sitting in the hostel kitchen, after arriving home at 8am, still with full smudged face of makeup (including obnoxious glitter eyeshadow) and a bow in my hair and jaw clenching and I probably smell of sweat and cigarettes. meanwhile everyone around me is eating their cereal and drinking their orange juice.
last night I went to a Polish girl’s birthday party with Tata, the theme was stripes, but neither of us wore stripes. we stood almost in one spot the whole night and let people come to us, which they did, and had meaningful eye contact every time PRBG walked past. I told the arrogant but harmless Spanish boy to stop swearing so much in English, without success, and helped Tata tell a million lies about her life, some of which people actually believed.
afterwards we went to la Luna which is the best bar here (though I lost Tata on the way and ended up alone there with a whole group of polacas). in the bathroom alone at one point with PRBG we, like, both fixed our faces at the same time in the mirror - which is weird, like, the slightly-more-femme-than-my-‘type’ thing. I was super happy when my Irish friend arrived and we ordered drinks and then PRBG was suddenly there, she had her arm around me, which was unprecedented, and she said they were leaving, come. I convinced them to stay longer and shared my drink with them, without realising that the polacas can drink. we went to another bar, and this time I lost my Irish friend on the way, so I was alone again and I was talking to her (you know who) and we were close and there was a moment, you know, oh god, and then the lights came on and it was ridiculous.
on the street PRBG and another polaca tried to teach me to swear in Polish and I said I only wanted to learn nice things so they taught me something else, which I can’t remember. next bar, lights off again, we danced (ie PRBG and I, kind of close, oh god how do I write this) and she went to the bathroom and idk, was that meant to mean something? because another polaca came up to me and said ‘—— says to go to the bathroom’ so I did and it was like a scene out of the fucking L Word, like what has my life come to. anyway I was drunk.
when everyone was walking home we walked kind of separate from the rest of them and talked and it was nice, she was cute. now she’s leaving, so this probably where this tag ends but like, look at that story arc, I wrote a lot of things and some things actually happened.
stand up for girls and women who don’t like to read. stand up for girls and women who can’t read. stand up for girls and women with low IQs. stand up for girls and women who can’t write. stand up for girls and women whose access to education has been prevented. for those with learning disorders. for those who mix up “your” and “you’re” because it’s not that big a fucking deal tumblr. stand up for women who are called ableist slurs for these things and stop implying that the only way to be a feminist icon is by being an intellectual.
REORIENT ALL YOUR FAILURES. DROPPED THREE MUGS ON THE FLOOR TODAY? DISASTER CHIC. WORE THE SAME STAINED SHIRT FOUR DAYS IN A ROW? GARBAGE CHIC. DIDN’T BRUSH YOUR HAIR? TAKING “ARTFULLY DISHEVELED” TO PREVIOUSLY UNREALIZED LEVELS OF GLORY. DIDN’T BRUSH OR WASH YOUR HAIR, FOR THE PAST, LIKE, WEEK? YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL MAGICAL PRINCESS OF THE FOREST, EMERGING BLINKING INTO A STRANGE URBAN LAND. FUCKED UP PAINTING YOUR NAILS? ABSTRACT AND INSOUCIANT. WHO CARES, LIFE’S WEIRD, YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL AND STRANGE CREATURE, W H A T E V E R
I keep trying to summarise the last six months in Australian border politics for people outside Australia but all I can come up with is: I feel an intense sense of panic that something is happening that will be looked back on by almost everyone, once enough time has passed, as shocking passive acceptance of great evil. And the same people who do this now will try and smooth it over and create a narrative of inexorable progress that exonerates them from reflection, will say then, like they say now, “well, they didn’t know any better at the time” or “nobody knew what was really happening” and there won’t even be anything to point to to say we did, we did, we knew, or at least we knew there was something to know and chose not to investigate… People are being handed back to their torturers, people are being murdered, killing themselves, people are being disappeared by the Government before they can testify about these things. Please find out about what is happening to asylum seekers coming to Australia, please talk about it, please protest your local Australian embassy, please boycott Australia, please hassle Australians you meet about it, p l e a s e
every time I think about it I am reminded of this quiz made and promoted by a popular ~lifestyle website, the purpose of which was to grade people on how [cool suburb] they were, and one of the questions was, like, how would you rate yr r/ship w/ yr barista? or something, and I keep thinking, well, smirky emoji.
When you are a woman and you use a confessional narrative, people tend to think there is not some more complex structure of thinking or philosophy behind that narrative. I needed to bring some of that background thinking more to the fore, otherwise, it failed…
… I am passionate about ideas. They’re not just the stuff of spectatorship and entertainment to me. They’re a life-blood, and that’s what makes the intellectual process so radically different from the academic process.
Part of the challenge for insurgent intellectuals, particularly those of us who are artists in this society, is to pull back from academe, actually, and academic settings, precisely to break this notion that has become so popular in the culture, that the two experiences are one.
zayn - “your cover’s blown” you’re a strange aberration / In this land of potted plants and box-like houses / where the girls like mouses / breathe a long sigh of resignation / you resign yourself to keep on growing / all the seeds you’re sowing / you’re a strange apparition / in this land of grammar schools and gala days / the ladies set in their ways
harry - “there’s too much love” i could dance all night like i’m a soul boy / but you know i’d rather drag myself across the dance floor / i feel like dancing on my own / where no one knows me, and where i can cause offense just by the way I look
niall - “another sunny day” another day in june, we’ll pick eleven for football / we’re playing for our lives the referee gives us fuck-all / i saw you in the corner of my eye on the sidelines / your dark mascara bids me to historical deeds
louis - “the boy with the arab strap” we all know you’re soft cause we’ve all seen you dancing / we know all you’re hard cause we all saw you drinking from noon until noon again / you’re the boy with the filthy laugh
liam - “electronic renaissance” you’re learning, soon you will do the things you wanted / since you were wearing glitter badges / If you work for much very longer / you’ll be known as the boy who’s always working / If you dance for much very longer / you’ll be known as the boy who’s always dancing
“Students who considered themselves socialists were not so much interested in the poor as they were desirous of leading the poor, of being their guides and saviors. It was just this paternalism toward the poor that the vision of solidarity I had learned in religious settings was meant to challenge. From a spiritual perspective, the poor were there to guide and lead the rest of us by example if not by outright action and testimony. As a student I read Marx, Gramsci, and a host of other male thinkers on the subject of class. These works provided theoretical paradigms but rarely offered tools for confronting the complexity of class in daily life.
[W]hen I told friends and colleagues that I was resigning from my academic job to focus on writing, I was warned that I was making a dangerous mistake, that I could not possibly live on an income that was between twenty and thirty thousand dollars a year. When I pointed to the reality that families of four and more live on such an income, the response would be “that’s different”; the difference being, of course, one of class. The poor are expected to live with less and are socialized to accept less (badly made clothing, products, food, etc.), whereas the well-off are socialized to believe it is both a right and a necessity for us to have more, to have exactly what we want when we want it.”—bell hooks, where we stand: Class Matters, chapter 4 (via elucipher)
And there she is. See Ruth. She finds herself in situations, suddenly, on strange couches of strange men, pretending to listen.
He is still talking to her about himself. She is bored. He never asks about her. He puts on a record and starts talking about the band playing but she has never heard of them. He is dumbstruck. He begins to lecture her on the band’s significance in music history, world history. She pretends to listen. She stares at her empty wineglass. She catches herself looming above her. She is her own ghost.