Fetishizing ‘power’ in women characters – having them kicking ass and always being ready with a putdown - isn’t the same as writing them as human beings.
I like the way your hands
move in the sunlight. Even better,
I like the way your hands move
against skin that does not
belong to you. You say so much
but really you keep the most
important words to yourself.
Or better yet, you write that chaotic
mess of meaning into poetry.
How do you do it? How can you
love so many but insist
that you do not deserve
the same love in return? I’ve never
met someone as selfless
as you. I’ve never come across
another person who is able to
give others the amount of hope
that you do. So why not give
some of that energy to yourself?
You’ve spent so much of your time
trying to fix the broken pieces
of those who will just leave
once they are patched up.
Do you think that’s fair? Do you
think that’s love? Have you tried
stitching up your own wounds
before using that thread
on someone who will only end up
tearing it out. Now I know that this
reads more like a lesson
than it does a love poem,
but I am being aggressive because
I love you more than anyone
could ever promise. I hope you
don’t hate me after this. I hope
you don’t see your faults
as flaws, or your dedication
as something that should be
removed. You are beautiful,
and you are as gentle as the way
the morning kisses the mist.
So please, try to love yourself
more. Try to see that you are
much more than a nurturer
to the weak. Try to see that you
need love just as much
as those who have been swallowed
by their own darkness.
You radiate so much light
that I know it can be hard to see
the shadows in your eyes.
But I see them, and I know you are
not as strong as you say.
So turn over your open sign,
lock the doors and use your time
off to say to yourself what you
always seem to say to others;
you are beautiful and you will
survive, I promise. Because if
there is anyone that can turn
their pain into poetry, their pain
into a new way of healing,
— "A love poem to myself,"
- Colleen Brown (via larmoyante
I hold myself to be no duller than another: as for means of dishonoring a woman, I have found a hundred, I have found a thousand; but when I have busied myself to seek how the woman could escape, I have never seen the possibility.
I didn’t realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, Babylon Revisted
Geeks claim to know what it’s like to love art that’s been neglected or reviled by their culture. Well, this is the status of fans of traditional high culture now; those who like opera, jazz, experimental fiction, theater, and other types of traditional high culture are generally ignored in our mass media. When they are thought of at all, it is as snobby and irrelevant. Geeks now need to recognize their great fortune, enjoy it and extend a little sympathy in the direction of us sad few who prefer other things.
Yet I wonder if any such recognition is even possible at this point. My fear is not merely that the geeks will never come to acknowledge their triumph, as comfortable as they are in their self-professed victimhood. I fear too that we have come to so thoroughly associate fandom with grievance that the two are now inextricable. That, I suspect, is the long-term consequence of the rise of the geeks: that we no longer know how to enjoy art without enjoying it against others. That’s a bitter, juvenile way to approach art, and if it’s the real legacy of the rise of the geeks, it’s an ugly legacy indeed.