“I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am.”
— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
“Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.”
“In the United States, access to tampons and pads for low-income women is a real problem, too: food stamps don’t cover feminine hygiene products, so some women resort to selling their food stamps in order to pay for “luxuries” like tampons. Women in prison often don’t have access to sanitary products at all, and the high cost of a product that half the population needs multiple times a day, every month for approximately 30 years, is simply, well, bullshit.”
“To write. I can’t. No one can. We have to admit: we cannot. And yet we write. It’s the unknown one carries within oneself: writing is what is attained. It’s that or nothing. One can speak of a writing sickness. What I’m trying to say isn’t easy, but I believe we can find our way here, comrades of the world. There is a madness of writing that is in oneself, an insanity of writing, but that alone doesn’t make one insane. On the contrary. Writing is the unknown. Before writing one knows nothing of what one is about to write. And in total lucidity. It’s the unknown in oneself, one’s head, one’s body. Writing is not even a reflection, but a kind of faculty one has, that exists to one side of oneself, parallel to oneself: another person who appears and comes forward, invisible, gifted with thought and anger, and who sometimes, through his own actions, risks losing his life. If one had any idea what one was going to write, before doing it, before writing, one would never write. It wouldn’t be worth it anymore. Writing is trying to know beforehand what one would write if one wrote, which one never knows until afterward; that is the most dangerous question one could ever ask oneself. But it’s also the most widespread. Writing comes like the wind. It’s naked, it’s made of ink, it’s the thing written, and it passes like nothing else passes in life, nothing more, except life itself.”
— Marguerite Duras, from “Writing”
Clean Bandit feat. Jesse Glynne
Rather Be, Clean Bandit (Ft. Jesse Glynne)
If you gave me a chance I would take it,
It’s a shot in the dark but I’ll make it.
Let’s not act like there wasn’t black people doing cultural appropriation at AfroPunk too. Like as many pics as I seen of black girls wearing a nath or bindis or both with the tikka. Like.
Like we’ve been saying solidarity isn’t a one way street but let’s hold each other accountable for the shit we’re doing too. Because we’re rightfully angry about that white girl who was photographed appropriating, but I’m getting some crickets from y’all about how black people was out here doing it too.
Infinite Potential, Murray Gold
“We all change when you think about it. We’re all different people, all through our lives. And that’s okay, that’s good, you’ve got to keep moving, so long as you remember all the people that you used to be. I will not forgot one line of this. Not one day. I swear.
I will always remember when the Doctor was me.”
“It’s too easy, you see, to get trapped in the past. The past is very seductive. People always talk about the mists of time, you know, but really it’s the present that’s in a mist, uncertain. The past is quite clear, and warm, and comforting. That’s why people often get stuck there.”