If you look closely you can see that the hook is not rope and it is not around the neck; it comes from the body's back. The cube around the head emphasizes the head and makes it look as though it is on display. Perhaps speaking to society's insistence that we are to sexualize death. The head is truth but we don't know what is or we don't think to question because we think it's been made easy for us as if we are watching television. The cube also pronounces the head that is hung forward. We think that the person has committed suicide by hanging, however, if this is the case, the person's neck would be upward.
Is the blue meant to illuminate the experience? Add to the creep factor? Reminiscent of the depression of Picasso's blue era?
Retro everything? Retro nails with a black and white image of an egg. 50s era? Or does the nail length speak to the early 70s? Why do I push against the 80s completely? Black and white 1950s advertising that features the capitalism of domesticity? Or how about idea that domesticity and child bearing is expected and even pushed in all decades?
It's never clear as to what an artist means to say when they present a piece of art: that's the point. Isn't it? We are meant to think, ponder, enjoy and perhaps feel frustrated.
Black face is offensive but I'm wondering if the artist is pushing a question rather than an idea. Is black face as offensive when painted onto a sexualized female image? If not, why is that so? Is the woman on her stomach the same woman who is sitting upright? It seems so. Does that make it any less offensive? Is it no longer black face if the black resembles paint that runs down the neck?
But does that mean the first image where we are unable to see paint running down her neck is meant to be the offensive image? Or are we meant to question the way we perceive the concept of racism. Is the first image no longer a black face image if we have decided the second image is not black face? Can we then ignore that we do not see paint dragging down the neck of the upright image?
Although I live a drug free life; the label, Straight Edge, fell off my back years ago. No particular reason other than the simple outgrowing of it. I like the idea of Straight Edge, and technically I am still a part of it, but the aesthetic of it and the life of it never went hand in hand for me. As you will see below, it isn't necessary to look the part.
The rules of Straight Edge fluctuate for some and are very concrete for others. This makes sense being that it was never meant to be a movement. Whether you're basic, straightforward Straight Edger, a fair weather Straight Edger or a purist, there is a basic root in common.
Front man of the former band, Minor Threat, wrote a song called Straight Edge which spoke to the avoidance of drugs and manipulative sex. The former front man, Ian MacKaye is currently part of The Evens, and owns his own record label, Dischord Records.
Photographer Raymond McCrea Jones, doesn't stray far from the music as he titles his 2007 book, Out of Step. Out of Step is no doubt reference to a Minor Threat song and album of the same name. The book features every day people, (whatever that means) who live Straight Edge.
I found it enjoyable to see that Johnny of Johnny Cupcakes appears in this book. A man who loves cupcakes is a friend indeed.
Fuel they were digging a new foundation in manhattan
and they discovered a slave cemetery there
may their souls rest easy now that lynching is frowned upon
and we’ve moved on to the electric chair and i wonder who’s gonna be president
tweedle dumb or tweedle dumber?
and who’s gonna have the big
blockbuster box office
how ‘bout we put up a wall
between the houses and the highway
and then you can go your way
and i can go my way except all the radios agree with all the t.v.’s
and the magazines agree with all the radios
and i keep hearing that same damn song
everywhere i go
maybe i should put a bucket over my head
and a marshmallow in each ear
and stumble around for another dumb numb week
for another hum drum hit song to appear people used to make records
as in a record of an event
the event of people
playing music in a room
now everything is cross-marketing
it’s about sunglasses and shoes
or guns or drugs
you choose we got it rehashed
we got it half-assed
we’re digging up all the graves
and we’re spitting on the past
and we can choose between the colors
of the lipstick on the whores
‘cuz we know the difference
between the font of twenty percent more
and the font of teriyaki
you tell me
how does it make you feel?
you tell me what’s real
they say that alcoholics are always alcoholics
even when they’re as dry as my lips for years
even when they’re stranded on a small desert island
with no place in two thousand miles to buy beer
and i wonder is he different
is he different
has he changed
what he’s about
or is he just a liar
with nothing to lie about
am i headed for the same brick wall
is there anything i can do
about anything at all except go back to that corner in manhattan
and dig deeper
dig deeper this time
down beneath the impossible pain of our history
beneath unknown bones
beneath the bedrock of the mystery
beneath the sewage system and the path train
beneath the cobblestones and the water main
beneath the traffic of friendships and street deals
beneath the screeching of kamikaze cab wheels
beneath everything i can think of to think about
beneath it all
beneath all get out
beneath the good and the kind and the stupid and the cruel
there’s a fire that’s just waiting for fuel
For more information on Ani Difranco or her independent label, Righteous Babe Records, click here.
I don’t even know what it's like
not to go back to you
I don’t even know
who I like less,
You or me
You or me You or me
Well it’s anyone’s, anyone’s guess…
It’s anyone’s, anyone’s guess…
Simpsons creator Matt Groening talks about the Alma Mater we share. Warms my heart to hear him speak of the school I love. I earned my Master's degree at the hoity-toity University of Southern California, but it was The Evergreen State College, at which I received my Bachelor's that shaped me the most.
If you live in America in the 21st century
you’ve probably had to listen to a lot of people tell you how busy they
are. It’s become the default response
when you ask anyone how they’re doing: “Busy!” “So busy.” “Crazy busy.”
It is, pretty obviously, a boast disguised as a complaint. And the stock
response is a kind of congratulation: “That’s a good problem to have,”
or “Better than the opposite.”
Notice it isn’t generally people
pulling back-to-back shifts in [a hospital's intensive care unit] or
commuting by bus to three minimum-wage jobs who tell you how busy they
are; what those people are is not busy but tired. Exhausted. Dead on
their feet. It’s almost always people whose lamented busyness is purely
self-imposed: work and obligations they’ve taken on voluntarily, classes
and activities they’ve “encouraged” their kids to participate in.
They’re busy because of their own ambition or drive or anxiety, because
they’re addicted to busyness and dread what they might have to face in
Almost everyone I know is busy. They feel anxious
and guilty when they aren’t either working or doing something to promote
their work. They schedule in time with friends the way students with
4.0 [grade point average] make sure to sign up for community service
because it looks good on their college applications. I recently wrote a
friend to ask if he wanted to do something this week, and he answered
that he didn’t have a lot of time but if something was going on to let
him know and maybe he could ditch work for a few hours. I wanted to
clarify that my question had not been a preliminary heads-up to some
future invitation; this was the invitation. But his busyness was like
some vast churning noise through which he was shouting out at me, and I
gave up trying to shout back over it.
Even children are busy
now, scheduled down to the half-hour with classes and extracurricular
activities. They come home at the end of the day as tired as grown-ups. I
was a member of the latchkey generation and had three hours of totally
unstructured, largely unsupervised time every afternoon, time I used to
do everything from surfing the World Book Encyclopedia to making
animated films to getting together with friends in the woods to chuck
dirt clods directly into one another’s eyes, all of which provided me
with important skills and insights that remain valuable to this day.
Those free hours became the model for how I wanted to live the rest of
The present hysteria is not a necessary or inevitable
condition of life; it’s something we’ve chosen, if only by our
acquiescence to it. Not long ago I Skyped with a friend who was driven
out of the city by high rent and now has an artist’s residency in a
small town in the south of France. She described herself as happy and
relaxed for the first time in years. She still gets her work done, but
it doesn’t consume her entire day and brain. She says it feels like
college — she has a big circle of friends who all go out to the cafe
together every night. She has a boyfriend again. (She once ruefully
summarized dating in New York: “Everyone’s too busy and everyone thinks
they can do better.”) What she had mistakenly assumed was her
personality — driven, cranky, anxious and sad — turned out to be a
deformative effect of her environment. It’s not as if any of us wants to
live like this, any more than any one person wants to be part of a
traffic jam or stadium trampling or the hierarchy of cruelty in high
school — it’s something we collectively force one another to do.
Busyness serves as a kind of existential reassurance, a hedge against
emptiness; obviously your life cannot possibly be silly or trivial or
meaningless if you are so busy, completely booked, in demand every hour
of the day. I once knew a woman who interned at a magazine where she
wasn’t allowed to take lunch hours out, lest she be urgently needed for
some reason. This was an entertainment magazine whose raison d’être was
[rendered obsolete] when “menu” buttons appeared on [TV remote
controls], so it’s hard to see this pretense of indispensability as
anything other than a form of institutional self-delusion. More and more
people in this country no longer make or do anything tangible; if your
job wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry
book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary. I can’t help but wonder
whether all this histrionic exhaustion isn’t a way of covering up the
fact that most of what we do doesn’t matter.
I am not busy. I
am the laziest ambitious person I know. Like most writers, I feel like a
reprobate who does not deserve to live on any day that I do not write,
but I also feel that four or five hours is enough to earn my stay on the
planet for one more day. On the best ordinary days of my life, I write
in the morning, go for a long bike ride and run errands in the
afternoon, and in the evening I see friends, read or watch a movie.
This, it seems to me, is a sane and pleasant pace for a day. And if you
call me up and ask whether I won’t maybe blow off work and check out the
new American Wing at the [Metropolitan Museum of Art] or ogle girls in
Central Park or just drink chilled pink minty cocktails all day long, I
will say, what time?
But just in the last few months, I’ve
insidiously started, because of professional obligations, to become
busy. For the first time I was able to tell people, with a straight
face, that I was “too busy” to do this or that thing they wanted me to
do. I could see why people enjoy this complaint; it makes you feel
important, sought-after and put-upon. Except that I hate actually being
busy. Every morning my in-box was full of e-mails asking me to do things
I did not want to do or presenting me with problems that I now had to
solve. It got more and more intolerable until finally I fled town to the
Undisclosed Location from which I’m writing this.
Here I am
largely unmolested by obligations. There is no TV. To check e-mail I
have to drive to the library. I go a week at a time without seeing
anyone I know. I’ve remembered about buttercups, stink bugs and the
stars. I read. And I’m finally getting some real writing done for the
first time in months. It’s hard to find anything to say about life
without immersing yourself in the world, but it’s also just about
impossible to figure out what it might be, or how best to say it,
without getting the hell out of it again.
Idleness is not just a
vacation, an indulgence or a vice; it is as indispensable to the brain
as vitamin D is to the body, and deprived of it we suffer a mental
affliction as disfiguring as rickets. The space and quiet that idleness
provides is a necessary condition for standing back from life and seeing
it whole, for making unexpected connections and waiting for the wild
summer lightning strikes of inspiration — it is, paradoxically,
necessary to getting any work done. “Idle dreaming is often of the
essence of what we do,” wrote Thomas Pynchon in his essay on sloth.
Archimedes’ “Eureka” in the bath, Newton’s apple, Jekyll & Hyde and
the benzene ring: history is full of stories of inspirations that come
in idle moments and dreams. It almost makes you wonder whether loafers,
goldbricks and no-accounts aren’t responsible for more of the world’s
great ideas, inventions and masterpieces than the hardworking.
“The goal of the future is full unemployment, so we can play. That’s why
we have to destroy the present politico-economic system.” This may
sound like the pronouncement of some bong-smoking anarchist, but it was
actually Arthur C. Clarke, who found time between scuba diving and
pinball games to write “Childhood’s End” and think up communications
satellites. My old colleague Ted Rall recently wrote a column proposing
that we divorce income from work and give each citizen a guaranteed
paycheck, which sounds like the kind of lunatic notion that’ll be
considered a basic human right in about a century, like abolition,
universal suffrage and eight-hour workdays. The Puritans turned work
into a virtue, evidently forgetting that God invented it as a
Perhaps the world would soon slide to ruin if
everyone behaved as I do. But I would suggest that an ideal human life
lies somewhere between my own defiant indolence and the rest of the
world’s endless frenetic hustle. My role is just to be a bad influence,
the kid standing outside the classroom window making faces at you at
your desk, urging you to just this once make some excuse and get out of
there, come outside and play. My own resolute idleness has mostly been a
luxury rather than a virtue, but I did make a conscious decision, a
long time ago, to choose time over money, since I’ve always understood
that the best investment of my limited time on earth was to spend it
with people I love. I suppose it’s possible I’ll lie on my deathbed
regretting that I didn’t work harder and say everything I had to say,
but I think what I’ll really wish is that I could have one more beer
with Chris, another long talk with Megan, one last good hard laugh with
Boyd. Life is too short to be busy.
I remember moons ago, when a friend of mine -- in speaking of her 8 year partnership with a man whom she referred to as a gem -- told me that sometimes she wished she could sleep in their bed alone. I wondered if her boyfriend felt the same way: it seemed that they hadn't had the conversation. At the time I couldn't relate to what she was moaning about, but eventually I got it.
Initially I had resisted her words and thought of them as hurtful and detached. When I entered my next relationship, I realized that her words truly had no bearing on her relationship with her gem.
I'm a light sleeper--I'm also a snorer so, I was grateful that my boyfriend was a hard sleeper. He rarely woke up in the middle of the night, and when did he fell back asleep almost instantly. He literally fell asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. He wouldn't wake when I'd change sleeping positions but I always feared that he would. That became a strain. Sleeping wasn't supposed to be stressful.
My boyfriend was also a snorer. It was a fact that was miniscule at the beginning of the relationship; it became harder to deal with as time went on. Falling asleep was never a quick process for me. On average it takes between one to two hours for me to settle in. My boyfriend's snoring left me no peace.
I was never a night-time cuddler. He was. I'm well aware that there are many women who are desperate for that kind of affection. Holding and being held is extremely important to me but I reserve that for daylight hours.
At night my boyfriend would outstretch his arm so that my head could rest inside of it. I could only imagine how the weight of my head would become too uncomfortable before long, and result in a sleepy arm: tingled and restricted. I also needed the room to wiggle from my back, to my stomach, to one side, to the other.
I loved that he wanted to hold me after intimate romps and I know he loved it when I spooned him. He told me that when we would take the occasional day nap, he didn't like when we weren't facing each other. Facing him was optimal but sometimes I needed to turn the other way.
I'm reminded of an episode of hit sitcom, Friends, where Ross teaches Chandler a maneuver which he called the hug and roll.
Ross illustrated on a couch cushion. As he held the cushion which was meant to resemble a woman, he instructed, hug for her, roll for you. Wait until she falls asleep and then hug her to essentially turn her and then roll out of the way to rightfully claim your side of the bed.
It is silly and strange, to think that sleeping preferences is now a conversation to be had in relationships, but it makes good sense.
To be honest, separate beds sounds like a wonderful idea. Sleep together when you want to, and sleep apart when you want to. I imagine there will be some hurt feelings along the way. You don't want to sleep with me tonight? You did yesterday; have I annoyed you today?
I don’t think this is a very controversial topic, though I have received
hostile looks and tsks when mentioning in the past that I’m not fond of
sleeping next to another person whose body is putting off heat, whom I
have to engage in an unconscious struggle for cover, and whose bodily
movements jar me out of REM. It’s impossible to ignore that bed comfort
is important in our society. We are concerned with the efficient use of
time and sleep. We want eight hours of sleep—the more solid the better.
He details some of the interests and barriers of sufficient sleep.
There are the struggles for territory and comfort. The desire to
achieve comfort while also not wanting your comfort to come at the
expense of the comfort of the one next to you. This limited system
requires these two moving parts to be in sync with each other—not only
in terms of the sleep cycles but also their “comfort quirks”: their
desired temperature, and other environmental factors like background
noise or lighting.
Separate beds sounds like a great idea: in fact, separate bedrooms sounds even better. It is possible to be completely devoted and in love, while recognizing that sleeping together isn't always comfortable or necessary. Figure out your own rules.
Your Irrational Brain - David Ropeik - Big Think series
Published on Jul 26, 2012
That we are not instinctively built
that way must be recognized if we're going to get beyond the risks of
not being built that way, says David Ropeik.
Ropeik an Instructor
at Harvard, a consultant in risk perception and risk communication,
author of How Risky Is it, Really? Why Our Fears Don't Always Match the
Facts, and principal co-author of RISK, A Practical Guide for Deciding
What's Really Safe and What's Really Dangerous in the World Around You.
T.J. Lane is a teen from Ohio that was given a life sentence for killing three students and wounding three in February. The shooting took place at Chardon High School, which he attended. Lane pleaded guilty and received his sentence without the possibility of parole.
18 year old, Lane shot students in the high school cafeteria. In addition to the sadness and frustration of his actions, there is no known motive at this time.
After Lane bolted from the school, Sheriff's Deputy Jon Bilicic found
him seated along Woodin Road, about a mile away. Lane told the officer
that he had just shot a lot of people. When Bilicic asked him why, he
said, "I don't know."
At another point when asked why, he said, "I don't really understand myself."
On the day of sentencing, Lane unbuttoned his over-shirt to reveal a white shirt with the hand-written and black-marked word, Killer, across it.
Per Cleveland.com, Lane turned to parents and members of the courtroom to make a brief statement.
Lane uttered the most foul and evil remark I've heard to date. "The hand that pulled the trigger that killed your sons now masturbates to the memory. Fuck all of you."
Killed were Parmertor, 16; Demetrius Hewlin, 16; and Russell King Jr.,
17. Walczak, Nate Mueller and Joy Rickers were wounded. Nate and Joy
were treated and released shortly after the shootings.
No doubt, Lane is a sociopath, more accurately known as Anti-Social Personality Disorder. Personality disorders are thought be psychologists to be untreatable as they are characterologic disorders, which is to suggest that they are ingrained into who they are. It is not something that can be managed like Schizophrenia, Bipolar and other mental diagnoses.
Lane wanted the fame and he got it. I have no problem posting information about him as I think it is important to recognize that personality disorders exist. Most with Anti-Social Personality Disorder, do not have the insight into their illness and it is not something they seek to treat. How exactly do you treat evil? Yes, that puts a religious spin on it, but sometimes illness is a word that just doesn't cut it.
I believe story telling is an art form and blogging is a medium in which to share stories and ideas. Within this blog I hope to cover a spectrum of topics. From the serious to the silly. Here you will read my views and inquiries about subjects such as feminism, other various socio-political issues, psychology, spirituality, sexuality, and general interests such as film, art and music. You will also be exposed to my obsession with cupcakes, tea, books, Hello Kitty, and quirky day to day journeys. I enjoy learning from others as I am constantly attempting to introspect, grow and evolve. During this process I will be jotting down musings on this blog. Pull up a comfy chair and a spot of tea and join me!