"Normative definitions of masculinity[...]face the problem that not many men actually meet the normative standards[: ...]the difference between the men who cheer football matches on TV and those [playing]. But there is something more[...]carefully crafted[.... M]any men who draw the patriarchal dividend also respect their wives and mothers, are never violent towards women, do their[...]share of the housework[...], and can easily convince themselves that feminists must be bra-burning extremists."
I've posted this once on my Xanga and once on Facebook before (largely because I really like the quote). While my brother and I were watching a football game a few days ago, I mentioned the quote to him and that it was nearly impossible for me not to notice this fact anymore whenever I watched anything related to football (or probably sports in general, for that matter).
He nodded before noting, "The thing that I've noticed is that ideals exist for both men and women: it's just that women – at all times – are expected to follow, and are enforced to, the ideal; men usually just have to support it."
*my sister at Walmart twirling one of the store karts around* Me: Wait, wait, wait! *I jump on the end of the kart* Sister: What? What am I supposed to do no- IIIIII CAN SHOW YOU THE WOOOOORRLLLDDDD…
Don’t be afraid. —But I’ve never seen a picture you painted or read a word you wrote— So what? So you’re thirty-eight? Correct. And have only just finished your second novel? Socalled. Entitled ee-eye-em-eye? [Eimi] Right. And pronounced? "A" as in a, "me" as in me; accent on the "me". Signifying? Am. How does Am compare with The Enormous Room? Favorably. They’re not at all similar, are they? When The Enormous Room was published, some people wanted a war book; they were disappointed. When Eimi was published, some people wanted another Enormous Room; they were disappointed. Doesn’t The Enormous Room really concern war? It actually uses war: to explore an inconceivable vastness which is so unbelievably far away that it appears microscopic. When you wrote this book, you were looking through war at something very big and very far away? When this book wrote itself, I was observing a negligible portion of something incredibly more distant than any sun; something more unimaginably huge than the most prodigious of all universes— Namely? The individual. Well! And what about Am? Some people had decided that The Enormous Room wasn’t a just-war book and was a class-war book, when along came Eimi—aha! said some people; here’s another dirty dig at capitalism. And they were disappointed. Sic. Do you think these disappointed people really hated capitalism? I feel these disappointed people unreally hated themselves— And you really hated Russia. Russia, I felt, was more deadly than war; when nationalists hate, they hate by merely killing and maiming human beings; when Internationalists hate, they hate by categorying and pigeonholing human beings. So both your novels were what people didn’t expect. Eimi is the individual again; a more complex individual, a more enormous room. By a —what do you call yourself? painter? poet? playwright? satirist? essayist? novelist? Artist. But not a successful artist, in the popular sense? Don’t be silly. Yet you probably consider your art of vital consequence— Improbably. —To the world? To myself. What about the world, Mr. Cummings? I live in so many: which one do you mean? I mean the everyday humdrum world, which includes me and you and millions upon millions of men and women. So? Did it ever occur to you that people in this socalled world of ours are not interested in art? Da da. Isn’t that too bad! How? If people were interested in art, you as an artist would receive wider recognition— Wider? Of course. Not deeper. Deeper? Love, for example, is deeper than flattery. Ah—but (now that you mention it) isn’t love just a trifle oldfashioned? I dare say. And aren’t you supposed to be ultramodernistic? I dare say. But I dare say you don’t dare say precisely why you consider your art of vital consequence— Thanks to I dare say my art I am able to become myself. Well well! Doesn’t that sound as if people who weren't artists couldn’t become themselves? Does it? What do you think happens to people who aren’t artists? What do you think people who aren’t artists become? I feel they don’t become: I feel nothing happens to them; I feel negation becomes of them. Negation? You paraphrased it a few moments ago. How? "This socalled world of ours." Labouring under the childish delusion that economic forces don’t exist, eh? I am labouring. Answer one question: do economic forces exist or do they not? Do you believe in ghosts? I said economic forces. So what? Well well well! ‘Where ignorance is bliss. .. Listen, Mr. Lowercase Highbrow— Shoot. —I’m afraid you’ve never been hungry. Don’t be afraid. –e.e. cummings
I find I keep coming back to this one.
While the last cover of this song I posted took a more sentimental ballad approach (drawing more on the loneliness), I like this one too because it draws more on, and highlights, the self-loathing that's there (and, God knows, I tend to like self-destructive/destructive themes and narratives).
In spite of, ultimately, being a song about new beginnings and the importance of fostering a new relationship in spite of insecurities and fears, "Dancing in the Dark" works so well because it toes the line between upbeat and dance-y (hinting towards the excitement and anticipation of new beginnings) and fear and doubt (particularly in oneself).
But here, suddenly, the lines
I get up in the evening… and I ain't got…nothing to say
sounds so straightforward. As if such a dismal premise almost ought to be expected as a matter of course. Framed by that, the following shout of
I go to bed – feeling the same way…
sounds terrifyingly desperate, as if she wants out but has absolutely no idea how. The following
I ain't nothing but tired… man, I'm just tired and bored with myself…
sound even more biting than the words already seem on the surface. All of this has built so that, by the time we actually get to the forging-a-new-relationship part,
Hey there, baby… I could use just a little help
sounds almost like an embarrassed question, as if the other person may be your last lifeline.
Message keeps getting clearer… radio on and I'm movin' 'round the place I check my look in the mirror - wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face! Man, I ain't getting no where… livin' in a dump like this There's something happening somewhere – I just know there is
You can't start a fire… You can't start a fire without a spark This gun's for hire… even if we're just dancing…in the…dark…
You sit around getting older – there's a joke here, somewhere, and it's on me Shake the world off your shoulders – c'mon, baby, the laugh's on me…
…
…
…
Ohh-oh, ohh…stay…on the streets of this town… and they'll be carving you up alright They say you've gotta stay…hungry… heyyy, baby, I'm just a-bout starving tonight! I'm dying for some action! I'm sick of trying…to write this book I need a love reaction… c'mon, baby, give me just onelook
You can't start a fire… worrying about your…broken heart This gun's for hire… even if we're just dancing…in the…
You can't start a fire… worrying about your life…falling apart… This gun's for hire… even if we're just dancing…in the…dark…
dancing in the, dancing in the, dancing in the dark…
I get up in the evening… and I ain't got nothing to say I come home in the morning I go to bed…feeling…the same way I ain't nothing but tired yeah, I'm just tired and bored with myself Hey there baby… I could use just a little help
You can't start a fire You can't start a fire without a spark This gun's for hire… even if we're just dancing in the dark
Messages keeps getting clearer radio's on and I'm moving 'round the place I check myself out in the mirror; wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face! Man, I ain't getting nowhere I'm just sitting in a dump like this There's something happening somewhere… baby, I just know that there is
You can't start a fire You can't start a fire without a spark This gun's for hire… even if we're just dancing in the dark
You sit around getting older! (there's a joke here, somewhere, and it's on me) I'll take this world off my shoulders (come, baby, the laugh's on me)
Stay on the streets of this town – and they'll be carving you up alright They say you got to stay hungry hey, baby, I'm just about starving tonight! I'm dying for some action… I'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book I need a love reaction …baby, give me just one look
You can't start a fire Sitting 'round, crying over a broken heart This gun's for hire… even if we're just dancing in the dark
You can't start a fire Worrying about your little world falling apart This gun's for hire… even if we're just dancing in the dark…
dancing in the dark…
even if we're just dancing in the dark…
In light of my last post being Harry Potter related…
A repost. I feel like it's not strong enough to stand on its own, still, but Kaz gave me his seal of approval on it so that has to count for something, right?
Below that is my favorite piece of fanfiction (though that may just be because I don't read fanfiction all that often). Maybe it's also because I just didn't expect it to surprise me. Oh well, I think it's good writing. As noted last time, that piece contains mild, graphic sexual content. My piece of writing does not, just the usual profanity (it's actually rather light on that, for one of my writings). Original source for the fanfiction: http://port70.net/?htext/fanfiction/hp_girlslash/174600.html
She cried, when Dumbledore died. The entire damn theatre was empty, too; the movie had been playing for weeks now, and she was the only one who kept showing up, the sound of her sobbing filling the room. If I could go back a year and attend high school again, I might've tried to actually talk to her. Not to say I didn't know her; well, as much as everyone knew her. She was always the one to pull out notebooks that had pages falling out by the end of the first week of school. She didn't seem to use them for school, anyway. God only knows what she wrote, but there was plenty scribbled all over the front of each one. From what papers fell out, we could see doodles and other trailing paragraphs of what we figured probably weren't notes from class; we hadn't been taught the amount of writing that was on all those pages by the end of the first week. Some of the lifeguards said they'd seen her on the weekends driving her siblings for swimming lessons in the family van. She always wore the same getup: hair back in a ponytail with some My Chemical Romance or other band t-shirt and the usual jeans. She didn't take lessons, herself. She just watched them from the side until it was time to take them home again. Another friend of mine had said he spotted her at Jewel one time. She had been alone, pushing a cart filled with groceries. Her dad didn't live with them anymore. Leastwise, not for the past 10 years, as the rumor flies. He just got tired of the extra weight and skipped town when he got the chance. Perhaps she missed him. A question I might've asked had I talked to her. But she had the dishes to do when she got home, as well as the yardwork, and usually the youngest had to have her diaper changed if her mom didn't get home quick enough, and then there was always the homework so that she could get to sleep, as well as the clubs she was involved with after school, since her mom said they'd help with colleges eventually And that damn Harry Potter movie, before they decided to take it out of theatres; two times a week, or so she hoped usually. Like a fucking duty, she took the time out to cry for Dumbledore.
Moaning Myrtle can be very quiet for a good enough reason. Having Pansy fuck herself, skirt up, panties hanging from one foot, shirt unbuttoned and a nipple peeking through the lacy bra is definitely one among them. Fuck, yes. Pansy’s eyes are hidden behind her school tie, the green and silver going beautifully with her pale face. ”Blind yourself with the tie.” “Didn’t know you were so perverted, Myrt.” “I’m not the one enjoying masturbating in front of a ghost.” It’s an agreement that leaves both satisfied. Well, as satisfied as a ghost can get. Myrtle still remembers certain tastes and smells. Ironically enough she can remember exactly how Olive smelled; lavender and slightly dusty, like an old house. And she can remember the taste of cunt. All the butter beer, the food, the hideous amount of chocolate gobbled throughout years and still -- the thing she can hint on the tip of her tongue is the slightly salty - almost how you’d imagine an ocean tasting - flavour of cunt. Pansy buries her fingers inside after she has come, a usual procedure. They’re glistening from her juices when she pulls them out. She uses her middle finger to teasingly trace Myrtle’s transparent mouth. Sometimes she sticks them inside Myrtle’s, down her throat and with a grin asks Myrtle to ‘choke on them’. But not tonight. Pansy starts to lick them clean, lapping slowly like a kitty; looking more graceful than her usual self. “Like an ocean right?” “Yes Myrt, like an ocean.”
I'm just gonna leave all this here. Not saying anything, just leaving this here.
Seamus and Dean’s biggest fight was when Dean started dating Ginny.
“Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan had reached the dormitory first and were in the process of covering the walls beside their beds with posters and photographs. They had been talking as Harry pushed open the door but stopped abruptly the moment they saw him.” —Order of the Phoenix, pg. 195
“It was Dean. Seamus gave a great roar of delight and ran to hug his best friend” —Deathly Hallows, pg. 258
“Seamus and Dean, who had arrived ahead of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, were now telling everyone what they had seen and heard from the top of the Astronomy Tower.” —Order of the Phoenix, pg. 195
“Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed” —Goblet of Fire, pg. 191
We have just lost the South for a generation. –Lyndon B. Johnson [apocrypha]
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