May
29
Sophie.
Ball-Nogues Studios - Feathered Edge, 2009
(via buddhabrot)
May
28
(via beyoncespam)
Who Needs Feminism?: I need feminism because there are too many men who react with anger...
I need feminism because there are too many men who react with anger and behave as though they are being personally victimised when women express that they somtimes feel unsafe around some men, or feel frustrated that some men expect sex in return for kindness or free drinks. Everyone knows that…
May
27
“
The lessons of femininity instruct in polite compliance, and the rules of etiquette demand that the female relinquish her initiative in social encounters. Indeed, the delicate tissue of formalized male-female relations is constructed on artful expressions of feminine dependence. To be helped with one’s coat, to let the man do the driving, to sit mute and unmoving while the man does the ordering and picks up the check-such trained behavioral inactivity may be ladylike, gracious, romantic and flirty, and soothing to easily ruffled masculine feathers, but it is ultimately destructive to the sense of the functioning, productive self.
The charge that feminists have no manners is true, for the history of manners, unfortunately for those who wish to change the world, is an index of courtly graces addressed towards those of the middle classes who aspire to the refinements of their betters, embodied in the static vision of the cared for, catered-to lady of privilege who existed on a rarefied plane above the mundane reality of strenuous labor.
”Brownmiller, Susan. Femininity. Linden Press, New York. 1984. (pg. 201)
There is a note in the bucket I carry to the garden. Nestled between a trowel and a dirty hand rake, the note reads, ‘Meet me in the hayloft, 1PM.’ When I peek over the top of the ladder, he is naked and grinning!
(via fuckyeahhardfemme)
Bon Iver is out back bathing the horses after a long day’s work in the fields. As he gently cleans their necks and shoulders, barrels and bellies, he sings a sweet song of gratitude. Later, he will fill the galvanized tin tub we keep in the yard with water he’s warmed over the fire, and we will bathe together. He will be far too distracted to sing.
I am in the greenhouse pollinating tomato flowers with a paintbrush when I hear him return. He crushes me in his arms that smell of hotel soap. We make love right there beside the machinery shed, interrupted once by an incurious turkey passing by. Later he pushes me in the tire swing as the sun slips behind the western hills and shares stories from his tour.
His suitcase is still in the truck, forgotten along with the yearning of being apart.
Bon Iver is mending the stone wall that separates our property from the neighboring farm. I watch him as he lifts the fallen stones from the ground, taking careful stock of each one, examining them for flaws, determining which belongs where. He is content with this task and pauses briefly to admire his work. I wonder how those capable hands, which spend the day rebuilding many broken things, can so easily undo me.
Apr
27
Apr
17
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