1) Do you remember the summer
After we`d fallen
With words left unspoken
In golden-red skies
Two lives in a heartbeat
We learnt in one season
Under one sky
2) With waves of the ocean
Crashing around us
We painted our memories
Each to design
At night we went swimming
Her ghost it did haunt us
Defeated and broken
the world passed us by
3) So we would climb mountains
To see what we`d find there
To sleep amongst giants
Whilst breathing new fire
And now we are older
A distance between us
New lives we are living
Now I say goodbye
- Current Music:Brave New Storm
So I went to a workshop on writing lgbt stories, i wanted to document one online. The theme is vividly remembering a defining feature of your life when somebody made you feel yourself.
I’m sat in her warm bed; I can see the waves of a raging sea crashing down on the rocky beach from a distance. It’s early in the morning, really early. A pale fog engulfs Aberystwyth, casting a dark silhouette of the town. Gulls call out in the distance, whilst she comes in. She puts the radio on, its radio 6 and we drink tea. The tea warms my insides as I drink, its sweet and milky and I can feel the heat trickle down to my center. I’m sleepy, we had been up all night talking and walking on the beach- I notice my sand-covered boots lying on the floor next to my clothes.
A great inner conflict has been settled. I am at peace, no longer fidgeting and casting wary glances at the world. Peace, resolution. We drink our tea without talking, my leg is draped around hers. I look at the mirror on the wall, it’s covered with philosophical quotes. You see, I like to make stories up in my mind about reality; I read too much as a child and have a warped sense of reality, and false expectations about my lovers- so I had decided to try and create a perfect night with her, it sort of worked. We discussed Thoreau, Sartre and feminist poetry, and I had written things on the mirror in the hope to look engaged by our conversation, and most importantly spontaneous and creative. In her body my body feels light and free, my mind lucid. I start making plans. My plans
In the distance a train pulls out of a station with smoke billowing from its chimney, whistling farewell to the sea-side town. Its track winds round mountains, past the sea, into the distance.
- Current Mood:artistic
Baz Lurman has directed and written the screenplay for The Great Gatsby, which will be coming out later this year. The trailer really seems to sum up the energies of the lives portrayed in Fitzgerald works. Its certainly fast, lots of swift editing and special effects. Yet it seems to reduce the overwhelming complexities of the socialites decadent lifestyles, into a love story. If the social commentary of Fitzgeralds work is reduced to a boy-meets girl story (albeit in crazy NY during the prohibition), I will not be the only viewer who is left unsatisfied.
To those who believe an equalities officer is a legitimate position to tackle sexism, racism and homophobia ect, read this.
There is no one oppressive force within society that can be silenced, it’s not some old white guy lording it over everyone else, racism sexism ect have many roots in many differing places within society. Therefore giving the task to one individual within a university campus, is not only impractical, but asking the impossible.
For example, as a gay woman, I face stigmatization and oppression due to my sexuality. The origin of sexual oppression is based on entirely differing origins to say racism. LGBT stigmatization is rooted in Victorian dialects about “correct” sexuality. This is entirely distinct from the origins of racism, which are rooted in colonial academia. They are different things, and therefore require different responses.
To properly represent minorities, means to respond to backwards dialogue and actions. It is through understanding the roots of these variating forms of oppression, that people can therefore work out how to eradicate these beliefs. As oppression is diverse, it is illogical to place the huge workload of eradicating/reducing these forms of oppression on campus to one individual.
A theme explored in Edward Steins book "Forms Of Desire", is the notion that sexuality is a construct. A social construct could be seen as an artificial, malleable part of the human condition that is present at that moment in time, or over various periods of history. Whilst reading this book I was confronted by questions about my own sexuality. If homosexuality is a concept, have I adopted it for an unconscious reason, or is it a natural part of me?
I have often question my opposite-sex relations. I am occasionally attracted to men, but I cant seem to be truly attracted to them in the way women are. Is this through years of self regulation within a world that defines homosexuality as a particular thing, or because it is natural to have a more fluid form of sexuality. If I were to sleep with a man I liked, I would feel bad and that is absurd. Kinsey argued that people have fluid, and inter binary sexuality that span far and wide. Sexuality between straight and gay was only established by Victorians in the 19thC and psychologist in the 50s. So is se, and sexual orientation relative to the time? Throughout my degree i wish to explore this theory further.
Foucault argues that homosexuality is just a deviant from the norm, rather than same sex-relationships. I find it hard to believe that with the utter cacophony of representations over every aspect of life, that there can be an "essence" of a human being. Is this how i have sub-consciously chosen to act? If nothing is natural about human nature, perhaps
Philosophers have treated the theory of social construction as an eternal entity, and its valued in relation to the way objectivity would, which is unfair, as social construction is dismissing the standards by which these people judge its theory.
- Current Mood: sleepy
In the path of the countess,
As list of fertile admiration.
To make the groans and thunders of love
First. Lips, red, indifferent!
Second. A long flick of dark curls
Third, though twice over. Pools of green to harbour the soul
The Forth is clenched teeth, unlike polished pearls.
The fifth. Flaring nostrils, two to be precise
Sixth. The line traced by the Gods, around her hips and down below
The seventh is like a sin, hid between her legs. Like the juice of a sour fruit.
The last is butt the curve in her back, tis an archway to heaven and back
- Current Location:sheffield
- Current Music:Rage Against The Machine
These are the warriors I know
There are women like my friends,
who with the hands and minds of their sister-teachers from the past, are like thunder blasting across a night sky
A future gleam in their eyes, through their minds they teach themselves well learnt narratives of how they cant succeed, cant bear to breath, cant break to burst apart, these binding falsehoods of a half split brain that wont work in men’s ways
They are like verbal warriors who take ink to old worlds, tear out its pages and write a new paradise where women stand sister to sister, sister to brother, loved free an unbound
So the body is now a battlefield, upon some royal lost-lore of ancient hypocrisies, and dipping bodies out of existence, trace the history, and the mystery that has surrounded t. Smashing these walls
Lets us paint our faces and smash the places where we see mirrors of our bodies, of wirrors of our souls and mirrors of are whole “woman” on sale.
Half price gratification wont be found with women bounds, so let them feel their roots, they tug at them until they are loose, free
Free women, free from an old yellow world of rusty hearts, pursed lips, whispered words, rustling curtains and closed minds. Free from a womans thighs being ripped aside in war, from her heart being ripped from her legs, sold on the cover of magazines at your local stores
We are woman who do not forget our Herstory, our lives, our blood lots and days of servitude lost to the pillars that stop those before us, now crumble, king of kings no more. We rejoice at our vaginas, love our men as equals, as they do in return, and sex is fun and free again, now that patriarchy has gone
So rise blood stained warriors, and ink this you world, for you inspire me to create ideas, now the challenge is yours
There are women like my mother
She is like a flame that will never burn out. Whilst her children run amok, chasing the delights of the earth, she chants in chorus with them, rising to the tops of teachers, pushing and pulling at meaning
She is strong, but not so strong under the surface. She is a fierce tigress of protection, but a teacher of emotions. She is a lover of the world, a Kerouac burning candle, screaming her heart to the world. Still searching now, though the lines of age appear on her face; but no amount of wrinkles, Short hair, extended tummies or ignorant looks could stop her from devowering the world
And in each bite she takes those she loves with her, a shared journey of the soul, for all souls. No words are written, but hands grasped light, and each day for her is a new love, a new city, a new person
Broken, cracked roots scar her hands. Labours she has worked, hours she has lots, lives she dreamed only of. But She raised up true, leading life until you go past the point of return. She now burns bright down under the sky of a different world
And I am proud to be her daughter
- Current Mood: cheerful
- Current Music:Jon Hopkins
You descend from the attic, with your hands full of maps
A mind full of stories and voices from the past
And as these things call to you from across a desert plane
The wires around you cut, free to live again
So your feet start the beat of a drum on the road
And dust fills your lungs, mind full of the stories of old
Your fathers call from afar
As you take ink to page
And write who you are
So break out of the net and silence from your past
Like fire in the night sky, life blasting by fast
From the old worlds, where we were close to ourselves
And no head-bound daemons have stories to tell
So when the ruins of an old world crumble around you
The old faces and places of you past sink into the sea
Will you take to the Wild New Road, pen to earth and ink to skin
So your past, calls from afar
Take this sword and write pages anew
So we can build this all in a day
Watch it burn from afar
With our speed, on this wild new road
until it floods the names lodged in my cranium.
Through stone archways covered in moss, old willow branches creak, rooting me to the spot.
It is constant.
It feeds away at my mind, so that I am driven into worlds in between
Where life is a blur of sleep and awake, and ink drips into my mind from pages dug into the Earth
It is a lone, constant howl.
I am shackled to it at the Knee, the Throat, through my Back and through my Heart.
It growls at night, feeding on half digested books, words and verses. It is like a vulture, picking at the bones of my reality. Gnawing from my center.
One day, it may break out in rays of penetrating light, blasting holes through old thoughts and virtues.
But it doesnt
It remains there, ever present, ever real. it allows us to wallow in false truths, whilst tracing the lines of civilizations past.
It ties through blood, through brick and through bone. It creates all manner of apperitions for the voice inside
Someday, it may become a clear blue sky
Until then, it is a constant howl.
- Current Location:Sheffield
- Current Mood:accomplished