#Converging Memoirs

[shamballalin]

Points to Ponder ~ Contributed by Author and Award-Winning Columnist John T. Hourihan, Jr.

This picture is of John, when we were living in Hawaii. The following is written by John T. Hourihan, Jr.: So, here’s what I have found. Science says energy always was, always will be, since it cannot be created nor destroyed. Religion says God always was always will be. Since there is currently thought, there had to have been a first thought. Energy became aware of itself as in the “I am…

[safety-pin-punk]

Punk History Resources: Vol 2

This is a compilation of resources found and recommended by various alternative bloggers, each of whom are credited for their contributions. This started because I was getting SO MANY asks about resources such as videos, books, and websites to use to learn about punk history. Admittedly, my own list wasn't that long, so I thought it was best to reach out to some others and share their knowledge with everyone. Now, I'm hoping to make this an annual occurrence, where we all share our knowledge with each other. So thank you again to everyone who helped out with this!!

Link to Volume 1

@whatamibutabutteredcroissant @unfriendlybat @ghost--in-a-machine @mushroomjar

YOUTUBE:

Part 1 of The Decline of Western Civilization (It recieved mixed reception from people in the scene) (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

Part 3 of The Decline of Western Civilization (Focuses on the gutter-punks of 90s LA) (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

BOOKS:

Some Wear Leather Some Wear Lace by Andi Harriman and Marloes Bontje (It's mostly goth/horror rock/post punk/deathrock but I feel like it's adjacent enough for it to merit a read) (unfriendlybat)

Spray Paint the Walls: The Story of Black Flag by Stevie Chick (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

Kids of the Black Hole: Punk Rock in Postsuburban California by Dewar Macleod (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

We Got the Neutron Bomb: The Untold Story of L.A. Punk by Marc Spitz and Brendan Mullen (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

Left of The Dial: Conversations with Punk Icons by David Ensminger (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

The Art of Darkness: The History of Goth by John Robb (A comprehensive history of Goth) (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

Punk Zines by Eddie Piller and Steve Rowland (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

The High Desert by James Spooner ( A graphic novel memoir of how the authro came into the scene) (ghost--in-a-machine)

Let Fury Have The Hour by Antonio D'Ambrosio (About the band The Clash) (anonymous submission)

MOVIES / DOCUMENTARIES:

Masque (A 10 minute doc about the Masque club in LA) (whatamibutabutteredcroissant)

ARTICLES:

History of Anarcho-Punk and Peace Punk (mushroomjar)

Late 80s and Early 90s Puerto Rico Hardcore Punk (mushroomjar)

The Jewish History of Punk (mushroomjar)

Japan's Impact on Punk Culture (mushroomjar)

The Forgotten Story of Pure Hell, America's First Black Punk Band (mushroomjar)

The Black Punk Pioneers Who Made Music History (mushroomjar)

Why Poly Styrene is Punk's Great Lost Icon (mushroomjar)

Alternative to Alternatives: The Black Grrrls Riot Ignored (mushroomjar)

Abandoning The Ear? Punk and Deaf Convergences Part II (mushroomjar)

Race, Anarchy, and Punk Rock: The Impact of Cultural Boundaries Within The Anarchist Movement (mushroomjar)

Street Medic Handbook (safety-pin-punk)

ZINES:

Sticking To It (safety-pin-punk)

So You Say You Want An Insurrection (safety-pin-punk)

All Power To The People (safety-pin-punk)

How to Survive a Felony Trial: Keeping Your Head up through the Worst of It (safety-pin-punk)

Collectives: Anarchy Against The Mass (safety-pin-punk)

Social War on Stolen Native Land: Anarchist Contributions (safety-pin-punk)

A Civilian's Guide to Direct Action (safety-pin-punk)

Critical Thinking as Anarchist Weapon (safety-pin-punk)

Security Culture: A Handbook for Activists (safety-pin-punk)

Betrayal: A Critical Analysis of Rape Culture in Anarchist Subcultures (safety-pin-punk)

ETC:

The Anarcho-Stencilism Subreddit (people upload stencils for others to use for free) (mushroomjar)

I would love to make a Vol. 3 post next year, so if you have resources and want to share, PLEASE message me!! (Preferably DMs)

[judgeitbyitscover]

The Memoirs of Lady Trent by Marie Brennan

Cover illustrations by Todd Lockwood

A Natural History of Dragons (2013)

You, dear reader, continue at your own risk. It is not for the faint of heart—no more so than the study of dragons itself. But such study offers rewards beyond compare: to stand in a dragon's presence, even for the briefest of moments—even at the risk of one's life—is a delight that, once experienced, can never be forgotten. . . . All the world, from Scirland to the farthest reaches of Eriga, know Isabella, Lady Trent, to be the world's preeminent dragon naturalist. She is the remarkable woman who brought the study of dragons out of the misty shadows of myth and misunderstanding into the clear light of modern science. But before she became the illustrious figure we know today, there was a bookish young woman whose passion for learning, natural history, and, yes, dragons defied the stifling conventions of her day. Here at last, in her own words, is the true story of a pioneering spirit who risked her reputation, her prospects, and her fragile flesh and bone to satisfy her scientific curiosity; of how she sought true love and happiness despite her lamentable eccentricities; and of her thrilling expedition to the perilous mountains of Vystrana, where she made the first of many historic discoveries that would change the world forever.

A Tropic of Serpents (2014)

Attentive readers of Lady Trent’s earlier memoir, A Natural History of Dragons, are already familiar with how a bookish and determined young woman named Isabella first set out on the historic course that would one day lead her to becoming the world’s premier dragon naturalist. Now, in this remarkably candid second volume, Lady Trent looks back at the next stage of her illustrious (and occasionally scandalous) career. Three years after her fateful journeys through the forbidding mountains of Vystrana, Mrs. Camherst defies family and convention to embark on an expedition to the war-torn continent of Eriga, home of such exotic draconian species as the grass-dwelling snakes of the savannah, arboreal tree snakes, and, most elusive of all, the legendary swamp-wyrms of the tropics. The expedition is not an easy one. Accompanied by both an old associate and a runaway heiress, Isabella must brave oppressive heat, merciless fevers, palace intrigues, gossip, and other hazards in order to satisfy her boundless fascination with all things draconian, even if it means venturing deep into the forbidden jungle known as the Green Hell . . . where her courage, resourcefulness, and scientific curiosity will be tested as never before.

The Voyage of the Basilisk (2015)

Devoted readers of Lady Trent’s earlier memoirs, A Natural History of Dragons and The Tropic of Serpents, may believe themselves already acquainted with the particulars of her historic voyage aboard the Royal Survey Ship Basilisk, but the true story of that illuminating, harrowing, and scandalous journey has never been revealed—until now. Six years after her perilous exploits in Eriga, Isabella embarks on her most ambitious expedition yet: a two-year trip around the world to study all manner of dragons in every place they might be found. From feathered serpents sunning themselves in the ruins of a fallen civilization to the mighty sea serpents of the tropics, these creatures are a source of both endless fascination and frequent peril. Accompanying her is not only her young son, Jake, but a chivalrous foreign archaeologist whose interests converge with Isabella’s in ways both professional and personal. Science is, of course, the primary objective of the voyage, but Isabella’s life is rarely so simple. She must cope with storms, shipwrecks, intrigue, and warfare, even as she makes a discovery that offers a revolutionary new insight into the ancient history of dragons.

In the Labyrinth of Drakes (2016)

Even those who take no interest in the field of dragon naturalism have heard of Lady Trent's expedition to the inhospitable deserts of Akhia. Her discoveries there are the stuff of romantic legend, catapulting her from scholarly obscurity to worldwide fame. The details of her personal life during that time are hardly less private, having provided fodder for gossips in several countries. As is so often the case in the career of this illustrious woman, the public story is far from complete. In this, the fourth volume of her memoirs, Lady Trent relates how she acquired her position with the Royal Scirling Army; how foreign saboteurs imperiled both her work and her well-being; and how her determined pursuit of knowledge took her into the deepest reaches of the Labyrinth of Drakes, where the chance action of a dragon set the stage for her greatest achievement yet.

Within the Sanctuary of Wings (2017)

After her adventure in the mountains of Vystrana, and her exploits in the depths of Eriga, to the high seas aboard The Basilisk, and then to the deserts of Akhia, the Lady Trent has captivated hearts along with fierce minds. This concluding volume will finally reveal the truths behind her most notorious adventure - scaling the tallest peak in the world, behind the territory of Scirland's enemies - and what she discovered there, within the Sanctuary of Wings.

[justforbooks]

Our Evenings by Alan Hollinghurst

Gay life in England across the decades, from the 1960s to the pandemic, is captured with glowing intensity through an actor’s memories

In what has become one of the defining rhythms of contemporary literature, Alan Hollinghurst’s novels appear at spacious intervals of six or seven years, each a solid architectural structure holding within it fugitive emotions and pungent atmospheres, each managing restraint and amplitude in tandem, each to be read slowly for its craftsmanship and with a greedy plunge of the spoon into the deft social comedy, counterpointed settings, and irresistibly expressive detail.

The Swimming-Pool Library (1988) is firmly established as a modern classic, though The Line of Beauty, which won the Booker prize 20 years ago, is probably his best-known novel: a Jamesian study of sex, class and power in Thatcher’s Britain. Since then, The Stranger’s Child (2011) and The Sparsholt Affair (2017) have brought some of Hollinghurst’s most remarkable writing. Investigations of legacy and memory, they are structurally fascinating in their use of discontinuous stories side-stepping across generations. But some coherence ebbed away in the gaps, and the daringly blank Sparsholt lead characters, for whom other characters felt so much, exerted on me a less certain pull.

Our Evenings leaves no such doubts. This is the story of Dave Win as he tells it himself, in late middle age, recreating with glowing intensity a sequence of formative or quietly significant episodes across six decades, from the 1960s to the pandemic. He is a boy at school, discovering the possibilities of music and drama, finding his own powers, shaken by encounters with prejudice and aggression, filled with unspoken ecstasies as his sensual attraction to men grows. He is a young actor with a subversive touring company in the 1970s; he is a lover, finding joy with his partners. He is an only son to a single mother, their closeness outlasting all change.

Dave is a gay man of a generation reaching maturity soon after decriminalisation, seizing his freedoms wholeheartedly amid intolerance. He is also half Burmese, though he never met the father from whom he inherited his Asian looks, and Burma is an unknown page of the atlas to someone whose familiar terrain sits under the “B” of Berkshire. The novel tracks the currents of gay liberation and race relations, not to mention a modern history of theatre and the arts, but with never a moment’s schematic overview: all is lived and felt idiosyncratically.

Going back, remembering his schooldays “in the far‑off middle of the previous century”, Dave begins among the wind and earthworks of the Berkshire Downs. It’s exhilarating up here, but he’s caught in joyless play with another boy, Giles, who says he owns it all and who’s currently administering a Chinese burn. Dave is 13, a new pupil at Bampton, on a visit to the family who have funded his scholarship. Already he needs to hold off the obtuse, entitled son who will go on being a bully, become a Tory MP and exert his power as minister for Brexit.

Growing older in parallel through the span of the novel, these two contemporaries converge intermittently, their encounters too incidental for any politician’s memoir but charged by Hollinghurst with tragicomic political force. “Tone deaf and proud of it”, Giles attends a concert at Aldeburgh, though his schedule as arts minister won’t stretch to his hearing the whole performance. Dave is on stage as the reciter in Vaughan Williams’s Oxford Elegy, “a strange late piece” for speaker and chorus, when the noise of Giles’s departing helicopter screeches through the hall. Fighting back, filling his voice with colour as he raises the volume, Dave throws his words “like a javelin” to the back of the room.

Yet Dave retains a lifelong respect for Giles’s parents, his sponsors, who are lovers of the arts, people with money “who do nothing but good with it”. Their house, Woolpeck, is a place of beauty, encouragement and refuge, one that Dave revisits in memory on “little mental occasions” that no one else could guess. Going on like frame narratives around the edge, these long enmities and attachments are touchstones, as the decades pass: measures of how imaginative life might be fostered and how it might be squashed under the heel.

Moving spaciously within this frame, Hollinghurst unfolds a sequence of superbly realised scenes. A summer holiday on the Devon coast gleams with the beginnings of erotic excitement as the 14-year-old watches, mesmerised, “the shifting parade of known and unknown men”. It’s bravura writing, quietly done, generously varied in tone as the Fawlty Towers comedy of hotel routine accompanies the beautiful seriousness of desire. It’s collegially reminiscent of other literary comings-of-age and seaside longings, but compellingly fresh page by page; no Proust or Mann or Alain-Fournier would have sent Dave off to the gents behind the esplanade.

Time, passing as the sundial says, brings Oxford gardens at sunset, theatrical triumphs, the “brisker tempo” of twentysomething life in London, bright with sex and energy, a potently drawn relationship with Hector, the Black actor who leaves Dave behind, their unlived future together “missed, incalculably”.

At the tender core of this novel lies Dave’s portrait of his mother Avril, a dressmaker, a white woman bringing up a mixed-race boy alone in the market town of Foxleigh. Our Evenings becomes a tribute to her: an intensely private figure, acute in perception, loving her son with a mighty steadiness, and finding her life partner in well‑off, self-possessed local client Esme Croft.

We see what young Dave sees of the way these women establish a home together, neither advertising nor concealing their love, forming a family unit with utmost care, though one so radical that it cannot be named. We glimpse, too, what the older Dave wants to understand and to honour: Avril on her own terms, “tough, unconventional”, creative and courageous. Dave acknowledges forebears of many kinds, from the writers he learns by heart to the old thespian whose secluded baroque acres have hosted “liberties … excitements”. Yet his most enabling and affecting inheritance is here in Foxleigh, in the conifer-shaded garden where, on the evening of his coming out to them and innumerable evenings after, Avril and Esme expressed their loving support with a modest chink of glasses.

Our Evenings forms a deep pattern of connection with its predecessors, while being an entirely distinct and brimming whole. If it’s a long solo, it is a various and populated one. Happily echoing with voices, it stays clear of pastiche. Its chapters feel inhabitable: places to which you might return for sustenance on “little mental occasions” as yet unknown. Hollinghurst is precise about sentiment in ways that put loose sentimentality to shame. And he is above all an appreciator, taking pleasure in the inexhaustible particularity of what people do and make and see. That capacity for appreciation acquires new emotional and political meaning here, in the finest novel yet from one of the great writers of our time.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[fatehbaz]

Many of my Okinawan relatives, including one great-uncle, came to the United States via Revolutionary Mexico. Morisei Yamashiro became a farmworker and labor organizer in the fields of Southern California’s Imperial Valley. There, Okinawan, Japanese, Chinese, Black, Filipino, South Asian, Indigenous, poor white, and Mexican workers labored [...]. According to his son, Morisei could speak several languages including English, Spanish, Japanese, and Okinawan dialects [...]. Before the internment of Japanese and Okinawan Americans, there were early FBI raids on the communities. Labor organizers were among the first to be targeted. [...]

This story was provocative for several reasons. I knew of the world of the Revolutionary Atlantic and the radical currents which produced what Julius C. Scott calls the “common wind” of abolition. I first wondered if there might be a story to tell about the Revolutionary Pacific and the influence of the Mexican Revolution upon it. [...] [T]he story invited me to think anew about internationalism, which I understand as a recognition of the ways that people have been unevenly waylaid by the global capitalist system and developed forms of revolutionary solidarity to confront it.

---

To consider these provocations, I examined the reflections of another Okinawan migrant, Paul Shinsei Kōchi, who had traveled a similar path [...]. Kōchi’s memoir Imin no Aiwa (An Immigrant’s Sorrowful Tale) [...] describes how he found internationalism in Revolutionary Mexico. It details his escape from Okinawa and from the surveillance and repression of imperialist Japan; his solidarity with Indigenous Kanaka Maoli in Hawai‘i, with Tongva people in California, and with Yaqui in northern Mexico as well as with Indian, Chinese, and other Asian immigrants and with Mexican peasants in the revolution; and his subsequent position of internationalism.

“Paul Kōchi’s story demonstrates how the uprooted, dispossessed, and despised of the world came to know each other in shadows, in the tangled spaces of expulsion, extraction, transportation, debt, exploitation, and destruction: the garroting circuits of modern capital. Whether crammed in tight ship quarters; knocking together over the rails; [...] in the relentless tempo of industrial agriculture; inhaling the dank air of mine shafts; [...] coughing, fighting, singing, snoring, and sighing through thin walls, or corralled [...] in jails and prisons, the contradictions of modern capital were shared in its intimate spaces. Within such sites, people discovered that the circuits of revolution, like the countervailing circuits of capital, were realizable in motion, often through unplanned assemblages. Roaring at their backs were the revolutionary currents of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, currents that howled from the metropolitan hearts of empire and wailed across the peripheries of the global world system. Standing before them, in the middle of its own revolution, was Mexico. From the vantage point of these struggles, the new century did not simply portend the inevitability of urban revolts and insurgencies at the point of production, but an epoch of peasant wars, rural uprisings, anti-colonial movements, and, of course, the Mexican Revolution. Mexico, as both a real country and an imagined space of revolution, would become a crucible of internationalism [...].” (51–52) [...]

---

From farm worker strikes at the U.S.-Mexico border; art collectives in Chicago, Harlem, and Mexico City; and a prison “university” in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary, [...] the Mexican Revolution staged a significant set of convergences within which internationalism was “made.” [...]

“The Internationale” (1888) [...]. Famously, Frantz Fanon took the second line of the song, “Arise ye wretched of the earth,” to title his indictment of colonialism in and beyond French Algeria, Wretched of the Earth. [...] [U]nless a radical tradition was “able to constantly keep alive that challenging, questioning and probing of the real scene around it,” it would only ever be [...] a snare of revolutionary nostalgia where hope is trapped and strangled, rather than a living, breathing tradition that might allow us to survive (Healey and Isserman 1993, 13–14). This is perhaps the central lesson [...], to think of internationalism not simply as scripture imposed from above, but as the messy work of collectively making and remaking the world in which we live.

---

Text by: Christina Heatherton. “How a Family Story Reframed My Understanding of Internationalism and Revolutionary Solidarity.” UC Press Blog. 3 April 2023.

[bloodmaarked]

she would be king // wayétu moore

first published: 2018 read: 06 july 2024 - 16 july 2024 pages: 368 format: e-book

genres: fiction; historical fiction; fantasy (magical realism); african literature (liberia) favourite character(s): june dey and gbessa least favourite character(s): callum aragon

rating: 🌕🌕🌕🌕🌗 thoughts: gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous. i can't believe i only very recently came across she would be king, but i'm very glad i wasted little time in getting around to reading it. in part motivated to make progress on my personal 'read around the world challenge', i thought a fantastical retelling of the foundation of liberia would be the perfect addition, and i have to say that i'm very much encouraged to further expand my knowledge of the country after having read this book.

as i say this was a fictional exploration of liberia's early years rooted in real history. through three main characters it explores the perspective of liberia's indigenous peoples, the freed american slaves who became settlers, and (to a lesser extent) the jamaicans who sought a better life back in africa. the first three chapters which cover these characters' backstories in depth were captivating and i was drawn in right away. from there we have a convergence of their lives, and then further exploration of the dynamics between new settlers and indigenous liberians. i was only vaguely aware of the history of the country, and so the discussion of how the freed men were repatriated there by the ANC, and how the americans saw themselves relative to the indigenous liberians, taught me something important.

at the same time as being informational for me, it was also engagingly written. it was so atmospheric that i felt transported to another place and time, and i could see it play out in my head like a movie. the element of magical realism elevated the story without causing it to lean into a tale of unimaginable fantasy.

i highly recommend this book (just keep an eye out for the trigger warnings beforehand). i've spotted that wayétu moore has a memoir about her life and particularly the escape of her and her family to america after the breakout of the first liberian civil war which is definitely going on my tbr!

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Let's help Mehen with her memoir by u/insanitazer

Let's help Mehen with her memoir Since she's so busy with... well, she's busy, ok? I used AI to paint her first meeting with the queen. *Mehen, feel free to quote me.The moment our eyes met, it was as though the universe sighed in relief, recognizing the convergence of two worlds, two souls destined to meet. Her gaze, so discerning, so filled with wisdom and grace, settled upon me with a gentleness that belied the weight of her crown. And in that gaze, I saw a spark—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of the shared understanding that we are all, in the end, simply walking each other home.As we exchanged pleasantries, it became clear that this was no ordinary meeting. It was a communion of spirits, a silent yet profound recognition of something deep, something beyond the trappings of titles and formalities. The Queen, with a twinkle in her eye that spoke of both joy and surprise, seemed almost captivated, as though seeing in me a reflection of something long forgotten, yet familiar.She spoke, not with the voice of authority, but with the soft, lilting tones of a storyteller, weaving threads of history, duty, and compassion into a tapestry that resonated deeply within my soul. And as I listened, I could feel her amazement—an almost palpable energy that flowed between us, a recognition of the strength, resilience, and love that has guided my journey.Her amazement, oh, it was not in the grandeur of the moment, but in the simple, undeniable truth of it. She saw, I believe, the essence of who I am, not just as a duchess or a public figure, but as a woman, a mother, a seeker of light. And in that recognition, there was a silent, mutual respect—a nod to the shared path of service, to the quiet yet powerful force of empathy that connects us all. post link: https://ift.tt/ULGlKBN author: insanitazer submitted: August 14, 2024 at 11:40AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[haggishlyhagging]

According to Google Trends, the word "empowerment" hit a high in 2004 and 2005, as it became more deeply entrenched everywhere—feminist discourse, consumer marketing, corporate culture. "Empowering" joined "synergy," "scalable," and "drill-down" in boardroom conferences, vision statements, and business plans, and was eventually called "the most condescending transitive verb ever" by Forbes. It's become the name of a range of businesses, a national fitness event, and an almost mind-boggling number of yoga studios. It's become a company-jargon fave at Microsoft, with former and current CEOs Steve Ballmer and Satya Nadella both using it to impressively vague effect in memos and public talks. (At Microsoft's annual Convergence event in 2015, Nadella told attendees, "We are in the empowering business," and added that the tech giant's goal was "empowering you as individuals and organizations across every vertical and every size of business, and any part of the world, to drive your agenda and do the things you want to do for your business.")

Elsewhere in discourses and debates around sex as both an activity and a commodity, "empowerment" has become a sort of shorthand that might mean "I'm proud of doing this thing," but also might mean "This thing is not the ideal thing, but it's a lot better than some of the alternatives." Feeling empowered by stripping, for instance, was a big theme among moonlighting academics or otherwise privileged young women in the late 1990s and early 2000s, and you can find countless memoirs about what they discovered about themselves in the world of the sexual marketplace; the same is true of prostitution, with blogs like Belle de Jour, College Call Girl, and books like Tracy Quan's Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl. There was a point in the mid-to-late 2000s when you couldn't swing a cat through Barnes & Noble without knocking a slew of sex-work memoirs off the shelves: Lily Burana’s Strip City, Diablo Cody's Candy Girl, Jillian Lauren's Some Girl, Michelle Tea's Rent Girl, Shawna Kenny's I Was a Teenage Dominatrix, Melissa Febos's Whip Smart, and Sarah Katherine Lewis's Indecent among them. The crucial thing these often incredibly absorbing and well-written books had in common? All were written by young, white, and no-longer-hustling sex workers.

I want to be clear that standing with sex workers on the principle that sex work is work is an issue whose importance cannot be overstated, and also clear that my complete lack of expertise on the subject makes it well beyond the scope of this book. But I am interested in the idea that "empowerment" is so often used as a reflexive defense mechanism in discussions of this kind of sex-work experience, but less so in describing the less written-about experiences of people whose time in the industry is less finite and less bookworthy—transgender women, exploited teenagers and trafficked foreigners, men and women forced into sex work by poverty, abuse, or addiction. And I'm fascinated by the fact that we see thousands of pop culture products in which women are empowered by a sex industry that does not have their empowerment in mind, but far fewer in which they are empowered to make sexual choices on their own terms, outside of a status quo in which women's bodies are commodities to be bought and sold. Indecent author Sarah Katherine Lewis has written that, during her time as a stripper, "I felt empowered—as a woman, as a feminist, as a human being by the money I made, not by the work I did"; but hers is just one story. Belle de Jour and other sex workers have written about truly enjoying their work. If the market were just as welcoming of narratives in which young women were empowered by their careers as, say, electricians—if personal memoirs about a youthful, self-determining layover in the electrical trades were a thing publishers clamored for—then a handful of empowered sex workers would be no big thing. Until that's the case, it's worth questioning why the word is so often the first line of defense.

-Andi Zeisler, We Were Feminists Once

[bu1410]

March 3rd 2024 - Good morning TUMBLR.

Here I go again with another chapter of my memoirs of my life in These are memories of travel and work experiences around the world, over a period of approximately 40 years.

The title is':

''Mr. Plant has owed me a shoe since July 5, 1971."

Ch. I - DAHRAN - SAUDI ARABIA - 1980 – FEAL SpA

What kind of Saudi Arabia did I find in May 1980?

A very different country from today. Sitting on the throne is King Kaled, who succeeded his half-brother Faysal on March 25, 1975, following the assassination of the latter by a nephew.

The country is preparing to become a major industrial and oil power, and must guard against internal and external enemies. The Al Saud family is seen by numerous enemies as ''usurper and illegitimate'' in power, and therefore must proceed in forced stages to modernize the country through the construction of oil plants, infrastructures and even new cities. All this reaffirming in the eyes of the global Muslim community, his role as ''Custodian of the Holy Places of Mecca and Medina''. The pact between the Al Saud royal family and the Wahhabi clergy seems to be working, and the country is under the strict control of the National Guard loyal to the King.

This enormous effort is taken care of, with the approval of the Sovereign, by Fahd bin ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Āl Saʿūd, the King's brother and his designated successor, in his capacity as Minister of Defence.

The projects that FEAL, the company I work for, are implementing are part of the new infrastructures that are emerging in the country: a series of military hospitals and clinics equipped with all the most modern technologies that Italy and the USA can offer.

Saudi Arabia in those years was a very safe country for foreigners, the only social problems were limited to the eternal struggles between Sunnis (who govern the country) and Shiites who are the majority of the population in the so-called Eastern provinces.

This is inevitably reflected in the areas around Mecca and Medina, the two most important holy cities of Islam, where every year millions of pilgrims from all over the world converge to carry out the so-called Hajj (pilgrimage), one of the obligatory pillars of the Muslim religion .

These areas are periodically subject to terrorist attacks, and therefore the Saudi authorities maintain a strong contingent of security forces in the Holy Places, to guarantee order and peace.

A ''different'' country, where I saw a man park his pick up in front of a bank, with plastic bags full of money in the back, and he patiently carried 4 or 5 at a time into the bank, each time leaving an unattended ''treasure'' outside - but where no one remotely dreamed of touching something owned by someone else.

I arrive in Riyadh, where a stop over is scheduled, and going out onto the plane's ladder, I notice that due to inertia the jet engine is still spinning, and I say to myself ''Wow, what heat these engines generate…''

After taking a few steps to reach the terminal, I realize that it wasn't the plane's engine that was producing the heat: the air is literally boiling hot!! And it's only May!!

I left for Daharan, just a 45 minute flight away, overlooking what is internationally called the Persian Gulf, but the Saudis and Arabs call El Kalij el Arabi (The Gulf of the Arabs)

The arrival in Dahran is one of the most promising: no one waiting for me!!! And it's not like I spoke fluent English in 1980!

But we know, sometimes using the old ''Help yourself, heaven helps you'' technique, in the end, by pure chance, I found, among the crowd waiting inside the airport, a Somali boy, one of those who, in addition to speaking fluent English and Arabic, spoke some words in Italian also stand out (colonial reminiscences)

The guy tells me that yes, not far from the airport there is a construction site for a hospital, managed by an Italian company – and that he, with his pick up, will take me to there.

We go out into the infernal heat of the evening - it is now 11.00 PM - and in a few minutes we arrive at the entrance to the construction site.

Awakened by a few honks, the guard comes out of a shack and confirms to us that it is indeed the "Italians'" construction site, "my" construction site.

At this point I heartily thank the Somali boy, and enter the shack, where the guard is busy with the telephone (we are in 1980, cell phones were yet to come). He calls the campound where the Italians live, and assures me that they will send someone to get me there. Which happens after half an hour: another Somali drives the wehicle that came to pick me up (I will learn that this ethnic group has very important functions of service and connection between us ''Western Expats'' and the locals/Asians)

Finally, after a short journey, I ''triumphantly'' enter the Company's compound, a small village made up of prefabricated buildings like those of earthquake victims in Italy, which will be my ''home'' in the coming months.

Thus I began to work on the construction site, with mixed success - in the sense that the project very complex, made up of a thousand difficulties - but with a big difference compared to just a few years later.

There were many Italians who work there and of all categories. There were technicians and supervisors, but also carpenters, bricklayers, electricians, plumbers, floor and carpet installers, installers of plasterboard walls and false ceilings, structures and external coverings in travertine marble. Of course there were a lot of Indian and Pakistani manpower, but the presence of many Italians makes things easier, both in terms of mutual understanding and in carrying out the various phases, all in a workmanlike manner. Only a few years later (to cut costs, said the Top Management…) the Italians will disappear as construction personnel, increasingly replaced by Asians, giving rise to significant problems, both of a technical and economic nature.

In the meantime, the company I worked for decided to participate in tenders for new projects, again in Saudi. For this purpose, I was sent on a mission to various parts of the country, to carry out preliminary surveys on the places and lands where the construction of new hospitals were planned.

One day I left by plane for Riyahd, from where, in a car driven by a local driver, I headed to Buraydah, a town in the An Nafud desert (the desert of Lawrence of Arabia). A very monotonous journey, of about 300 km, surrounded by a desert landscape, ''cheered up'' by the exact same music that flowed from the car's stereo cassette, turned over and over again - traditional Saudi music, which always repeats the same : din of drums and tambourines, interspersed with shouts and vocal modulations. After about 2 hours, I ask the driver if we can hear something different, maybe western music – his answer:

''Western music is a sin, it is also sung by women, and leads to bad thoughts - and then you are here, in Saudi Arabia, our guest, and therefore you must listen to our music.

Buraidah is the capital of the Al-Qassim region in north-central Saudi Arabia, in the heart of the Arabian Peninsula. The city is located equidistant from the Red Sea to the west and the Persian Gulf to the east. It has a population of 619,739 inhabitants (2010 census).

Buraydah is located on the edge of Wadi Al-Rummah, and has a typical desert climate, with hot summers, mild winters and low humidity.

In Buraydah, agriculture is still the cornerstone of the economy. Traditional oasis products such as dates, lemon, orange and other fruits are still important. The modern introduction of grain production has been so successful that Buraydah is one of the Kingdom's largest producers, important in making Saudi Arabia a net exporter of grains. Intensive cultivations are carried out in circular fields, to facilitate irrigation with the ''pivot'' system.

At that time, 1980, the city was underdeveloped – so we visited the local hospital, to get an idea of the current standards of hospital care. What I saw was disconcerting: an old and dilapidated structure, the patients crowded into narrow rooms, sometimes without windows - the beds old and dirty, in many rooms the floor was made up of gravel and sand. The hospital housed around 400 patients, I honestly don't know how many of them, after their stay, walked out of that facility. The new hospital would have to be built next to the existing one, given that there was absolutely nothing around it.

We returned to Riyadh the next day, after sleeping in a local hotel, a building of much pretention but no merit (like so many others in Saudi at the time, it was the product of Egyptian and Syrian architects). The hotel had a swimming pool, which was of course empty.

The next day I had a flight to Abha, from which I would then continue to Khamis Mushayt, where FEAL was building the new local hospital. From there, thanks to the logistical support provided by my colleagues, I would continue to Sharoura, a desert location in southern Saudi Arabia, on the border with Yemen.

Abha is the capital of the Asir region in the east of the country, not far from the Red Sea - It is located 2,270 meters above sea level on the slopes of the fertile mountains that divide the desert area of southwestern Saudi Arabia from the Red Sea . Abha's mild climate makes it a popular tourist destination for Saudis.

The air journey from Riyadh was somewhat troubled, as it approached landing the plane began to vibrate and suddenly lose altitude, in frightening gaps in the air - this caused quite a bit of fear among the local passengers, to the point that some of them they undid their seat belts and began to pray to Allah, prostrating themselves in the aisle of the plane. The on-board staff in vain exhorted the passengers to sit back down and fasten their seat belts, little by little the latter were joined by other Saudis. Until suddenly the turbulence stopped and finally the Commander's voice told everyone to sit down, because in a few minutes we would land!!!

Once I left the airport, I immediately realized that the surrounding landscape was very different from the rest of Saudi Arabia. Abha was sitting on a plateau surrounded by rather bizarrely shaped peaks. After about 40 minutes by car, I arrived at the Company's compound, in Khamis Mushait.

The usual prefabricated buildings, here with a minimum of vegetation and a surprise: a couple of baboons live in the field, free to roam around!

One night in the prefab and then off the next day, very early towards Sharourah.

Sharourah is a city in Najran province, southern Saudi Arabia, about 550 km east of Khamis Mushait. It is located in the Rub Al Khali Desert near the Yemeni border and functions primarily as a border town. Sharourah had a population of 85,000 at the time.

A long and very boring journey, with terrifying heat, and with absolutely nothing to see, except an endless expanse of sand and red dunes.

The day after our arrival, we set out to look for the place where the new hospital will one day be built. With the help of a representative of the local municipality, we go out 20 km from the city and then with the GPS we locate the site - meanwhile we ask ourselves why the hospital should be built in the middle of nowhere, but the best was  yet to come: after a few minutes, during which we are proceeding with the instrumental survey of the terrain, a Yemeni Arab approaches on the back of his camel. Once off the animal's back, he speaks animatedly with my driver and the municipality representative – after 10 minutes of discussion the meaning of the dispute is translated to me:

 Yemeni: What are you doing here?

 Us: this is the place chosen for the construction of the new hospital

 Yemeni: And why here?

 We: we didn't choose it, but the local administration

 Yemeni: which local administration?

 Us: Sharoura's

 Yemeni: why has the Sharoura Administration determined that the new hospital must be built in Yemeni territory?

 Us: …….????????

 Us: are you sure of what you say?

 Yemeni: I'm sure

 Us: good, we will do the surveys and then we will go to the municipality of Sharoura to report.

 Yemeni: report that no Saudi hospital will be built in Yemeni territory.

 Us: Okay, Mashallah

Afterwards, having completed the findings, we returned to Sharourah and went straight to the municipality, to report the strange encounter.

The local leaders were not too surprised by our story. They simply told us that ''by the time the hospital is built, the land will certainly be in Saudi territory''.

TRANSFER TO TABUK

I returned to Dahran but didn't stay there long time – Mr. Spazzini, Area Manager for the Middle East for the Feal Group, had arrived to visit the construction site. An ''old-fashioned, self-made'' type of man. Tall, big, his glass eye as a result of a car accident gave him a sinister appearance which ultimately did not reflect his character at all. He was the classic gruff-good guy, Juventus fan. Once on site, the carpentry assembly supervisor, following a complaint from Spazzini regarding the verticality of the structure of the emergency stairs, blurted out ''oh well' Mr. Spazzini…turn off a  blind eye.'' Spazzini  got really angry and condemned him to go for a week in his office to clean a giant Juventus poster.

As soon as Spazzini saw me he said:

Bruuunoooo……pack up  your suitcase…….Where should I go Mr. Spazzini?You'll come with me to Tabouk, we need to give help overthere.

So it was that I left with him for Tabouk (in Arabic = brick) a city in north-western Saudi Arabia. To the east of An Nafud, near the border between Jordan and Saudi Arabia, Tabuk is home to a large Saudi air force base. The hospital that was being built was at the service of the soldiers stationed on the base. In fact the construction site was much less organized than that of Daharan, with an Italian - Mr. Riva - as Site manager, who cared more about his affairs than the works. One day he disappeared without telling anyone, and returned a week later with a brand new Alfa 164: ''I bought it in Jeddah - he said - it costs very little compared to Italy''  We proceeded blindly, with personal initiatives , without following a real work schedule.  Mr. Riva and I went once to visit a Korean construction site, and we had noticed outside the hangar that served as offices that the scooters used by the staff were parked in a ''herringbone'' pattern in an incredibly perfect alignment. Inside, the office was organized like a large classroom in a school: the boss sat on a raised desk. The clerks were spread across 12 rows of desks, and none of them raised their heads when we entered. An absurd silence reigned in the hangar. A few words with the office manager, and we made arrangements for him to come to our camp to inspect our cranes he said he was interested in.  After the inspection, the business was quickly concluded, and payement settled in cash, as it was normal those days in Saudi.                           

CEMENT SHORTAGE

One day we suddenly realized ''that the cement had run out''! The construction accountant called me into the office and gave me 75,000 Saudi Rials ($20,000 in local currency) and sent me to get the cement.  As I saaid, those were the times when almost all trades in Saudi were settled in cash. Accompanied by Hamed, a Jordan's driver, with a trailer in tow, we went to a building materials dealer. After a brief negotiation on the quantity and relative price, the usual Pakistanis immediately began to load the trailer with bags of cement. Meanwhile, the old Saudi was counting the money - and once the counting was finished, he put aside a packet of banknotes and putting them in my hand he said to me:

Barak Allah Feekum!

I didn't understand, or rather: I understood that he hoped Allah would bless me, but I didn't understand the connection with the money. Then Hamed explained to me: ''he thanks you for choosing him to purchase the cement, and the ''bakshish'' he gave to you is with the hope that you will return to him again''.

Ahh…good…understood!!  So I thanked the man and assured him that I would not betray him to any other dealer. Then I shared the bakshish with Hamed, who was surprised that a Westerner was sharing the money with him.

EL HAQL - RED SEA

One Friday - to break the monotony - we decided to go to El Haql, a town on the Gulf of Aqaba, Red Sea, about 270 km from Tabouk. There were three of us: in addition to myself, a young architect from Genoa, and another  guy from Castiglione delle Stiviere, Italy. A decision devoid of any logic, to be honest, given the distance, the state of the roads, and the absolute lack of any assistance in the event of a breakdown of the car - an old Toyota Corolla. In hindsight, it was a stupid risk we took – in these cases, we should travel with at least two cars. Be that as it may, all went almost well. After leaving very early, we arrived in El Haql (in Arabic = the field) a small town with a beautiful uncontaminated sea coral reef populated by incredible flora and fauna. The coasts of the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aqaba in this region are steep and overlooking the sea. At that time, Sinai was occupied by Israeli troops and the warships could be easily seen, as the Gulf of Aqaba here is about as wide as lake. The city presented nothing of interest, and was just a place to get something to eat and drink. Just outside the town, beaches abound, and it was shocking to dive into the Red Sea due to the quantity of fish of every shape and colour. The water was absolutely transparent, and it was a memorable day.

The distance from Tabouk suggested we leave El Haql early. The Genoese architect was driving, a dry and lanky boy, not very inclined to advice (of any kind). This is how we arrived nearby a village and like everywhere in Saudi Arabia, before and after the town there were the usual huge humps, to slow down the speed of the vehicles. The stretch was slightly downhill, I saw them first, painted in reflective yellow, and I said softly to the architect: ''Slow down, there are humps'' - to which he, who was also a bit of a stutterer, said turning his head towards me: Wha...wwhaattt?

By that time we were on top of the humps, and we hit the first one  at full speed, but the architect had his own theory, and that is when you hit one of the humps, to avoid the second and third you have to accelerate… it was like that we ended up on the third with the front axle of the Toyota, a terrible crash!!  I hit my head on the ceiling of the car, and suddenly very hot air hit us full on: the windshield had disappeared!! We heard it two seconds later crashing behind us! The blow had actually detached it entirely from its frame and made it fly backwards!! Finally the guy stopped the Toyota at the side of the road – we retraced our steps only to find that the windshield was useless, smashed into 1000 pieces, and we removed it from the road.Are you happy IDIOT!???!! With your fucking theories!!! - I shouted.But I…I thought…Let's go… the road is still long…                                In fact they were still missing more than 200 km to Tabouk, and we traveled them as if we were on a motorbike, with towels wrapped around our face like Tuareg turbans in a desperate attempt to avoid the boiling air that was entering the car. We arrived at the camp distraught, to endure the teasing of our colleagues when they saw us, with our faces distorted and covered up as if we were veterans of the Paris - Dakar.

TRANSFER TO TAIF

After our arrival in Tabouk - there were 5 of us from Dahran - the construction site had changed a lot, and for the better. But Mr. Spazzini had another surprise in store for me: he came just before Christmas and as soon as he saw me he said:

Brunooooo……pack your suitcase…….we need to go! Where to this time Mr. Spazzini?                                                          Company had taken over from Genghini (the famous Roman building developer, expelled from Saudi Arabia with ignominy after the towers under construction in Jeddah sank into the sand, but this is another story that should be told) and FEAL was called to taken up the work for the expansion of the Taif general hospital.Well -  I said -  when are we leaving?Tomorrow early morning!

This was Spazzini, a man who never stopped working, EVER.

We then left for Taif, the summer capital of Saudi Arabia – located in the mountains of the Asir region, 200 km north-east of Jeddah, about 1,800 meters above sea level. The city enjoys an excellent climate, and is an agricultural center of some importance and for almost centuries the vine and grapes called zibibbo (from the Arabic zabīb, meaning "dried grapes") have been cultivated there as well as roses and flowers in general .

TAIF 

There were a few days left before Christmas, the construction site had not yet started and we were only 5 people - so we temporarily settled in a rented house in Al Hada, the area further upstream from Taif, surrounded by acacia trees and the compounds of the Royal family members. There was the enormous villa entirely covered in white Carrara marble of the then Crown Prince Fahd, Minister of Defense and ultimately ''Head of our Client'', given that we worked for the same Ministry. And then further away the compound of a very influential family, which will be talked about a lot in the years to come: the Bin Laden family.

On the other side of the valley, leaning against the mountain, stood the military hospital, surrounded by the villas of the mostly American healthcare personnel. The hospital was already very large, it could have had around 400 beds, but its expansion envisaged bringing the capacity to 1000 beds, with an entire wing dedicated to the rehabilitation of patients with serious pathologies.

Our Company organized a charter flight for the Christmas return to Italy of the staff from the various construction sites. So we all met in Dahran – about 220 people – and flew first to Rome and then to various destinations in Italy. With us was a strange guy from Viterbo, a certain Piselli, who had grown a Saudi fundamentalist beard, an unkempt beard but no moustache. During the flight I went to the bathroom, and came back dressed in the traditional jallabah, saying that he wanted to prank his wife at the airport. Upon arrival at Rome's Fiumicino we went through passport control with some difficulty - then we left the baggage area and a lady with a little girl of about 3 years old came towards us, trying to identify her husband. She recognized Piselli despite the disguise, and urged the little girl to "go and hug that idiot of your father." But the  little girl, frightened by the appearance of that bearded man dressed in white who was trying to hug her, burst into desperate tears, taking refuge in the arms of her mother.

From the series: ''how to ruin a return to Italy after the family hasn't seen you for 4 months''.

Dahran - Saudi Arabia - June 1980

Taif - Saudi Arabia - Jan 1981

[frnwhcom]

The Von Trapp Family: Beyond The Sound of Music

The Von Trapp family, whose escape from Austria during World War II was immortalized in the beloved musical and film "The Sound of Music," holds a place in both history and popular culture far more nuanced than the idyllic scenes portrayed on screen. Their real story is one of resilience, music, and new beginnings, stretching from the Austrian Alps to the mountains of Vermont. The Patriarch and Matriarch The family's story begins with Baron Georg von Trapp, a decorated naval officer of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and Maria Augusta Kutschera, a young postulant at Nonnberg Abbey in Salzburg. Their lives converged not out of romance initially, but necessity, as Maria was sent to tutor the Baron's daughter from his first marriage in 1926. Despite their differing backgrounds, love blossomed, leading to their marriage in 1927. Together, they had seven children, joining the seven from Georg's previous marriage. A Musical Legacy Begins It was Maria who introduced music into the family's routine, turning it from a pastime into a profession. Under her guidance, the Von Trapp Family Choir began performing throughout Europe. Their harmonies enchanted audiences, but as the political landscape darkened with the rise of Nazi Germany, so too did the family's prospects in their homeland. Flight from Oppression In 1938, following the Anschluss, the annexation of Austria into Nazi Germany, the von Trapps faced a moral and existential crisis. Georg von Trapp, a staunch anti-Nazi, refused a commission in the German Navy and declined to perform at Hitler's birthday celebration. The family decided to flee, fearing retribution. Contrary to the dramatic mountain escape depicted in "The Sound of Music," their departure was through a train to Italy, thanks to Georg's citizenship stemming from his birthplace in Dalmatia, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. A New Home in America The family arrived in the United States in 1939, settling in Vermont. There, they bought a farm in Stowe, which they transformed into the Trapp Family Lodge, a venture that would ensure their livelihood and become a cherished site for fans of their story. America offered a fresh start, and the family continued to perform, touring the United States and South America, sharing their music and story with new audiences. The Story Becomes a Sensation The von Trapp family's tale was first immortalized in Maria's memoir, "The Story of the Trapp Family Singers," published in 1949. This book served as the basis for two German films in the 1950s and ultimately the Broadway musical in 1959, with the iconic film adaptation following in 1965. "The Sound of Music," starring Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer, captured the hearts of millions, albeit with a romanticized version of the family's journey. Legacy and Continuation The legacy of the von Trapp family extends beyond their escape from Austria and musical career. The Trapp Family Lodge remains a testament to their enduring impact, now a world-class resort offering guests a taste of the von Trapp hospitality. The family's descendants continue to manage the lodge, ensuring that the story and the spirit of the von Trapps live on. In remembering the von Trapp family, it's essential to acknowledge the blend of fact and fiction that has made their story a global phenomenon. Their real journey was fraught with challenges and marked by courage, a testament to the power of family, music, and resilience in the face of adversity. Read the full article

[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: Room Tone by Vanessa H. Smith

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/room-tone-by-vanessa-h-smith/

Vanessa Hedwig Smith is a painter, filmmaker, and writer who has lived and worked in India, Nepal, England, and the US. Her series of 94 short films, The Art of Impermanence was exhibited at a satellite Venice Biennale show. She has worked on feature length documentaries, shorts, PSAs, music videos, outdoor installations, murals, and other design projects. Smith is most proud of a BBC Correspondent piece she produced, which was instrumental in helping free a 14-year old girl from prison, which helped changed Nepalese law, and which won the Amnesty International Media 2000 Award. Smith is a co-founder of the mental health series– Let’s Talk. She holds a BA from Stanford in Urban Design, and an MA from Columbia University in Anthropology. Her work has been published in The Search for Reality, #Poetry Apocalypse, Tiny Seeds Literary Journal, Chronogram, Topical Poetry, On the Seawall, and Silent Auctions Magazine, She is at work on a full-length book of portraits.

Her work can be seen at http://vanessahsmithpictures.com

PRAISE FOR Room Tone by Vanessa H. Smith

The “dailyness” in a Vanessa Smith poem is never dull, and never what’s expected. Her west-coast swagger is reminiscent of early Joni Mitchell — “my face, like an interview, / tells the most important / stories first.” Her “uploaded anguish,” is that of a speaker who “wipes daily dabs of lipstick on the car carpet,” saturating the space, making a hole in its place. She sees that a “rolling wave held something back in response to the sand…” and finds a tragedy there. The daughter of a portrait painter, this painter/poet’s first collection is clear-eyed and insightful, poetry that points to her inheritance, a vigilant and insistent gauging: “We wait, we dry out into plaster, and become the wall / The dry and cold of a California I never mastered is coming back in plumes.”

–Elaine Sexton, poet and critic, author of Drive and Prospect/Refuge

This is so moving and delicate — the journey from caring for infants to looking after the elderly and their needs, and all the tenderness and sense of employment (and possibly enjoyment) both require. The rhythms of marriage and divorce work so well on the page. Smith is so right in what she says about January — the way it is always twice as long as any other month. I like the sense of the world in which every tiny thing counts for something and the cost of that on the heart and soul and the corresponding yield…

–Susie Boyt, author of Loved and Missed and My Judy Garland Life

Room Tone is wildly evanescent — traversing expanses of time and space, then spiraling into the palm of Smith’s hand. … [Her] poems are illuminated by a ferocious sense of beauty and tragedy, converging in sublime insight.

–Broughton Coburn, author of The Vast Unknown and Aama in America

In Room Tone, silence is rendered palpable through Vanessa Smith’s hauntingly described scenes of life, love and loss. Whether it’s observation or imagination, there’s a meditative nature to her writing that will transport you to a state of personal reflection. This collection is a call to open your heart to the mysteries that surround us.

–Sara Arnell, author of There Will Be Lobster: Memoir of A Midlife Crisis

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry

[cosmicanger]

Peter Bradley, Scrapple From The Apple, 2021, acrylic and glass on canvas, 85 × 84 inches; 215.9 × 213.4 cm

I wish to revisit and elaborate further on the assertion that refraining from confronting anti-Blackness would have undeniably facilitated a more amenable existence. The notion that my past proclivity for critiquing the arts was merely an act of self-indulgence is not only fallacious but also symptomatic of a broader tendency towards anti-Black denial. Opting to be a perennially agreeable token would indeed have afforded me an easier path. This phenomenon resonates with the poignant words of James Baldwin, underscoring how Black criticality is often criminalized to an extent where concerted efforts converge to make an exemplar of those who dare to voice dissent, thus deterring others from following suit. The arts community, it seems, is intent on making such an example of me, unequivocally signaling a desire to dissuade any future Black artist from addressing anti-Blackness as forthrightly as I have in the past. Effectively, the implicit message is that should I dare to confront anti-Blackness—whether in the past, present, or future—most within the arts establishment will ensure that I encounter insurmountable obstacles. These barriers include difficulties in finding gallery representation, the impediment of dedicating myself to art full time, thereby diminishing my capacity for self-care, healthcare, and the sustained sale of my artworks.

In critiquing the white artists and the broader art world, a recurrent theme emerges—discomfort and ire arise when confronted with the assertion that their support is extended primarily to Black individuals lacking a coherent analysis of anti-Blackness. The predilection for endorsing Black artists who refrain from denouncing blatant or subtle acts of anti-Blackness becomes glaringly evident. Averse to having their biases dissected, especially by white artists, individuals are either oblivious to the extent of their bigotry or, if cognizant, disinclined to pay the price for grace, even if it had a tangible value. Moreover, the arts community exhibits a propensity to react with hostility when confronted with their bigotry, preferring to bask in the shame of their intentions rather than engaging in a constructive dialogue to address the impact of their actions. The pattern extends to shooting the proverbial messenger, typically a Black individual courageous enough to point out systemic issues. Regrettably, it appears that the majority of artists under the age of 40 harbor anti-Black sentiments that echo the biases of their predecessors, a disheartening revelation, particularly as these individuals may perceive themselves as progressive. Ironically, there are individuals in the Midwest and the South, residing outside the art world's insular enclaves, who demonstrate less anti-Black sentiment than the majority of white artists who believe the contrary.

While not absolving non-Black individuals under the American poverty line, particularly white individuals in that category, the arts sector emerges as an anti-Black conservative playground, adorned with the trappings of neoliberalism. Conversing with the average white artist in 2023, transitioning into 2024, reveals a disheartening lack of growth since the uprisings in Ferguson in 2014. Their purported activism often proves to be performative, marked by fetishization or tokenization, without genuine concern for anyone beyond themselves.

As I enter the new year, my focus shifts toward reconciliation with some figures in the art world, I have no ill towards any Black art person moving into 2024. I intend to reserve my critical commentary for a posthumous memoir, directing my energies towards engaging in art or curatorial pursuits full time. This strategic redirection aims to afford me the necessary resources, time, and stamina for self-care in a pandemic that persists unabated. My reputation precedes me; evidently, individuals within the art community believe they can act with impunity in private conversations but refrain from such conduct in the presence of witnesses. Steadfast adherence to principles centered on the most marginalized Black individuals and the active combatting of anti-Blackness within the neoliberal art world appears to be deemed a transgression. Strikingly, overt anti-Black sentiments, as well as coded and passive manifestations, receive tacit approval and, in most cases, encouragement and reward. The discrepancy is particularly glaring when considering the material and spiritual support accorded to those who have contributed significantly less to the arts than I have since the pandemic began.

Moving forward into 2024, my fervent hope is that all Black artists and art workers receive the material support they require, irrespective of their stance on coddling whiteness or their willingness to accept criticism, whether paid or otherwise. Sadly, given the prevailing conditions, this aspiration may prove elusive. The observable trend suggests that Black individuals barred from prestigious galleries that fund production costs or omitted from biennials prior to Oct 7th will likely encounter further marginalization. The 'vocal' presence in the arts will, regrettably, veer even closer to resembling white individuals virtue signaling more than ever before. The pervasive backlash and prejudice witnessed after the Black art market boom of 2014-2020, compounded by the current white backlash endorsing occupiers in various interconnected genocides, present a devastating reality. Nevertheless, my enduring faith in Black people and Black art remains unwavering.

In 2024, 'Ancient Clay' will exclusively feature posts highlighting art that resonates with my aesthetic sensibilities and those I personally engage with during in-person visits.

[anniekoh]

Secondhand (Pepe) Directed by Hanna Rose Shell & Vanessa Bertozzi (2007, 24 min)

In this documentary about used clothing, the historical memoir of a Jewish immigrant rag picker intertwines with the present-day story of 'pepe' — secondhand clothing that flows from North America to Haiti. Secondhand (Pepe) animates the materiality of recycled clothes — their secret afterlives and the unspoken connections among people in an era of globalization. In the early 1900s, immigrant Jews from Eastern Europe collected, sorted, and sold secondhand clothing. As the Jewish peddlers made their way through North American city streets, they called out 'Rags, Bones, Bottles!' Today, at the beginning of the 21st century, the used clothing industry has gone global. Billions of pounds go to developing nations each year. Used American clothes play an especially central role in Haiti where, as one peddler reveals, 'It's all pepe, all the time.' Dreamlike visuals and ethereal sounds intermix the beats of Jewish klezmer and Haitian rara music. Luke Fischbeck (Lucky Dragons) has composed the soundtrack of the film with an artful and nuanced ear, emphasizing the ruptures and looped connections among diasporic cultures. Secondhand (Pepe)'s two stories converge as American castoffs travel from the Jewish memoir reader's rag factory to the Haitian shores. As pepe makes its way to Port-au-Prince, passing through an intricate network of peddlers, seamstresses and entrepreneurs, the past recycles into the present.

[ilikereadingactually]

Gender Queer

Gender Queer: a Memoir by Maia Kobabe

now seemed like a great time to finally pick up this graphic memoir: it's Pride month, and Gender Queer is the most challenged book in the country amid so many efforts to curb freedom of access to information and a terrifying increase in anti-trans legislation. also, the latest ep of @fansplaining is a delightful interview with Maia Kobabe (check out that shiny transcript <3)! so the stars aligned for me.

i knew i was going to love this book, and i did! everything about it delights me: the art, the emotional and physical frankness of it, the narrative of shifting labels and feelings and confusion that i think is relatable to a lot of queers, myself included! this book gave me, among other things, some new angles to consider my own identifiers, how they've shifted over time, and why they feel right.

and it's always just such a pleasure for me to read about how fandom intersects with and helps form identity, for other fannish people. it makes me feel in community and makes me feel unbearably fond, like putting on someone else's glasses as if that will reveal to you the way that person sees the world. Kobabe's piles of books, eir questions about what appeals and why, the ways in which fannish life and "real" life converge into just life, it's all so wonderful.

also? i know i already said the art is great but really, it's great!! an extremely charming style, emotive and clear, sort of...soothing to look at? i don't know how to describe it except that it makes my eyes and my brain very happy.

the deets

how i read it: i read the paperback, from the college library consortium where i work! i definitely want to add it to my home library though, so it's going on the list for my next bookstore trip.

try this if you: have given a lot of thought to your gender and sexuality, have never given a lot of thought to your gender and sexuality, were a bookish/fannish/nerdy kid, cry when you listen to Dar Williams sing "When I Was a Boy," or just are nosy and love a peek into someone else's life.

a panel i really liked: What Would Taako Wear is also a way i pick outfits

[emilianadarling]

For the ask meme: 13, 29, and 35, please!

Continuing to work through the submissions I got for the writer ask meme. :3

Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird)

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

Oof. I suppose on the 'difficult' front, there's a spectrum between:

'difficult to write about but I still DO write about it', and

'so difficult to write about that I choose not to write about it, period'.

In the former category, we have *wince* things like trauma to hands and fingers, which is very deeply unpleasant to write about but I absolutely WILL and HAVE done it. It's aksjdhajksdhkjsahdj to write about for me personally, but I CAN soldier through.

For those of you who've read Until My Dying Breath from way back in 2011-2012, I quite literally had to write the 'Vampire!Kurt snaps a guy's wrists backward like twigs' scene with my eyes averted as I typed, my little 21-22 year old self going 'ahh' 'AHHH' out loud at the laptop screen as I did so, then went back and edited out all the typos another day once I'd had a chance to steel myself. I don't LIKE writing it, but I have and will again.

Then there is the 'so difficult to write about that I choose not to write about it, period' end of the spectrum, which is for me a more pernicious kind of difficulty. For me, that's things like partner betrayal, infidelity, certain fundamental betrayals between close family. I can feel out of my skin for days after encountering those elements in stories unexpectedly, and so it's just not a topic I have much desire to feature as central elements of my writing.

Obligatory 'writing battle scenes is also hard' note here lmao, but while it's true and they ARE, I think working through my battle scene anxieties by way of repeated exposure and beta reader/collaborator support.

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry?

The first thing that came to mind are these passages from On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King:

"... good story ideas seem to come quite literally from nowhere, sailing at you right out of the empty sky: two previously unrelated ideas come together and make something new under the sun. Your job isn’t to find these ideas but to recognize them when they show up."[...]

"We are writers, and we never ask one another where we get our ideas; we know we don’t know."

This may not be everyone's experience, but there are elements that certainly echo my own. Sometimes it strikes all at once, a convergence of concepts into a story you want to read so badly you feel compelled to craft it into existence.

The next closest answer I can give is "other people's stories", because everything is a story and the world is a story and we all creatively stand on the shoulders of giants. We build upon the stories that fed us!!!

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

Perhaps not into smithereens, but I do have a counterpoint to Orwell’s Rule: "never use a long word when a short word will do".

While the underlying sentiment is, for me, often supportable... in practice, my gut preference is to go with the word that describes the thing as precisely, evocatively, and accurately as possible. Often times, that's a shorter one; sometimes, it's a longer one.

There are some words out there that are apt as fuck. 'Load-bearing words', if you will. Describing Din's armor as "a metallurgical second skin" gave me bone-deep satisfaction during revisions. It just felt right, and I knew Caro would LOVE it once they did their beta reading pass... and they DID.

So -- short words are OFTEN better, in my eyes. But not always. Sometimes, a longer word will do.

[evermorestays]

CONCEPT

The idea of becoming one lingers in our reveries—where our encounters converge at the most exquisite moments. We shall cherish the thought of staying together in the utmost blessedness.

The wish for timeless memoir has filled our lungs—and separation becomes the ultimate enemy. However, this isn’t something to worry, as the loyalty and certainty that holds become the armor that shields, has prevent us from the sorrow of distance.

Alwaysness has shaped the serenity of intimacy, where hearts linger and eyes remain locked on one another. No matter how many miles separate us, the bond becomes an unbreakable force, transcending time and place, nurturing trust and tranquility between the two hearts that tied.

We provide the warmest home to embrace the essence of togetherness—thriving on a foundation of love and trust, bound by an ethereal connection.