I want more girl byronic figures, I want more reckless self-important girl libertines leaving a string of broken men in their wake while dashing off poems and getting into obscene wagers. I want girl characters that are just on the charming mercurial side of unlikeable arseholes and definitely morally questionable, but always game for a revolution.
“We never say that all men deserve to feel beautiful. We never say that each man is beautiful in his own way. We don’t have huge campaigns aimed at young boys trying to convince them that they’re attractive, probably because we very rarely correlate a man’s worth with his appearance. The problem is that a woman’s value in this world is still very much attached to her appearance, and telling her that she should or deserves to feel beautiful does more to promote that than negate it. Telling women that they “deserve” to feel pretty plays right in to the idea that prettiness should be important to them. And having books and movies aimed at young women where every female protagonist turns out to be beautiful (whereas many of the antagonists are described in much less flattering terms) reinforces the message that beauty has some kind of morality attached to it, and that all heroines are somehow pretty.”—You Don’t Have To Be Pretty – On YA Fiction And Beauty As A Priority | The Belle Jar (via brutereason)
Mythpunk refers to ‘a subgenre of mythic fiction’ in which classical folklore and faerie tales get hyper-poetic postmodern makeovers. Coined by author Catherynne M. Valente, the term describes a brand of speculative fiction which starts in folklore and…
I don’t know it this is quite what The Exiles is, I mean I have less baroque-ness, but I am remixing and reimagining mythological themes, so…
Anyway, a real punk wouldn’t ask to be part of a genre.
I am the wind that troubles the water;
I am the water, and the waves;
I am the shore where the waves break in rainbows;
I am the sunlight that shines in the spray;
I am the trees that drink in the light;
I am the air of the green-things’ breathing;
I am the stone that the trees break asunder;
I am the molten heart of the world-
where will you go? To what place will you wander?
…in vale or on hilltop, still I am there…
Will you sound the sea’s depth, or climb the mountain?
In air or in water, still I am there;
Will the earth cover you? Will the night hide you?
In deep or in darkness, still I am there
Will you kindle the nova? Or kill the starlight?
In fire or in deathcold, still I am there
“Oh we’re a mess, poor humans, poor flesh—hybrids of angels and animals, dolls with diamonds stuffed inside them We’ve been to the moon and we’re still fighting over Jerusalem. Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It’s two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet. I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I’d know it was something true. Now I’m trying to dig deeper.
I didn’t want to write these pages until there were no hard feelings, no sharp ones. I do not have that luxury. I am sad and angry and I want everyone to be alive again. I want more landmarks, less landmines. I want to be grateful but I’m having a hard time with it.”—Richard Siken, Spork Editor’s Pages: Black Telephone (via srgebarnes)
“I want to see more girl monsters. Girl giants, girl dragons, hulks & trolls. Scylla and hydra. Girl monsters who are huge and whole. Teeth and plush fur and long muscled tails. Heads enough to see you anywhere. Gleaming green or brown. But girl monsters are usually zombies or vampires. Pale and thin, bleeding or dead. Not Lady Lazarus, not a phoenix from the ash. I want to see how you get strong without being broken first. Get strong and stay strong. Get big and bigger.”—
“It’s a very Greek idea, and a very profound one. Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. And what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely? To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to shatter the accident of our mortal selves? Euripides speaks of the Maenads: head thrown back, throat to the stars, “more like deer than human beings.” To be absolutely free! One is quite capable, of course, of working out these destructive passions in more vulgar and less efficient ways. But how glorious to release them in a single burst! To sing, to scream, to dance barefoot in the woods in the dead of night, with no more awareness of mortality than an animal! These are powerful mysteries. The bellowing of bulls. Springs of honey bubbling from the ground. If we are strong enough in our souls we can rip away the veil and look that naked, terrible beauty right in the face; let God consume us, devour us, unstring our bones. Then spit us out reborn.”—
“We abide by cultural directives that urge us: clarify each thought, each experience, so that you can cull from them their single, dominant meaning and, in the process, become a responsible adult who knows what he or she thinks. But what I try to show is the opposite: how at every moment, the world presents us with a composition in which a multitude of meanings and realities are available, and you are able to swim, lucid and self-contained, in that turbulent sea of multiplicity.”—Richard Foreman, quoted by Maggie Nelson in The Art of Cruelty (via arabellesicardi)
“Some writing doesn’t brush up against sentimentality as often as other writing. But whatever ‘bad’ edge your writing brushes up against, I think it’s important to touch it. You can always pull back from it, but at least you know where it is. It’s like when I was a dancer, we were always encouraged to fall in rehearsal, so that you could know what the tipping point of any given movement was. That way, when you did it on the stage, you could be sure you were taking it to the edge without falling on your face. It sounds like a cliché, but really it’s just physics — if you don’t touch the fulcrum, you’ll never gain a felt sense of it, and your movement will be impoverished for it.”—Maggie Nelson, in response to ‘Is it important to risk sentimentality?’ in an interview with Genevieve Hudson for Bookslut (via arabellesicardi)
reverse hades/persephone, where the young daughter of summer uses plant magic to ensnare the lord of darkness and keep him prisoner in a beautiful garden above ground. Eventually, enchanted by her cleverness and wild youth he agrees to eat…
It’s 3:45 am, and my mood is a three way split between being satisfied and happy about my friends, excited about my new dark red lipstick, and incredibly freaked out over the pervasive dehumanization inherent in capitalism.
It’s like happy sighs mixed with an edge of angst.
The fact that I reblogged this to my other blog and tagged it with the exiles (the group of friend at the center of my book, and where it gets its working title) and that I’m reblogging it here to talk about my friends should tell you something about how much this means to me.
And yeah, I have the best friends in the world. We care about each other so much, and will help each other through so much. Even as I learn how to say no and find my own boundries, my friends are encouraging me and cheering me on. Even when we annoy each other or step on our toes, we still love and value each other. We still have faith that we’ll grow as human beings and keep becoming more and ourselves, more and more the people we love. We’ve all got our rough edges and weak spots and pain, still we all can still see and remind each other of the places we’re strong and whole and necessary for this crazy universe. We stick together, and help each other grow as people. We’re all learning how to become- together.
I am so happy I have that opportunity. I’m so happy I have my friends. I’m so happy we can all see each other’s monsters, and take them the mark of our tribe.
I just returned from writing in a field with one of my friends- it’s night and we were up on Mountain Campus, away from all the lights. There were so many stars. Afterward, we just watched the sky. If anyone ever asks me why I write about magic, I’ll always answer that nights like remind me that it’s already here.
What if Pharaoh meant to kill the Hebrew girls, knowing their wombs could bring forth enemies? What if it was Miriam who rode the reeds and heard the voice of the Shechinah from the heart of the burning tree? It couldn’t have surprised her that the bush was not consumed; she…
“My own background is not dissimilar to Stephen’s and like many descendants of the Jewish Diaspora I did not grow up with storytelling as escape but storytelling as warning. You gain the understanding that your chosen home is both the refuge that has protected you but also the place that may turn against you… It is Stephen’s understanding of London as both invested and yet impassive, something that I feel comes from his refugee background, that has always rung very true to me and fascinated me about his work.”—Romola Garai on Stephen Poliakoff (via stephen-poliakoff)
So, I’m at work, and allowed to work on my novel on slow days. This means I have the wikipidia up for various horrible tortures used in execution in the middle ages. I hear someone coming, and I’m frantically trying to decide which tab would be the least incriminating… when I hear the people loudly discussing stage blood. I’m so glad I’m in professions that get me! :)
One day, John will graduate. He will cross the platform with his friends, the ones he has grown with, fought with, the ones who have seen him grow in understanding and love.
One day, John will kiss someone. It will not be the like the awkward peck he gave to his date after her prom, back before he came to Haven. He will mean it. He will discover, why, when people talk about love, they talk about stars, about fire.
One day, John will look around at his home, wherever that may be, and look at the order of his life- waking up, kissing his husband, leaving for his job making the world a better place (creating good, not destroying evil, he hears Phoenix say from a long ago memory). He will realize he has come home.
One year ago, John didn’t believe in this future. It took a long time, but now, he is beginning to.
So today, he took a marker and went to find Darin, to ask him to write the word “love” on John’s right arm, just where, one year ago, the bones were broken.
When he finds him, Darin already has it printed neatly along his own left wrist. As he hands the marker back to John, he whispers, “I’m glad you’re here.”
The cutest boy just walked into Dr.Countryman’s office to change the telephone… and then barely spoke to me. I feel like I fell into, and then quickly out of, a cheesy AU fanfic. Oddly enough, Unseelie Rooomate and I were joking that out life was an angsty college AU of one of our novels written by a high schooler last night.