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Apollo 11 Original Logo

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Parquet Courts - The More It Works from Tally All The Things That You Broke EP.

The more you use it The more it works

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“I hate the conversations that frame art around the idea of there being ‘political art’ and ‘non-political art.’ That’s always been a false binary to me.” 

Katie Alice Greer, singer for the D.C. punk band Priests and a solo artist under her initials, K.A.G., spoke with The Creative Independent about why all art is political.

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Henri Matisse (French, 1869-1954), Nature morte aux fleurs,  21st April 1946. Pen and ink on paper, 43 x 55.5 cm.

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Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.

Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own (via wordsaretimeless)

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@ myself mental note to use this prompt soon

two schoolgirls are locked in a room. when they come out they are dating. write about what brought them together and made them confess their feelings for each other in such a short time. 

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In order to rise From its own ashes A phoenix First Must Burn.

Parable of the Talents, Octavia E. Butler (born on this day in 1947)

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trying to find the motivation to write something but i am feeling Especially Depressed today sooooo 

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Warm up sketch: baby Scully

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Day 4- 20.7.17.

Haven’t had any time to write today which sux, but I thought I’d post an autobiographical kinda essay I did for a zine I’m currently working on ! Different to what I’ll usually post on here in that it’s not fiction, but I’m pretty proud of it. Feedback would be appreciated :-)

I'm 16 years old and my first boyfriend has been giving me consistently terrible head for about 6 months now. He is kind and warm, condescending and heavy. I weigh up my options: communicate this to him honestly and risk ruining what I truly believe is the most important relationship I will ever be in, or stay quiet and continue letting him attempt to eat me out twice a week for seven painful minutes just so he'll get it over with and fuck me for another three on his bedroom floor, each time smashing my skull into the skirting board slightly harder than the last.

I'm young and naive and I don't know my worth, so for a long time I keep quiet. Then one day I tell him. I say, "I love you so much, but you never make me come and that's not fair"- it would be another two years before I dared proudly wear the label 'feminist' in public, yet here I take the first step towards proclaiming it mine for the taking. I tell him gently, I desperately want to protect his feelings more than I want to broadcast mine. To hurt is not my M.O. here. I tell him quietly, so as not to embarrass him, despite the urge I've been harbouring for months now to scream I'M SO FUCKING BORED OF BEING FUCKED BY YOU directly into his face. I tell him softly, because I am 16 and to me women are soft- hard words and hard edges are not encouraged.

I tell him, and he looks at me like a sad puppy. The momentum is stolen away from me. Before the words have tumbled meekly from my mouth they are brushed under the rug. I think to myself, this is supposed to by my moment and it already belongs to someone else. I am enraged. I don't say anything more, though, because I have to comfort him. I catch myself telling him I'm sorry, to forget about it, before I even know I'm doing it. I comfort him for an hour or so. He is kind enough to briefly brush over our options: cheap vibrators and new positions and daily exercises, in exchange for an unspoken agreement that I’ll never bring this up again. He does such a good job of convincing me that the fault lies with me, not him, that I become convinced my vagina is broken in some way, that my clitoris ceases to exist, that by some cruel biological mishap I am unable to orgasm. I am too scared to masturbate. It's not until three years and four sexual partners later that I find out this is untrue.

I watch him play video games, I eat dinner with his parents, and I go home. The following day we discuss it again. He has slept on it and his tone has changed, his apologetic mask slipping with it. He is angry. He feels betrayed, lied to, disappointed. The same emotions I feel every time he sexts me and tells me - in wild, unimaginable depth - that he is going to make me come tonight, tomorrow, at the weekend. The same emotions I have bottled up tidily for months are held in his hands for hardly a moment before they are flung back at me with twice the force and fury. He lists all the ways he knows he makes me happy, and most of them are right. He says, how can I be so unhappy when he provides for me emotionally, isn't that enough for me? And I say, of course it's enough, and I apologize and I happily resign myself to six more months of carpet burns, bumped heads and urinary tract infections because I know he loves me. It would be greedy of me to expect otherwise. This is not the last time I will be made to feel guilty for wanting the same things men are permitted to take for granted in relationships, but it is the first time I am able to put a name to the sick stomach feeling I am left with.

Over the next four years I find this to be a recurring theme in my relationships with men. I am a greedy woman because I want men to care for me emotionally and fuck me in a way that feels good, but I am shamed and guilted for pointing out this imbalance, let alone trying to address it. I don't think I'm being unreasonable, or asking too much, but the responses I get suggest otherwise. Some men fuck me in the ways I ask them to, but leave my messages on read or forget my 18th fucking birthday. Some men are kind and generous in all other aspects of our relationship, and yet seem unable to extend that same courtesy to fucking me. One is nice enough to buy me a vibrator, transferring my pleasure out of his hands and into my own. The gift appears thoughtful, but I know it symbolizes a change in the balance we share and an end in his half-hearted attempts to please me. He is wearing his apathy towards my happiness as a badge of honour and there is nothing I can do about it. And so, eventually I start staying quiet about one, or the other, or both. I get tired of feeling guilty and empty, tired of wanting, tired of being angry. I get tired of talking about how my clitoris works, treated like a walking encyclopaedia regurgitating instructions that a simple google search could have provided. I learn that my pleasure is only a chance by-product occasionally achieved when striving towards an end goal. A means to an end. And I learn that if I am vocal about this then guilt will surely follow. I stay quiet and masturbate five times a week, caring for myself in ways that men never did.

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It was just a phase I was going through

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‘I feel I am in love with you’, she had written, 'and it should be spring. I want the sun throbbing on my head like chords of music. I think of a sun like Beethoven, a wind like Debussy, and bird calls like Stravinsky. But the tempo is all mine.’

The Price of Salt, Patricia Highsmith (via the-other-voice)

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If I am anything, I am yours.