a new zine called shitty horoscopes that i’ll be premiering this year at the Toronto Queer Zine Fair, among other things! hopefully i’ll make volumes available for online purchase soon. credit where credit is due: this was inspired by the huge number of made-up horoscopes floating around tumblr lately, and angry-poems.
yup, the Libra one is pretty accurate
These lacy creatures are part of a strange and beguiling ongoing series by Portuguese artist Joana Vasconcelos, who has been wrapping ceramic animal sculptures in five-needle lace, handmade cotton crochet.
Each of the pieces “are ambiguously imprisoned/protected by a second-skin in crochet-work,” says Vasconcelos.
The sculptures themselves are the work of renown 19th century Portuguese artist Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro (1846-1905).
My grandparents told me about her! I saw her art boat exhibit when I was in Lisbon!
Leslie Jamison, “Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain” (via ideal-i-deology)
These girls aren’t wounded so much as post-wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. They’re over it. I am not a melodramatic person. God help the woman who is. What I’ll call “post-wounded” isn’t a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect: These women are aware that “woundedness” is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama, so they stay numb or clever instead. Post-wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: Don’t cry too loud; don’t play victim. Don’t ask for pain meds you don’t need; don’t give those doctors another reason to doubt. Post-wounded women fuck men who don’t love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blasé about it; they refuse to hurt about it or to admit they hurt about it—or else they are endlessly self-aware about it, if they do allow themselves this hurting.
The post-wounded posture is claustrophobic: jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick on the heels of anything that might look like self-pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects: sarcastic, jaded, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-pity might split their careful seams of intellect, expose the shame of self-absorption without self-awareness.
Author John Scalzi was on a roll this morning (currently 7:14 AM, 26 Sept. 2014) with a tweet he found from some guy sending out an “ultimatum” to women to “make a choice” between feminism and, well, men like him. So Scalzi launched into a truly magnificent set of scorchers, which I’m posting here for the delectation of people everywhere.
Also: I would like to thank that guy for setting the ultimatum. It makes finding a boyfriend so much easier when the undesirable ones wear a placard identifying themselves.
"The tragedy of that poor boy’s life is not the realization that he’s not the grand prize he’s assumed, but that he’s not even second place."