dos trace,  ip!
A. Gray

Video 19 Sep 270,252 notes

serenadestrong:

theroguefeminist:

insect-ligaments:

thestoutorialist:

maliceandvice:

calantheandthenightingale:

mydollyaviana:

Disney vs. 7 early fairytales 

The 1812 version of Snow White is even worse when you consider that the girl was only seven years old in the tale (plus her unconscious body ended up being carted around by the prince until one of his servants accidentally woke her up).  Also, in The Little Mermaid, the mermaid’s unable to speak because she had her tongue cut out >__<

But I’d love to see faithful adaptations of the original tales.  Especially Bluebeard.  We need a Bluebeard adaptation.

Actually, the original-original pre-Grimm Brothers’ stories that were passed around Europe via oral tradition are nowhere near as violent as the Grimm’s made them. Cinderella’s stepsisters were never ugly and kept their eyes, Snow White’s mother was not even a villain (instead a group of bandits were), and instead of spending the whole story napping Sleeping Beauty outwitted a dangerous bandit leader, wouldn’t let him sleep with her, and saved herself. 

The original oral stories were radically changed by the Brothers Grimm to fit their personal and political beliefs. Most notably, they often added in female characters solely for the purpose of making them evil villains and took away most of the heroines’ agency and intelligence. Both brothers belonged to a small fanatical sect of Catholicism that vilified women because of the idea of Original Sin and Wilhelm in particular had a particularly deep hatred of women. The Grimms were actually pretty horrible people. Those cannibalistic queens and ugly stepsisters and the mass amount of violence against women didn’t exist until the Grimms wanted them to. Their ideas stuck so soundly though that we now assume they were in the original tales and that these terrible characters and ideas come out of some perceived barbaric Old World culture. But in truth they’re really the Grimms’ weird obsession with hating women showing through. The original oral folklore focused on the heroes’ and heroines’ good deeds and used them as ways to teach cultural norms and a society’s rules and encouraged girls to be quick-witted and street-savvy instead of passive princesses, and the Grimms promptly stripped that all away. 

"Grimms Bad Girls and Bold Boys" by Ruth Bottingheimer is an excellent book on this

We had to read The Book of Lost Things for school and it’s Grimm level crazy 

Not only that, you’re skipping out a really important thing: the brother’s grimm got those tales from WOMEN, women were the ones who would tell these tales orally and the brother’s grimm took them, altered them to be sexist and never gave the women credit. You can read Clever Maids the Secret History The Grimm Fairytales for more info

reblogging for the excellent commentary

via Eh..
Quote 18 Sep 4,239 notes
I don’t want to write that down, but I don’t want to keep it in my head.
— Andrea Gibson  (via wewerenevertragedies)

(Source: kaabradl)

Text 16 Sep 3 notes Wrote a poem for the first time in a long time

Sometimes this life seems like it is just practice for being left.
And I am not a victim, I am just a person
Who is no longer growing towards the same sun as you.
I am leaving too.
When it is best, it is best,
You can feel it each full moon,
Your roots stretching out beneath you,
Relief from tingling, sleeping limbs.
I’m always hoping in best case scenario,
Dreaming about fear not getting in the way.
Leaving and being left is a gift.
But I am gripping onto geography,
Acting out ghosts,
Lacing my fingers in the chain link fence, 7 years later like they’re yours.
And even when I’m not,
I walk around this city seeing buildings that aren’t there anymore.
I’m renaming landmarks:
This overpass,
This is named The Night Before She Left
This alley way is named The First Time I Heard Her Laugh
This park is named Hiding From My Parents
This bridge is named First Blow Job and First Attempt at Suicide.
I said I’m growing in ocean years,
Unlinear.
At all times I am 5, I am 14, I am 18, I am 21,
Like layers of an oil painting.
It gets heavy.
I’m not really seeing the true color without what’s underneath.
Adrenaline helps me see clearly.
I didn’t know it was bad to disassociate multiple times a day until I was 20 years old.
Performance taught me about that.
Poetry taught me about that.
My roommate with the money and the social support for therapy taught me about that.
sometimes I get my adrenaline from running, leaving via body instead of leaving my body,
And sometimes I get my adrenaline from loving, being left.
Salt and Blood and Resurrection,
That’s what I called it.
Like they could drench me into a clean slate,
But a year and a half later
And they are just another ghost.
Got me renaming places in a new town,
The train tracks are You Took Me Here and Then You Took Her There
Highway 101 is I Never Loved So Hard
And that city
is a goddamn horcrux.
I am still practicing leaving.
It’s all about timing,
I think now is a good time.

Video 15 Sep 3,388 notes

returnthegayze:

@DarkMatterRage #TwitterPoetry: LOST IN (TRANS)LATION

I went home to my family of origin this past week and found every interaction seasoned with politics. I decided to write some short #TwitterPoetry to capture those every day moments of intimacy that often go unnoticed but mean so much for us as queers going home.

For more poetry and politics follow us on twitter 

Video 14 Sep 96 notes

sapfromtheseal:

"body/Horror:Yours/mine" by Lyric Seal

soundscape by BED DEATH

video documentation by kbytes

Transcript:

body/Horror: Yours/mine

Let me tell you something. I didn’t mean to be like this. I meant to grow up. Before I had ever given head or kissed horizontal under leaves or even touched my own lips- lips face or down down down, scalpels had made new orifices in me. Before I could say yes or no or know that yes or no could be mine to give, surgeons and nurses slipped fingers and tubes and titanium spores into my tiny body and said,

Here is what we’ve got for you now live if you can.

There is a difference between agency and consent. One I have, the other I do not have. In surgery, art, and sex, much of the consent is implied. This surgery, this last one, was the only elective surgery I have ever gotten. I have choices, not consent. My body’s trauma and recovery has no awareness of what I did and did not choose. The temporary psychosis that is produced by seeing your own flesh turned purple and green, loosening not only at the edges, bleeding from what might be pores, or new ports, is not alleviated by the words,

You asked for this.

The narrative you’re looking for is illusive/elusive. You can search anyway, you will not be alone. Every self-assured man I have had will be right there with you. He felt entitled to who he is, but now he is worried about his body. He keeps looking for the story, the reason for his shape in the canals and caves of me.

This is a love story, but there is no triumph. It is a ghost story, but the ghosts are tangible bodies that have entered mine.

There is this: the queer problem. I did not grow up. I keep coming undone! It’s possible that I grow, but laterally, and snaking. This piece is a hole you can look into. It is a wet chunk of me. I will flay it out to you. I am not sure what will stick, but, open your skin, open your mouth, swallow, rub it in. I prefer to tend to myself, after.

This takes place after I became myself: a wet,

wounded,

steaming beast.

that this body

mine,

it deserves pain or love or any sensation at all.

I wait in the cave of

myself. I look and feel

around for all the years.

I recoil from texture, a presence, a lack.

I cannot recoil. I am already inside the body I fear. I am in that flat little bed with its funny architectural embellishments. The black, curved, almost corkscrewed guard rails. Clever design. This is the day of every surgery. This is every threshold. We are living in the future. My cyborg body has fallen away from linear restrictions. Consent to incisions never existed for me. I am totally autonomous, in control of myself, and this control leads me to what is good for me.

Here: obedient to knife love.

Someone who might be my lover is here. He has touched parts of me which will be altered today. I wanted him to. Blood and milk and hope can come out of the things he touched. Does this make him my lover? My mother is here. I am followed around always by how boy lovers can and cannot see my body, how they can and cannot touch it. By doctors. How they can and cannot and see my body. How they can and cannot touch it. How they will anyway. By my mother. What she has loved of me. All of me. Muddy broken parts too. What she has witnessed that I wished she did not have to. The humiliation I felt in her seeing me not know myself while the others touched on. What she has worried I would never alter. I ask them all to fuck off. I ask them all to tell me that I am alive and that I am okay. I ask them, but my mouth tastes like anesthesia and vomit and silent clouds and, the nurse asks,

Any other surgeries? This is a list.

Four others yes…

Are you different now?

I’m different, yeah, I’m different.

And are you whole? Any other lovers before this? Any other wounds? Can you still feel where they entered you? And how long did it take for them to close up? Do you have any[metal][thing] left inside of you?

The night before this surgery- I cry like I’m dying. Like I will never be empty. This lover who is not my lover- he spoons me like there is no spoon and we are just a line on a curve. When I don’t stop him, he holds tighter, breathes on my neck. I soften, my sobs quiet a little. Then his hands are my ribs, I remember my ribs. Then his hands are my breasts, I remember he will be the last to touch them as they are. Even though there are new kinds of breath with my crying, I am still crying. He rubs and pulls on my nipples, and I dip into this. He has calloused hands and stark blue eyes which make orbs of an earnestness I don’t know how to fake, so I believe it, and am grateful.

I think it’s gonna be okay…he calls into the mouth of my cave.

Surgery always reminds me of surgery. Sex always reminds me of sex. Surgery also reminds me of sex. It feels like being fucked, not consensually. Not nonconsensually either. I am reminded, I am reminded, and yet each time it is horribly new. I asked for this. I wanted this. And yes I even want it as it is happening but parts of me are asleep, and in the room with us are all the other things that have happened and other others too. I know horror and ecstasy all at once and yet I do not know them.

There is this: a dangerous hope as the digits descend. There is this: a hole, a cave, a cut, and a wave bringing those digits home to wherever home may be. There is this: a great risk. A great longing. A great chance that everything will get wet and stay wet and never be dry again. There is this: a gasping as sleeping parts of me awake. And after: I am altared in this permanent and important way. I have tasted bliss and come or anesthesia and experienced a loss. I have waned.

Let me tell you something, I didn’t mean it to be like this. I meant to be whole. I meant to fix myself. Grow. Up. I melt out and down. I roll. I erode. I am penetrable. The tape, the sealing peels back, I see myself, undead, and I scream.

Every time I have sex I remember what I am afraid of. This one, he had freckles on his shoulders. Like a snicker doodle. Every time he kissed me he punctuated it with a moan like I was this real hot thing. He fucked with his mouth open the whole time like awe and crying. Afterwards, I showed him my scars and asked, Do they look crazy?

I mean yeah, they look kinda crazy…

Sex with someone who doesn’t understand or even completely want me is so normal it’s reassuring. I have loved to let cis-boys fuck me. Pastries I craved but feel unsure about, after. Sweet ones that don’t want to feel vulnerable but believe that they are very sensitive. I can avoid myself this way: my body and what it wants

to receive, to give.

My very real attraction to

holes. This is a kind of inertia.

I sit naked in the cradle of my recoiling from myself. I cannot bear to look and I count on my lover not to see. It is alarming to be sought, and it is so scary to want. There are haunted swamps hiding in my holes. Even if you think you want me. You might regret it. You’ll find secrets I haven’t touched in years.

Sometimes he does not touch the scary parts that I tell him are okay to touch if he wants to. Because he does not want to. He does not want to touch those parts of me. When he wants to I am also burning. It is like being burned a little. I show him the places that used to have ripe chunks missing the places that were green for a time the places I thought I would lose forever, if they were ever mine. He looks. Like a scientist. Or an artist. Runs his fingers down the short curve of my torso so that in my head I might be an oil painting. He doesn’t think I’m dry yet. He kisses my mouth and smirks.

After this beautiful boy fucked me I tried to scrub my skin off. Every one of my pores looked filled with some thing. I turned the shower up as hot as it could go, and hoped I would pass out. I only hyperventilated. I asked my friend to examine the angry red skin of every nook, cranny, and hole as I turned for her, a modern dance. Is this scabies? Is this scabies? Is this? What is wrong with me?

You have hysterical scabies. They’re honestly just as bad.

Having consensual sex is not supposed to make you feel horrible a day later, the sex posi kids tell me. Do you ever look down at yourself and remember that you are at sea? What sort of material do you wish you were made of? What sort of vehicle, vessel, are you? When I fuck I remember the endless wound of me.

After they make the wounds to remove the weight in my chest that I did not want, I wait. For the feelings. It is not that I am entirely lacking now in feelings and sensations in the land called my chest but they are harder to identify than they were. I cannot feel much on the outside surface of ⅔ of my breasts and yet I feel more inside expelling itself like shrapnel and shit and vomit and declarations of love than I ever have. I always imagined the root of my wings to be in front, not back. There’s this stirring there, a vibration. A solidifying of sound. And memory. My blood falling down. My nerves wandering, lost.

In order to enjoy body horror, one must be able to relish the adrenaline rush to be found in a brief loss of control. Enjoying a horror movie is like playing dress up as a child. Imagining a love affair between you, sweaty, young, pulling the straps of your tank top down in the back seat, and Death. But you are a tween, and you do not imagine what a love affair with Death would really be like, so you make it up. And it is very scary, and a little dangerous, and pretty messy, and also pretty nice. You see everything slowed down as the instrument descends. You can freeze that moment forever, if you want. You can replay it. You can screen capture. That is why indulging in horror is like a love affair with Death.

The first time I really looked, looked at, looked into, looked up and down and checked out what terrified me, I registered arousal. I think they were the red soles of a strange boy’s feet. Or my own strange curves. Or zombies, lips a tapestry of welts, falling a part. It is a manic sort of arousal, a hyperventilation. So much hot air along with my wetness. How do I calm down? Where do I become whole? Where, not when, it must be, since being queer means that I forfeited time a long time ago.

I did not mean to be like this, I said, to my own shaking and pooling. These vibrations are where sound becomes solid, body becomes leak, and my sense of my own proper place becomes taffied.

The potential for transformation is in our own squeamishness. Our own bravery, compassion. When you watch a horror movie, or indulge in looking at the horror that is the healing process of your body or your lover’s body, do not think that becoming desensitized means that you are brave. Compassion is the really tough stuff. To squeam is to return. A boomerang, yet a destabilization. To squeam is to occupy uncomfortably, and with difficult joy, a place of living death. To squeam is to reanimate. You zombie. You sexy thing. With this type of squirming there is the potential to deepen your relationship with your own holes. With your lover’s holes. Forget about light. Forget about surfacing for air. Forget about Demeter for a minute. To squeam is to look into your lack, in relation to a normative standard of wholeness, and to say, “Yes” to that horror. And “yes” to the possibility that you do not need or desire to be sealed up. Squeamishness is a moving shape in a static space. A different kind of dance. You are committing to the body you occupy, or the body you have given your attention. Allowing it to turn you, turn your stomach, turn you on. Move you around. Pull you down. Pull you in. Deeper. Make you come when called.

Let me tell you something, you don’t know how to worship me.

You don’t even know how to want me. Each time I become altered, I also become altared, a new landscape for you to reckon with. You can place consent on me somewhere, tell me to look to back at it. It disappears. There are foreign objects held in these holes. Ghosts of doctors, digits, desire, men. People with phobias of being penetrated and who cut me open easily. I’m not saying that you know how to worship yourself either. It is a mobile act.

We meant to grow up. That’s not how bodies grow.

Link 11 Sep 272 notes funeral»

returnthegayze:

our train is delayed and i am late for lunch
with a boy i like because he makes me feel
less lonely and that seems like a sufficient
definition for love these days
in this city where it is possible to be surrounded
by the warmth of millions of apartment lights and
still feel cold

the…

Link 11 Sep 9 notes Ro made me write a pome»

worsethanqueer:

I am all fight.

all fight.

the only thing I bare is my teeth,

my soul is not bare.

it’s the minotaur’s garden,

fruitful,

guarded.

and I,

i am enamel.

I am piano keys.

I am decorative tusk.

Grief is a vase,

guess who is the flowers,

stunted growth,

cut out of love.

could you love me…

Quote 7 Sep 487 notes
Deleuze once said of cinema that every act of creation is also an act of resistance. What does it mean to resist? Above all it means de-creating what exists, de-creating the real, being stronger than the fact in front of you. Every act of creation is also an act of thought, and an act of thought is a creative act, because it is defined above all by its capacity to de-create the real.
— Giorgio Agamben  (via toxicwinner)

(Source: rebellion92)

Photo 7 Sep 27 notes

(Source: beetroots)

Photo 6 Sep 31,961 notes 
How It’s Said (substitutes)
In a happy way: laughed, rejoiced, giggled, joked, lilted, sang out.
In a sad way: cried, agonised, bawled, blubbered, lamented, sobbed, groaned, snivelled, wept, mourned.
In a bossy way: insisted, bossed, demanded, preached, dictated, professed, ordered.
In an angry way: raged, miffed, seethed, fumed, retorted, thundered, blurted.
In a pained way: barked, cried out, cried, screamed, jabbered, bellowed, groaned, howled, shrieked, roared, grieved, wailed, yelped.
In a frightened way: quaked, stammered, shuddered, quivered, trembled.
In an understanding way: empathised, accepted, consoled, crooned, comforted, sympathised, agreed.
In a tired way: mumbled, struggled, emitted, wearied.
In a begging way: beseeched, begged, implored, pleaded, entreated, appealed to.
In a mocking way: mocked, ridiculed, derided, hooted, japed, insulted, jeered, parodied, taunted, teased, chaffed, flouted, degraded, sneered, disdained, jibed, gibed, disparaged, belittled, decried, flouted, fleered, leered, scoffed, sniggered, swiped, scorned, repudiated, lampooned.
In a seductive way: purred, simpered, coaxed, wheedled, persuaded, baited.
As an answer: As an answer: responded, retorted, replied, rejoined, answered, acknowledged.
[Source] [[Jack Teagle]

How It’s Said (substitutes)

In a happy way: laughed, rejoiced, giggled, joked, lilted, sang out.

In a sad way: cried, agonised, bawled, blubbered, lamented, sobbed, groaned, snivelled, wept, mourned.

In a bossy way: insisted, bossed, demanded, preached, dictated, professed, ordered.

In an angry way: raged, miffed, seethed, fumed, retorted, thundered, blurted.

In a pained way: barked, cried out, cried, screamed, jabbered, bellowed, groaned, howled, shrieked, roared, grieved, wailed, yelped.

In a frightened way: quaked, stammered, shuddered, quivered, trembled.

In an understanding way: empathised, accepted, consoled, crooned, comforted, sympathised, agreed.

In a tired way: mumbled, struggled, emitted, wearied.

In a begging way: beseeched, begged, implored, pleaded, entreated, appealed to.

In a mocking way: mocked, ridiculed, derided, hooted, japed, insulted, jeered, parodied, taunted, teased, chaffed, flouted, degraded, sneered, disdained, jibed, gibed, disparaged, belittled, decried, flouted, fleered, leered, scoffed, sniggered, swiped, scorned, repudiated, lampooned.

In a seductive way: purred, simpered, coaxed, wheedled, persuaded, baited.

As an answer: As an answer: responded, retorted, replied, rejoined, answered, acknowledged.

[Source] [[Jack Teagle]

(Source: victoriousvocabulary)


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