blessings for an elay woman: imagination, intelligence, endurance
Anonymous asked: Your a stupid fucktard, and I hope that you never find happiness and self assurance with your sexuality . We risk our lives to protect the very freedoms that allow you to be Transgender without fear of death like in other countries
in case you can’t be bothered reading: the US military, CIA and government in general were involved in destabilising my part of the world and bring about the deaths and torture of thousands of south americans. Moreover, US involvement in the 90s and 2000s choked our economy and continued to force neoliberalism down our throats to pay our debts, making us be locked in a cycle of debt we could never repay. But in order to make payments, we had to sell off national assets and bleed our economy dry, which of course, always affects the poorer sectors of the population. More info here: http://www.gregpalast.com/who-shot-argentinathe-finger-prints-on-the-smoking-gun-read-imf%E2%80%99/
Your country, especially its military, has DIRECTLY ACTED AGAINST MY FREEDOM. Your country has taken part in the MURDERING OF PEOPLE IN MY COUNTRY AND REGION OF THE WORLD. And my country, Argentina? Has a much more progressive legislation in terms of gender and sexuality than the US or any European country.
Fuck you, you ignorant cunt. NEXT.
I was thinking about going back to setting up RSS feeds for blogs I want to follow, which I haven’t done in a really long time, and it occurred to me that all of these RSS aggregation services out there are able to collect all sorts of data about what I read, and that pisses me off.
Since the success of Google and Facebook and Twitter, Internet usage by most people has been completely taken over by business models which offer services for free in exchange for the right of these companies to access your personal data and metadata.
This is not the Internet that those of us who built the Internet in the 1990’s envisioned. We envisioned an Internet run by common communication protocols, where people ran their own servers and controlled their own data. I, too, fell prey to these services, but over the years, I have become increasingly suspect of these companies and increasingly tired of their constant intrusion into my life.
I think that those of us who care about information freedom, privacy, and security really need to take several steps back and re-examine the systems that we used 20 years ago.
One of the primary examples I have always championed is NNTP services. News servers don’t have to be USENET. They can be privately run. They can be encrypted. And we can create a network of them, if we wish. We can create subnetworks of subgroups. We might need some new NNTP readers, though, since the popularity of NNTP has fallen off the radar. Whatever happened to NNTP to HTTP gateways? Why aren’t we using them instead of web forum software?
We can run our own webservers, again, and stop using free blogging platforms. We can return to email run on our own servers, and refuse to deliver email to Gmail. Google’s business is data driven, and Google captures every bit of data it can. We can stop using Android, or at the very least, rip out every bit of it we can and still have a functional system for communications.
We can run our own backups. We can go back. We can run browsers that don’t forward usage data to Google.
I’m tired of being someone else’s product. I’m tired of seeing highly paid tech people gentrify the neighborhoods that queer people built until queers can afford their own homes, anymore, when queers and other non-conformists are locked out of those highly paid jobs. A 2-bedroom apartment in San Francisco now averages over $4K/mo rent.
Google’s supposed motto is “Don’t be evil.” But Google is the proverbial devil, himself. We are literally selling our souls to Google in exchange for a pittance.
The Internet was a disruptive technology. Now, the Internet needs to be disrupted.
Because I can’t get past that comment she made that denigrated Filipinas, and as a Filipina, I feel very personally betrayed by a woman who to me is not some abstract figure on a screen, but someone who I see standing next to me every time I pick up my high school yearbook. That’s why.
“At this time, within the Collective, I was planning on converting the living room of the house next door to be a school so that we could teach women to record, so that there would be a lot of women with engineering skills. In the meantime, we’re getting hate mail about me. After a while the hate mail got so vicious that Sandy, who worked in the mail room, made a decision to not pass that mail along to me. This was vile stuff. A lot of it included death threats. They would let me know about the death threats after a while. The death threats were directed at me, but there were violent consequences proposed for the Collective if they didn’t get rid of me.
We had organized this tour and we had gotten a letter telling us that when we got to Seattle that there was a separatist paramilitary group called the Gorgons. The Gorgons was a group of women who wore cammo gear, shaved their heads and carried live weapons. We were told that when we got to town, they were going to kill me.
We did, in fact, go to Seattle, but we went as probably the only women’s music tour that was ever done with serious muscle security. They were very alert for weapons and, in fact, Gorgons did come and they did have guns taken away from them.
I talked to Robin Tyler and she told me about how TERFs physically attacked her for standing between them and a trans women they wanted to beat at the 1973 Lesbian Conference. These radical feminist institutions – the 73 Conference, Olivia Records – they were trans-inclusive. Each time TERFs turned to harassment and violence to insert themselves into feminist spaces. Thus far, TERFs like Raymond have gotten away with creating this false narrative about how their Radical Feminist spaces were being invaded by violent trans women and it’s just not the case.”
I just want to do a quick recap of this: Sandy has people say terrible things about her and what they imagine to be her psychotic state. She says “That’s bullshit!” which sparks outrage over her “male energy” and how she is acting out her “male entitlement.”
Out of that outrage a paramilitary group begins sending her death threats if she and the collective she is a part of don’t give in to their demands. It is verified that they are serious threats with the intent and ability to carry off the assassination. They show up to an event she is a part of at with loaded guns, presumably to kill her. No one calls this behavior “male energy” or “male entitlement.”
Lord George Clive was cousin of Robert Clive, founder of the empire of British India. He made his fortune there. Clearly the painter found the Indian nurse’s depiction his greatest pleasure.
Is it just me or do the white family look unreal and vacant despite contrasting the dark shades of the back drop. Yet the nurse pops and looks tangible and alive.
A lot of people have responded similarly about the contrast between the white colonial family and the indigenous woman in this painting. Even the child is nearly as white and stiff as a corpse…and yet, these images were intentionally idealized in this manner; their very whiteness can be seen as a rebuke to the Indian woman’s vivid, tangible presence here.
Chromophobia is marked, not just by the desire to eradicate color, but also to control and to master its forces. When we do use color, there’s some sense that it needs to be controlled; that there are rules to its use, either in terms of its quantity or its symbolic applications (e.g., don’t paint your dining room blue because it suppresses appetite). Please note that I’m not arguing against color psychology; it’s undeniable that certain colors carry certain cultural assumptions and associations, a fact that has led anthropologist Michael Taussig to argue that color should be considered a manifestation of the sacred.
But what I am arguing is that there is a pervasive idea that color gets us in the gut: it’s seductive, emotional, compelling. Color, in the words of nineteenth-century art theorist Charles Blanc, often “turns the mind from its course, changes the sentiment, swallows the thought.”
According to some art critics, sensory anthropologists, and historians, this mutual attraction and repulsion to color has centuries-old roots, bound up in a colonial past and fears of the unknown.
Michael Taussig has recounted that from the seventeenth century, the British East India Company centered much of its trade on brightly colored, cheap, and dye-fast cotton textiles imported from India. Because of the Calico Acts of 1700 and 1720, which supported the interests of the wool and silk weaving guilds, these textiles could only be imported into England with the proviso that they were destined for export again, generally to the English colonies in the Caribbean or Africa.
These vibrant textiles played a key part in the African trade, and especially in the African slave trade, where British traders would use the textiles to purchase slaves. According to Michael Taussig, these trades are significant not only because they linked chromophilic areas like India and Africa, but also because
“color achieved greater conquests than European-instigated violence during the preceding four centuries of the slave trade. The first European slavers, the Portuguese in the fifteenth century, quickly learned that to get slaves they had to trade for slaves with African chiefs and kings, not kidnap them, and they conducted this trade with colored fabrics in lieu of violence.”
Where I differ with Taussig is that there is very little doubt in my mind that using the concept of aesthetics in the manner can absolutely be a form of violence, and that art can be used to subjugate.
So when you consider the historical context of the painting in the original post, it becomes entirely likely that the stiffness and whiteness of the colonial family is meant as a desirable contrast to the vibrantly alive Indian woman.
And you should also consider what kind of ideas you have about her from the painting, and think on how your view of her is affected by the context. Is she somehow more “natural” or “wild” than the family? Is she “earthy”? How is her existence affected by the fact that she is situated below even the child in the composition…do her arms ache from holding her up?
I had never seen this painting before it was submitted, and I wonder why that is. There are a lot of things about it that are unpleasant, but the ideas in it influence us anyways.
This is all super important to know even if you don’t cook/bake, because one time I confused teaspoon and tablespoon when taking medication with codeine and passed out on the couch for 14 hours.
Or you could just learn to count by fucking 10 and use the metric system. Which doesn’t need a complicated ass chart to remember/understand.
You really need to calm down
this makes me really miss metric :(
Fucking metric assholes. You think the metric system is so logical, but you have no idea that the metre was completely arbitrarily decided upon as one ten-millionth the distance from the Equator to the North Pole on a meridian running through Paris, and the modern definition didn’t even have the good sense to just round off the speed of light to 300,000,000 metres per second, instead of 299,792,458, a difference of only .06% that would have made calculations massively easier.
The metric system bears no relationship whatsoever to the proportions of the human body, and is particularly ill-suited to dealing with food measurements. A pound of food is a good meal. A pound of spaghetti feeds four people. What the fuck is 453.592 grams?
And if you can’t do simple fractions in your head, I don’t want you anywhere near the preparation of my food, understand? By the way, the metric system is so fucked up, we have to change the sizes of metric equivalents just to make them make sense. A cup is technically 236.588 ml, but we use 240 ml in just about every official equivalency system. An ounce is 28.3495 grams, until you are calculating nutrition or recipes, when an ounce magically becomes 30 g, because otherwise you need a damned scientific calculator.
So now, when I publish a recipe, I have to say 60 ml, 80 ml, 120 ml, or 240 ml, instead of ¼ c, ⅓ c, ½ c, or 1 c.
A teaspoon in 5 ml, and a tablespoon is 15 ml. Even though technically, they’re not. So now, a pint isn’t “a pound, the world around”.
The reason we don’t count by ten in food is because ten is a completely useless number when it comes to food for the average person. The only people who routinely use tens in cooking are bakers, because bakers deal primarily in ratios by weight.
Wake me up when someone gets around to making a 1/3 teaspoon measuring spoon, ok? I need one. For reasons.
“The people who rule America no longer need Black labor. What they do need is a class that is forcibly anchored at the bottom of U.S. society, who can be scapegoated for whatever is wrong with America, and whose very presence serves as an excuse for massive urban dislocation and the steady erosion of civil liberties. Michael Brown and countless others have died in order to keep America deeply stratified. That’s the only use the United States has for young Black men.”
With all the talk about depression, I feel as if I need to say that I have suffered from depression all my life, at least as far back as my teenage years. I struggled with it all through high school, and it was a major reason why I effectively failed out of college in my first semester at Carnegie-Mellon. There was at least one period during that semester when i didnt’ get out of bed for a week, save to use the toilet.
I now, of course, realise that one of the major causes of my depression throughout my life has been my issues of self-identity, and that I really should have sought help at that point, and transitioned. I am very glad to have put that behind me. I still suffer from bouts of depression, because being out has introduced a whole new set of circumstances into my life, many of which have led to negative consequences for me.
Seeking treatment for my depression always seemed like an admission that there was something “wrong” with me, when I knew deep down that there wasn’t anything “wrong” with me. It bothers me when I hear people say the depression is a disease or a mental illness. It is my belief that most often, depression is a symptom, a reaction to external circumstances that are usually entirely beyond our control.
In the case of trans people, the depression that many of us feel has nothing to do with who we are, but with how we are treated by society, and for this reason, there are strong arguments for removing Gender Dysphoria from the DSM entirely. It is actually in direct contravention of the APA guidelines to consider reactions caused by societal non-acceptance as disordered.
This is not to say that depression cannot be treated, or that it should not be treated, but that most often, we speak of treating the symptoms of depression, and not the causes. Depression is a natural reaction to bad circumstances that we cannot control. It is the circumstances which need treatment, not the reaction.
Having lived with depression for so long, I know that one of the primary reasons why people in our culture suffer from depression is because our culture has become so neoliberal, so productivist, so proprietarian, so hyper-individualistic. The onus for success in our culture is placed upon the individual, with little regard, if any, to the structural conditions of the individual’s surrounding circumstances. Even when we believe we recognise the marginalisation of many people, deep down, we still suspect that if they just “tried harder” or “worked harder”, they’d “lift themselves up by their bootstraps”. We see one success story, and commit the fallacy of applying that to all people. “If they can do it, why can’t you/I?”
We say things like “it takes a village”, but we don’t really mean it. What we really mean is “not in my village”. If we could stop thinking of Life as a race or a combat, or a contest, we could eliminate so much depression, so much unhappiness. If people knew that their basic sustenance were assured, how much misery would simply cease!
Those of us who feel things deeply, profoundly, are often drawn to outlets of immediate emotional performance, like music, theatre, and comedy. Being good at these endeavors really requires one to strip away the barriers between our emotions and our intellects. It is a dangerous and fearsome process, not to be undertaken lightly. I am never particularly shocked when I hear of the death by suicide of another performer.
Some days, I honestly don’t know why I’m still alive. Maybe it’s because I hate not seeing the ends of things. Maybe that’s why so much of my music is written as if it were a theme song to be played over the credits at the end of a film. Maybe it’s just that I’ve survived so long that I know what it takes to endure one more day, and another, and another. Maybe it’s because a very long time ago, I said to myself, “Tomorrow can be better.” Not, “tomorrow *will* be better”, just that it might be, and unless I’m here to give myself that chance, I’ll never know, If there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s a possibility.
One thing I know for sure is that I did not become a performer because I seek attention. I became a performer because I needed to know that the things I feel are things that others feel, as well. I needed other people to know what I felt, because I felt sure they felt the same way, and were to scared to speak it.
The most important thing you can be in this world is vulnerable to others, open to their emotions, open with your own. Loneliness is a terrible thing, and so easy to wipe away. True strength is the courage to display the things about ourselves of which we are the most ashamed. Shame never survives fresh air and sunlight. I guarantee you, there is nothing you could possibly be ashamed of about yourself that someone else you know hasn’t also felt.
My love to you all. Courage to you all. Peace to you all.
The year is 1925. Fresh out of Hogwarts, Newt Scamander finds himself struggling with the banality of working for the Ministry of Magic. When the United Wizarding Republic invites him to investigate a rogue dragon living in the sewer systems of New York City, however, Newt’s boring life is plunged into chaos. New York City is dark, dirty, and dazzling, but with a little help from Nella Larson and Duke Ellington - the brightest witch and wizard of their age - Newt finally starts to feel that New York is home. Together, the Nella and Duke teach Newt how to do the Charleston, how to buy Butterbeer off the blackmarket, and, of course, how to save New York City from a hoard of angry dragons.