“Courses in the humanities, in particular, often seem impractical, but they are vital, because they stretch your imagination and challenge your mind to become more responsive, more critical, bigger. You need resources to prevent your mind from becoming narrower and more routinized in later life. This is your chance to get them.”—via letstalkequality
“It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame…”— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (via colporteur)
“Since we all came from woman, got our name from a woman and our game from a woman. I wonder why we take from our women. Why we rape our women, do we hate our women? I think it’s time to kill for our women. Time to heal our women, be real to our women.”—
“If I were really asked to define myself, I wouldn’t start with race; I wouldn’t start with blackness; I wouldn’t start with gender; I wouldn’t start with feminism. I would start with stripping down to what fundamentally informs my life, which is that I’m a seeker on the path. I think of feminism, and I think of anti-racist struggles as part of it. But where I stand spiritually is, steadfastly, on a path about love.”—
“Yes, I was infatuated with you; I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.”—(via fuckyeahsylviaplath)
“We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography - to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience. All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.”— Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient (via colporteur)
"Knocked on your door at dawn with a spark in my heart"
—The wine & cheese tasting at Omar’s Wednesday night was so nice. I’d definitely do it again. The wines were lovely, although I’m almost embarrassed to admit, I was equally, if not more wild, about the cheeses. Mmm, those good imported cheeses. There were some stuffy Stepford wives at our table, but we made a vow to take at least six people next time so we could claim our own table. I secretly hoped a member of the art department that Mama knew was going to join us because I’m usually fascinated and fall in love in 2 seconds with artists, but he sat with some others. We were left to stare at the brigade of local aristocracy in front of us, and their conversation sort of made me want to puke. I do adore Mama through. When one sniveled down from her pedestal, “Are you new here ?” (like on Pretty fucking Woman when she tries to go shopping) Mama responded equally cutting & disparagingly, “Why, do we look like virgins?” Then I ate some more cheese & drank some more wine and decided that even braving the Coven at our table was worth it for the wine & cheese.
—The College of Fine Arts definitely created a wonderful evening. I wish we would’ve had more time to spend in the Bradbury Gallery since they didn’t open it early, but only during intermission (which seemed pretty ridiculous as there were people milling around that would’ve had the opportunity to look at it). This year’s Biennial was really exceptional. I loved a piece by Rowe, several by Salvest, Carlyle, and Wilcoxen. Everything was really great, but I really wish I would’ve had more time, and unfortunately, yesterday night was the last night.
The music department was really outstanding too. One of them stole the show, for me, though. This Ichabod Crane-esque woman with a mop of curls warred with a piano and brought forth the most amazing music. Her slender wrists were as graceful and fluid as waves or cats while she played, in contrast to this awkward, yet beautiful, way she hunched over and pounded keys and then leaned back, raised her eyes upward and lightly pinged. When she’d play a really energetic piece, her curls would bounce all over, and she would scowl. Her face was exceedingly pale, but she had made up her cheeks with a bright pink blush that made her look like a china doll. She sat on that stage, all wood, like the inside of the belly of a tree trunk, and she was captivating. If I were a man, I would’ve fallen in love with her. As a former English major, I immediately became frustrated with how to present her on paper, and I studied her all night trying to think of how I’d make a go at it. Gave up after an hour or so, thinking how everything would sound unoriginal and vapid when you’d seen her in the flesh. This is why I’m not an English major anymore. I had a similar experience once before, and I realized, for the first time in my life, that there was a time when words failed me. Not long after, I started looking for another major. I still love literature and write in my notebooks, but I truly thought, if I can’t commit this person to paper, I’m through. Things like that really do change me, shake me. I didn’t feel like a failure only that it was important for me to capture him, and when I couldn’t, I became disgusted with my novice.
—Nerd Pride, Pt. II: We’re really going to it in my US Women’s History course. We meet in class, and we also have a pretty demanding online component. Anyway, I was one of two people who got the proverbial gold star the other day with my discussion on women in the Civil Rights movement. She called us out in class, and I beamed like the fucking cat that ate the canary. Oh hi, I’m obnoxious; nice to meetcha.
I was going to focus my research paper at the end of the term on that, but I’m really fascinated by two other areas. Because this paper will be largely original research, i.e. she doesn’t like using very many secondary sources at all, I would like to pick something that I really feel is a) more interesting/more importantly fresh to me, and b) while women’s role in the Civil Rights movement is interesting, there’s quite a bit out there already. She wants you to track people down and do interviews, spend hours in the library, and really uncover something new. Where I find time to do this with a 40 hour a week job and another equally demanding upper level course, I don’t know, but for now, I’m pretty captivated by this class so it’s okay. Anyway, I sort of want to research something to do with early lesbianism in the States. I know there are a lot of well scholared ladies on queer studies on my friend’s list, and I need your help. I’m looking for good resources for digging up primary sources. I’ve already got some leads on excellent memoirs and books, but any help you could provide just as a sparking point would be most appreciated. My second vein was something to do with early brothels, but really, I’m more interested in the early lesbianism. Minority studies of any form clearly interest me. Message me if you have any tips, links, or guidance.
—Need Date/Driver for the Following (let me know if you’re interested): the Gossip at Vino’s in Little Rock on October 30th (Tickets are only $15 in advance)
—Recent favorite song: Smog/”Let Me See the Colts”
—My classes are going well. I’m taking The Age of Jim Crow, a special topics class taught by my number one lady crush, Dr. Jones-Branch and US Women’s History class, taught by my latest lady crush, Dr. Wilkerson-Freeman. Hyphenated identity preserving last names, modern qualifiers: "so-called blacks" and "so-called whites", health care reform buttons firmly attached to lapels, discussions on the oppressive Pauline doctrine, and my nerd pride at dominating the conversation on Dixon’s The Clansmen. The classes are both thought provoking, tough, and extremely rewarding.
—In a similar vein, I spoke with the charming Dr. Adams about my plans after getting my bachelor’s degree, and lo and behold, he had some recommendations for schools. The University of Michigan looks exceptionally promising. He also was generous enough to offer to put me in touch with contacts he had there as need be. I must admit I’m still partial to relocating to Chicago after I finally finish this mess of a bachelor’s degree though.
—She stopped mid conversation & charmingly told me, “You look like a model from another era.”
—PROCURING PIXIES TICKETS. Powers that be, I can die happy after this one.
—Shopping: eye makeup remover, a slip, bag of Hershey’s Candy Corn kisses & bag of Pumpkin Spice kisses, bag of Lindt Stracciatella truffles, Glade Plug-In, cat food. Priorities.
—While I rarely watch television, I’ve somehow become addicted to Bravo’s Top Chef. I think it has a lot to do with the ragingly cute activist lesbian, Ashley Merriman (actually they have two lesbians this season & a gay guy. Kudos, Bravo.). She gets pretty pissed during one episode when the chefs have a challenge to cook for a wedding, and she lashes out, saying, “I find it beyond comprehension making us go do a wedding challenge when at least three of us in the challenge aren’t allowed in that institution.” For people that question whether or not it was the “right place to debate gay marriage,” hang it. In my opinion, there is never a wrong place to stand up for your convictions.
—All I ever do is date anymore. It’s interesting. I’m thinking of writing a book. I need more dates first. Want to help me? If you’ve been thinking about asking me out, please do. I’m not guaranteeing anything will work out, but it will provide fodder. I’m trying to figure out an angle, but don’t worry, people fascinate me. I’ll come up with something. Maybe I’ll be less ambitious and start with a ‘zine first. Everyone knows I’m all about second best. The one thing I will say about this dating thing is I find out more and more about myself. I find out about how I’m able to stand on my own. I discover that I should be valued in a relationship, and I come to terms with the fact that I’m okay alone. Hell, I’m happy alone. That’s not to say that I’m not open to finding someone. That’s not to say that I’ve had all horrible dates, not true at all. I just somehow find out all these things about myself when trying to reveal myself over dinner. I hear myself say things, and I think “Wow, that’s really true.” The successful dates I’ve represented myself honestly and had good conversation and whether or not there is the potential for a second date, I’ve been upfront and something about that is comforting.
—They’re doing Little Shop of Horrors at the Fowler Center this season.
—She asks if she can take photos of me, and I’m sort of confused as to why anyone would want to photograph me. It makes me sort of nervous (it’s different when I play by myself in front of a camera), but she maintains that I have “beautiful strong features” and she assures me she’ll make me comfortable. “You’re charming and adorable, but there’s something deeper there too.” I shake a bit, and think, I’ll need a shot for this. We’ll see. Maybe I can add it to my muse portfolio where two friends have drawn me for art projects. It is interesting to stare and realize, so this is how you see me. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself, but it’s even more shocking when I do.
—I don’t even relate to most people anymore. I’ve come into my little cozy shell again, and I love it here. I am prone to disdain, and I find myself becoming more and more reclusive with the exception of the dating factor. I go out. I talk in class, and all the while, I think, “Wow, I’m so happy alone.” All I want to do is to be left with people who don’t press me when I want to be quiet. All I want is to not have to be the entertainment or have to play the jester all the time. I am so in love with silence sometimes. I never answer the phone anymore. I don’t respond to emails. I consistently dart down halls to avoid conversation when I see someone approaching. I’m afraid they will ask me how I’m doing, and I’ll have to feign charm when I really just don’t want to answer. There’s not enough time. While getting a pedicure on Friday, I crawl into a magazine so I can avoid making conversation and it’s absolutely perfect. I so want to go the Brooks Museum in Memphis. Must see the upcoming exhibition, Masterpieces from Museo de Arte de Ponce. Want to walk through and pour over everything with someone else who appreciates that sort of thing, but I don’t really know anyone that appreciates that sort of thing. I don’t have many friends with similar interests. Want to watch the Marx Brothers in bed. My Grandmother calls my Mother yesterday, says, “I have a boy for Sarah. I’ve found a boy,” and I think, “My life mimics Broken English more and more every day.” I get texts that read, “I have a boy for you,” and I sigh. I want to crawl into art, literature, and music. I’m tired of the orchestration of my love life. It bores me now. Contrary to how this sounds, I’m not unhappy in the least. I am learning a lot about myself, and I learn a lot about the sort of good men that I adore.
—I wish it would stop raining. I sort of want to walk around the fair this week.
“he gives you a book of poems that he has written within the last six months.You read them late in the afternoon. They might as well be titled, “You Are Not The One,” or “I Remember Everyone But You Even Though You’re The Only Set Of Hands Still Here.” Well, fuck. What are you supposed to do with that?”—