forget to chronicle what I’m reading, or, if I do remember, I lose the list in my heaps of notebooks and stray papers, so I’ve decided to make a rolling reading list to post here—rolling in case anyone’s looking for conversations or suggestions. Or to make suggestions, for that matter. As always, feel freer than free to ignore the existence of this post.
9) A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin
I’ve been slinking in and out of books of poetry (Maxine Kumin, Louise Glück [who I love—I love, I love]) and Sylvia Plath’s journals again. Part of me wants to be immersed in poetry, poetic prose, “higher” literature, and the words of women—to sulk into myself again, twisting my ear into a rose and sprouting nothing but nostalgic letters and forgiveness. But the library keeps calling me to pick up A Song of Ice and Fire, and I continue to suck as greedily as Daenerys’s dragons at the fantasy world that is potent enough to make me forget reality. Storm did not disappoint; the abundance of deaths opened up some breathing room in Martin’s plotline, exposing new edges within characters who’d become as dull as the blades in the crypts beneath Winterfell. I could continue these similes forever, but I think I’ll go read the fourth book instead.▲14 | reblog
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I’m actually concerned for boys who complain about how different girls look without makeup. Like did you think eyeshadow permanently alters a girls eyelid? Are you frightened when people change clothes
Recipe testing for work. Cheese-stuffed seitan burgers about to go in the oven. #vegan (at The Yellow House)▲2 | reblog
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If you think your taste buds are so incredibly important that their pleasure outweighs the entire life and suffering of an innocent being I don’t even know how you can get offended when people question your morals.
- James Baldwin (via ethiopienne)
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There is a censored garden inside of me.
Over my worms someone has thrown
a delicately embroidered sheet.
And also the child at the rummage sale–
more souvenirs than memories.
I am the cat buried beneath
the tangled ivy. Also the white
floating over its grave. Snow
where there were leaves. Empty
plastic cups after the party on the beach.
I am ash rising above a fire, like a flame.
The Sphinx with so much sand
blowing vaguely in her face. The last
shadow that passed
over the blank canvas
in the empty art museum. I am
the impossibility of desiring
the person you pity.
And the petal of the Easter lily–
That ghost of a tongue.
That tongue of a ghost.
What would I say if I spoke? "Riddle" by Laura Kasischke (via riseofthecommonwoodpile)
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If you’re not making sexists uncomfortable you’re making me uncomfortable… You haven’t transcended society. You don’t recognise your privilege and then it goes away. If you think that you didn’t understand privilege.
"don’t just call out sexism when it’s convenient. I don’t get to choose when I experience sexism"
"if you’re not making sexists uncomfortable, you’re making me uncomfortable"
aaaaaaall of this