Coffeewasamistake - Drank A Double Espresso Once. Never Again.

Oh just FUCK RIGHT OFF

Where are the fics where Eddie Munson sees Indie underground pop Steve for the first time since high school and it’s THIS PICTURE and Eddie just???

Steve looks so soft??? What the fuck??

Cue feral rabid rat man Eddie devouring every scrap of Steve he can find like it’ll help solve the mystery of the real thing

A story within a story where a mother sits her rowdy children down and tells them a story about a the world's sweetest, kindest mother who never lost her temper, never cursed and never yelled at her children, no matter how rowdy they could get. She would only gently, kindly told them to not do the dangerous things. One day she sweetly, kindly told her children to not go play at the riverbank, because it's dangerous and they might slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die. Her children do not listen. They go play at the riverbank, where they slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die.

And the sweet perfect mother of the story comes to the riverbank, sees that all her children drowned, and starts crying so bitterly that angels overhear her, and the angels say to each other, "she does not deserve this, this woman has never done anything wrong in her life, this should not have happened to her", and feeling great pity for her, bring her children back to life, and after that they always listened to their mother and lived happily ever after.

And the storyteller's children, who at this point are familiar with the concept that these stories are supposed to have some sort of a moral or lesson in them, interject to point out that their mother hasn't always done everything perfectly, she isn't always sweet, curses a lot, and as a matter of fact loses her shit at her kids all the time. She isn't like the mother of the story at all.

And their mother agrees: Her children are correct. She is not a perfect mother who has never done anything wrong. Angels will not have pity on her, and they will not bring her little shits back to life if they go to the river and die. So they better fucking not go get themselves killed in the first place.

being fluent in two languages is so weird when you think too hard about it.... like just switching between the two of them while talking to someone who also speaks both and we're carrying on a normal conversation like my friend just asked me "t'sais où jpeux finder the movie we talked about yesterday?" bro what are you even saying but also I fully understand what you're saying

“Queerness, to me, is about far more than homosexual attraction. It’s about a willingness to see all other taboos broken down. Sure, many of us start on this path when we first feel “same sex” or “same gender” attraction (though what is sex? And what is gender? And does anyone really have the same sex or gender as anyone else?). But queerness doesn’t stop there. This is a somewhat controversial stance, but to me queer means something completely different than “gay” or “lesbian” or “bisexual.” A queer person is usually someone who has come to a non-binary view of gender, who recognizes the validity of all trans identities, and who, given this understanding of infinite gender possibilities, finds it hard to define their sexuality any longer in a gender-based way. Queer people understand and support non-monogamy even if they do not engage in it themselves. They can grok being asexual or aromantic. (What does sex have to do with love, or love with sex, necessarily?) A queer can view promiscuous (protected) public bathhouse sex with strangers and complete abstinence as equally healthy. Queers understand that people have different relationships to their bodies. We get what it means to be stone. We know what body dysphoria is about. We understand that not everyone likes to get touched the same way or to get touched at all. We realize that people with disabilities may have different sexual needs, and that people with survivor histories often have sexual triggers. We can negotiate safe and creative ways to be intimate with people with HIV/AIDs and other STIs. Queers understand the range of power and sensation and the diversity of sexual dynamics. We are tops and bottoms, doms and subs, sadists and masochists and sadomasochists, versatiles and switches. We know what we like and don’t like in bed. We embrace a wide range of relationship types. We can be partners, lovers, friends with benefits, platonic sweethearts, chosen family. We can have very different dynamics with different people, often all at once. We don’t expect one person to be able to fulfill all our diverse needs, fantasies and ideals indefinitely. Because our views on relationships, sex, gender, love, bodies, and family are so unconventional, we are of necessity anti-assimilationist. Because under the kyriarchy we suffer, and watch the people we love suffering, we are political. Because we want to survive, we fight. We only want the freedom to be ourselves, love ourselves, love each other, and live together. Because we are routinely denied that, we are pissed. Queer doesn’t mean “don’t label me,” it means “I am naming myself.” It means “ask me more questions if you’re curious…“”

—

What Queerness Means To Me « Tranarchism (via docasaur)

I’ve chosen this as one of my first posts as it’s important to me that people understand what I’m talking about when I use the term queer.  

(via hollyloveholly)

you bottle Miette??

I was reading Marguerite Yourcenar's Le coup de grâce last night, both in French and in English because I enjoy pondering the choices made by translators—and the English translation was so bad. At one point the word "solitude" in the French original became "privacy" in English, in a sentence where the difference in meaning did matter, I think. At another point, the very simple word "les oublis" became "remembrance betrayed" which I feel gives extra precision in the translation which wasn't present in the original...?

There's also a passage in French in which the narrator wishes a woman would have had children, "who would have inherited her courage and her eyes", but decides that's a pointless regret because these decisions on how to populate the future are not ours to make ("ne nous appartiennent pas")—the English translation turns it into "Absurd, for who wants to people (...) the future?" That's different...!! And later on the narrator says that "all these misunderstandings" make him want to "steer clear of any conviction that isn't entirely personal". The English translation says "such misapprehensions were to cure me (...) of holding ready-made convictions." I'm sorry but, in this context you're saying a different thing. Again.

By this point I went looking for the name of the translator, in order to carry it in my soul in a pocket of indignation—and I found: "translated from the French by Grace Frick in collaboration with the author"! Grace Frick! Marguerite Yourcenar's life partner!

That was such a plot twist. Your wife? Your own wife wrote this inaccurate translation, with your blessing...? Well, I now have two theories: 1. After publishing this book, Yourcenar regretted some minor writing choices and asked Frick to modify some words and phrasings in her translation so they were closer to what she wanted to express. As a perfectionist who feels many regrets immediately after submitting a completed work I sympathise with this, but also that's cheating. You can't give English readers a text that's closer to what you wanted your book to be while French readers are left to wallow in the mud of your less precise first draft. I'm affronted by this possibility. 2. Grace Frick's translation was imperfect, and Yourcenar said nothing because she loved her and her imperfect linguistic choices. I also sympathise. I hope that's what happened actually—it feels less plausible than 1. but it makes me feel more at peace with this whole affair. I felt all my indignation melt away as soon as I decided to embrace this explanation.

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

djoc

if you’re having a bad day, here’s a cute little marching band