October 2011
Hurry up, get more done, and die. Plus, 7 essential cross-disciplinary books to understand time. (via curiositycounts)
This is a fucking amazing little piece. My favorite part:
I’m more with Rumi, the hardcore, love-drunk Persian mystic, who has a terrific, rather intense bit of poetic instruct about not wasting your true calling in the world, about finding your gift and not squandering it because he says that would be like taking a precious Indian sword and using it merely to slice rotten meat, or nailing it to the wall and hanging rusty pots from it.
(via kthread)
I’ll be the first in line to say it: I’m a slut.* No, really, I am, and that’s OK. It’s taken me a while to eschew the icky feelings associated with the word, but I embrace it. As posed by The Ethical Slut, a slut is “a person of any gender who has the courage to lead life according to the radical proposition that sex is nice and pleasure is good for you.” Sex is not all of who I am, but it is a pretty important part (the part that gets to have all the fun!).
A couple of weeks ago, an ex of mine who was clearly very angry at me decided to unleash a diatribe of words intended to hurt and intimidate me (which they didn’t). Among them were some choice words about my sexual choices. I am sorry for hurting this person (and have apologized to him several times), and I hope he can find some peace eventually.
I am not sorry for being being open, kind, respectful, non-judgmental, sensual, sex-positive, and most importantly—being true to myself. Attacking my sexuality and my eagerness to live a life that follows my own standards and morals is laughable. It may have hurt me in the past, but it doesn’t anymore. I recognize it as a hollow and cheap insult that clings to aging notions of female purity, male privilege, and quick-and-easy (and lame) attempts at hurting someone who hurt you.
Anyway.
One of these days, I’ll write my own sluthood manifesto. Until then, the author’s essay serves as a pretty close parallel to mine, especially this:
“Even now, with more time passed, now, when I am actually ready for and wanting a more emotional connection, sluthood keeps me centered. It keeps me from confusing desire and affection with something deeper. It means I have another choice besides celibacy and settling. It means I won’t enter another committed relationship just to satisfy my basic need for sex and affection. It gives me more choices, it makes room for relationships to evolve organically, to take the shape they will before anyone defines them.”
I’m happy to have a stronger center of self than ever before. If you’re going to try to hurt me** by calling me a slut, you may as well level your aim elsewhere.
* Sorry for shocking you, potential family members reading this! But it shouldn’t be much of a surprise to you.
** Actually, if you’re going to try to hurt me, I suggest you learn to let go and move on with your life rather than waste energy on something you can’t change.
Depeche Mode | Enjoy the Silence
Joe Fassler, Timeline of Shame: Decades of DeCoster Egg Factory Violations, The Atlantic, September 16, 2010
It looks like DeCoster Egg Farm put $2,500 dollars into the fight against Same Day Voter Registration. Why yes, the same DeCoster Egg Farm that is notorious for worker rights abuses. Why yes, the same DeCoster notorious for putting America’s food supply at catastrophic risk.
I am flattered to know that such a well-accomplished criminal cares about “preserving the integrity” of the ballot.
Get off your asses and preserve your voting rights. Vote Yes on 1.
(via finalgirldom)
unravel // bjork
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I don’t reblog things very often, but Rosemary is a wonderful and thoughtful writer, and I find it useful to be reminded that any real conversation about food in the U.S. probably needs to include stories like this.
I remember sitting in the back seat of Mom’s Chevette, squeezed between Josh and Leon because they always made me sit between them, shivering because the heater in the car didn’t work well.
I remember Josh wondering what toy he’d be getting and Dad saying he was going to eat as many cheeseburgers…
It’s remarkable how similar people’s stories are about growing up, especially when it was a financially strained childhood. My Mom never splurged on fast food until I was in high school (and the last child left in the house). We never went out to restaurants unless it was a special occasion—birthday, graduation, mother’s day—and even then, it was mostly financed by my grandmother.
I still carry around a lot of guilt when I purchase things I don’t need. I’m able to justify splurges on food and items that will have multiple uses (clothes, kitchen items), but a youth of poverty will forever nip at my ankles.
My mother loves it when I take her out to eat. She’s so grateful for the luxury after years of hardship, that she’ll praise and rave about a dinner that I consider to be lackluster and tasteless. It reminds me to be thankful, and to not take things like eating out for granted.
