Moving Forward
21:00"What does it mean when a white female English professor is eager to include a work by Toni Morrison on the syllabus of her course but then teaches that work without ever making reference to race or ethnicity? I have heard individual white women “boast” about how they have shown students that black writers are “as good” as the white male canon when they do not call attention to race. Clearly, such pedagogy is not an interrogation of the biases conventional canons (if not all canons) establish, but yet another form of tokenism." — bell hooks in “Embracing Change” from the book Teaching to Transgress (via bowfolk)

(via thechocolatebrigade)

typewriterblues:

What are you made out of?
Check out my personal tumblr.          My book for sale.
23:57"You know that things become stories about other things. Everyone I used to love lives in my mouth. I let them out when I am afraid. I am afraid. You know that everything good goes away. The great function of poetry is to give us back the situations of our dreams. Nothing is ever the way you think it’s going to be." —

Lauren Ireland, from The Lil Wayne Letters: July 18th 2010 (via holdonmagnolia

)

(via clavicola)

12:31

observando:

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

-Ray Bradbury

typewriterblues:

Haruki Murakami
15:36

So please don’t say “never.”
That is a promise
(almost as bad as “always”)
that you simply cannot keep.

typewriterblues:

Ask.                 I have a book for sale.

“our souls were sleeping on the same cloud.”
typewriterblues:

I’d really like it if you filled this out. -  Try me?    Check out my book. (buy it!)
11:57

jessicavalenti:

And unless I’m missing someone, it looks like only one woman of color made the list. Sigh. 

therealkatiewest:

I can’t sleep. I’m thinking of all the people I should never have fallen in love with. I keep replaying the moments when I should’ve realized they were wrong for me and noticing that I did realize but I went through with it all anyway. And as they were breaking my heart, I would have already forgiven them.
Such a violent thing, the breaking of a heart. And yet so easily dismissed and the pain never validated and we feel guilty for lying in bed, crying, for days, or weeks. We can’t call in sick to work. We can’t go to a doctor to set that broken thing inside us. There’s no medication to be prescribed to help us recover. They tell us it takes time, we’ll get over it, but we have broken hearts. There are shards inside our chest cavities that cut whenever we breathe. There are jagged pieces floating through our blood, screaming against our soft, thin skin. There are splintered bits flung as far as our eyes, irritating them so they’re constantly red and watering; pushing against them and making us dread the light. The biggest chunks get lodged in our brains, forcing us to remember every promise that was broken and the exact way their lips shaped the words “I love you.” Our hearts are festering wounds infecting our bones, swelling our joints, making it impossible to move.
So much violence and we’re only given half-hearted sympathies and assurances that we’ll fall in love again someday.
Of course we will! We know that. But right now? Our hearts are broken and we ache. Isn’t there anything you can do for that?
wahoolooze:

a portion of what i wrote on myself today. the entire thing says: 
I want to write a story on my body and have it last forever. I want to die with my skin. Decompose. Never be reconciled. But I want this to be translated into many different languages. I want my skin to breathe my story, to resonate every moment I have lived. So everyone knows I don’t want to disappear. I’m afraid of forgetting the good in the world. Always in fear. I want to cover myself in truth. Take notes. Use your surfaces to create. I cannot tell you what to do. I’m not trying to cover up these scars, but have them live on. I love them. I love the battles I have with myself to remind myself of my pain, for my truth to come alive. I am so calm. My veins pulsate. My body is a calamity. I can feel each word. This ink wil not last.I want to engrave myself with honesty and continue this story on every inch of my skin…There’s so much space. How many novels can fit on one person’s skin? How many pages am I worth? How long is my story?
I don’t know what the hell I was doing, but more of it sprawled onto my upper body. It doesn’t make much sense, but I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel my words. It changes when I flex my muscles, as if the words are said with a different inflection or tone. And sometimes the words touch each other, and cross over each other when I bend a certain way like the words can be read in any order or be on top of each other or pronounced all at once and still make sense.
22:10

Think you’re old and never realize how young you actually are. Fixate on the fact that you love The Container Store and Bed, Bath & Beyond and drinking tea and eating organic. This means something to you. It means you’re figuring out how to be an adult and you won’t be left behind. Show your receipt from Crate and Barrel to a 30-year-old and say, “See? I’m getting there. Let me through!”

Don’t think too much about why all of this matters to you. Don’t think about why cooking your own dinners and buying a new rug for your apartment is more important than going back home in a cab drunk at five in the morning. Never admit to yourself that the drunk cab rides make you happier than the damn kale you bought at the bodega. That would make you feel guilty, that would make you actually feel young (something you’re never supposed to feel.) Life is all about being young and pretending to be old, and being old and wishing you were young. Are you getting it, yet?

Spend so many years not liking yourself while trying to get others to like you. God, we’re so hard on ourselves. If only you could feel like you deserve that wasted night with your friends and spending Sunday hungover with someone in bed—someone you’ll try to forget and later on try to remember. Being young is all about wanting to connect with someone but feeling too disconnected to actually do so. I think you’re getting it now.

Look back on being young when you’re old and remember this: perfect skin, flat stomach, a house full of young people laughing and dancing, smoking weed, listening to music on your little laptop while reading a magazine on a Sunday evening, your parents coming in and out, remembering a dinner with your dad in your hometown when you wanted to cry, the bars, so many bars, people who you got drunk with all the time but never actually knew (what did they do in the daytime?), getting a cat and hating the cat but needing the cat because it made you feel okay about being hungover and missing your Victorian Lit final. “I can fail Victorian Lit because I have a cat that I’ve kept alive. So there.”

Have sex with the seventh person who doesn’t mean anything to you and freak out for a bit. Remember losing your virginity on a creaky bed and feeling so many things, too many things, and now you’re having sex with someone who looks like Danny Devito and it means nothing. How could this happen? How could you go from shaking like a leaf whenever someone touched your neck to feeling so numb whenever someone went inside of you? You want to know when this change occurred because you think it’s the reason why everything went sour. It’s the reason why you feel old. Every time you sleep with a nobody, it ages you five years. At this rate, you figure you’ll be a 100 at 28 years old.

Hold on to things. You’re not old enough to know what should matter and what should be left behind yet so you just hold on to every single thing. You’re like a memory hoarder. You need help.

Have moments when you’re truly having the time of your young adult life. Sometimes you know it when it’s happening and sometimes you don’t. When you know, that’s when it’s truly special. You let go of everything and embrace your youth. “I DON’T CARE I FEEL SO YOUNG AND FREE IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL RIGHT NOW EVERYTHING FEELS SO GOOD.” PS. You might be on Ecstasy for these moments of realization.

I know what you’re doing because I’m doing it too. Just stop freaking out. Stop pretending to be happy over a new Swiffer and just kiss people and go out and stay up late and wake up early and screw up and learn from your mistakes and then screw up again. It’s okay. This is your permission slip to act young. Sign it.

By Ryan O’Connell

12:57"And now I write books for teenagers because I vividly remember what it felt like to be a teen facing everyday and epic dangers. I don’t write to protect them. It’s far too late for that. I write to give them weapons–in the form of words and ideas-that will help them fight their monsters. I write in blood because I remember what it felt like to bleed." — Sherman Alexie, “Why the Best Kids Books are Written in Blood”
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