live fast die young bad girls do it well
"This company’s policies are evil, so I won’t buy from them" - yes okay
"This company’s policies are evil, so I’ll let the $8/hr customer service staff know just how I feel" - please no
live fast die young bad girls do it well
This is less of a superhero comic and more of a tribute. I remember at one point during the revolution, people would use statistics of attacks on women to discredit political movements – and Egyptians – at large. This keeps happening, consistently, both locally and internationally. People will abuse statistics as they see fit, but they will always ignore the women at the base of those statistics. So, politics and superpowers aside, here is my attempt at a tribute to real-life superheroes.
here is a thing this is a thing look at this thing
This is my son, Chester, who is nearly 4. He was invited to his friend Chloe’s birthday party today, the theme was prince and princesses. He asked if he could go as Sleeping Beauty, so I bought him a dress and put a cute little clip in his hair.
We arrived at the party to the following comments from the adults present:
“Oh that is just cruel.”
"Why did you make him wear a dress?"
"Poor little man, what’s your mummy playing at?"
"He’s going to hate you when he grows up."
"No way I’d let my son dress like a girl."
The fact is, Chester is almost completely gender neutral. I let him wear what he wants, be it boys or girls clothes, and he plays with whatever toys he likes. This usually involves him holding tea parties while wearing his pink Minnie Mouse top, jeans and a tiara. The guests are more often than not a mixture of Winnie The Pooh characters, dinosaurs, Barbie, Dora and solders, and they’re usually transported in his favorite fire engine.
When my husband arrived at the party later on, he was subjected to endless ridicule from the other dad’s present about how I must keep his balls in my back pocket because otherwise he would have put his foot down and not allowed Chester out like that. Oh, and by the way, our other son dressed as Ariel. When my husband pointed out that the boys were happy, and the mother of the birthday child made a point of saying how wonderful she thought it was that we allowed them freedom of choice and expression, they then stopped talking about it to our faces and started muttering about us behind our backs.
Interestingly enough, not a single child said a word about their choice of costumes, other than to compliment Chester on his new dress.
i think it’s interesting how the adults linked the costume of a child to the sexuality of his parents (balls in her back pocket, etc.). i feel like speaks not only to the way adults impose gender roles on children, but also to this really fucked up idea that if a father is not strict and even cruelly dominant than it is a reflection of his sexual deficiency, and that his sons will grow up to be sexually deficient. it is one more example of how society deems violence evidence of a healthy sexuality, and how it sexualizes children
"I like to flip through old books to see if I can find any handwritten notes. Once I found one with a love note from 1917."
unlearning problematic behavior is a long ass process
you will fuck up
handle it gracefully.
Laura Passin, The Egon Schiele Art Center, Česky Krumlov (via elephant-potholders)
Women resent him,
or he draws them as if they do—
eyes bored and angry,
slumped spines opening
to grimly spread legs.
Or those heads, elaborately etched,
nearly breathing on the page,
into an uncertain stream,
No context for nakedness:
each figure suspended
on blank ground, stripped of meaning
apart from Schiele’s lust.
The self-portrait’s plaque tells you
he was my age when he died.
His work still controlled
by the lewd solipsism
of the very young:
hunger to consume
each body we see,
furious at the world’s refusal
to be possessed.
I’ll draw you a different scene.
Yesterday I hid in a tea house
from a rain so determined
it beat my red shoes pink.
A man paced near me,
black hair forked and dripping
down his forehead, fingers twisting
in relentless anger,
chilled as a drowned man
— enraged and so contained
I couldn’t help but want
to mouth the clenched tendons
of his neck, palm
his rigid shoulder,
close the few, endless feet
between my gaze
and his body. And look,
even now, see how I draw him:
all sex and no story,
refusing to give back,
even in my own words too distant,
so resentful I must set down the pen,
let the white background speak.
now this needs to be implemented every