May
10
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May
9
“The unchanging is imperceptible unless we are willing to move relative to it.”
Gregory Bateson
Apr
30
Cosmarxpolitan, Issue 3
Arise, ye workers from your slumbers! Revolutionary morning sex
Feb
10
Literary Birthday - 9 February
Happy Birthday, Alice Walker, born 9 February 1944
Top 10 Alice Walker Quotes
- Writing saved me from the sin and inconvenience of violence.
- And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see - or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read.
- Fiction is such a world of freedom, it’s wonderful. If you want someone to fly, they can fly.
- All History is current; all injustice continues on some level, somewhere in the world.
- I think writing really helps you heal yourself. I think if you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame.
- I try to teach my heart not to want things it can’t have.
- It is healthier, in any case, to write for the adults one’s children will become than for the children one’s “mature” critics often are.
- Deliver me from writers who say the way they live doesn’t matter. I’m not sure a bad person can write a good book. If art doesn’t make us better, then what on earth is it for.
- Language is an intrinsic part of who we are and what has, for good or evil, happened to us.
- Any God I ever found in church, I brought in myself.
Walker is an award-winning American author of novels, stories, essays, and poetry. She is best known for the critically acclaimed novel The Color Purple which won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. Walker works to address problems of injustice, inequality, and poverty as an activist, teacher, and public intellectual.
by Amanda Patterson from Writers Write
(via booksalon)
Feb
9
Aftermath, Cesar Santos
Gallery
About
Aftermath
Oil on Canvas
37x54in
Feb
5
Jan
27
“
Bajo las estrellas del invierno
La liebre que una vez que yo miraba
atardecer -volaban los chimangos!-
salió del sol y se sentó a mirarme
El pájaro que una mañana
se posó exactamente sobre mi corazón
a una hora en que su cuerpo todavía
calentaba la piel más que el sol
El pene entre mis dedos de ese enfermo
al que ayudé a orinar mientras marchábamos
lentamente una noche a un hospital
cruzando playas de estacionamiento
La perra que buscaba a mi pene en la sombra
cada vez que salía para orinar desnudo
mirando las estrellas del invierno
antes de regresar corriendo hasta el colchón
iluminado por el fuego que ardía toda la noche
en los troncos que hachaba con mi hacha todo el día
La mujer que pedía serenamente auxilio
agitando los brazos y volviendo a nadar
en las primeras horas de una tarde pesada
en que yo con el pan en el estómago
no encontraba a otro hombre en las orillas
Y todos los metros que nadé por el mar
sin ver jamás a la terrible aleta
Y mi alegría de noche en las ramas de un árbol
oyendo tangos en mi adolescencia
Y mis siestas sentado junto al cajón de un muerto
descansando en la digna frescura de una bóveda
del verano porteño que nos había humillado
Hablo de todas las horas y de todos los días
y de todas las estaciones y de todos los años
Pero la liebre que una vez que estaba solo
se ubicó exactamente entre el sol y mis ojos
guardando exactamente la distancia
que guarda un ángel que visita a un hombre…
Y el pájaro que un día
se posó exactamente sobre mi corazón
lo que es igual a recibir de un golpe
el propio corazón en el lugar exacto
el único lugar del universo
donde es una victoria recibirlo…
Y la perra que se acercaba agitando la cola
cada vez que volvíamos a encontrarnos desnudos
y solos bajo el cielo del oeste…
En fin…
Brillan los miles de ojos que me miran
Brillan las estrellas del oeste en invierno
Sobre la borda del colchón iluminada por las llamas
me siento arreglo el fuego
leo diarios viejos mientras mi sombra crece
Son las tres de la tarde en el reloj
que después del almuerzo se detiene
La noche es larga
Toda la noche sopla el viento
Mi muslo brilla con la saliva de la perra
o entre las piernas de una mujer de buen carácter
desnuda alegre dormida satisfecha
Vuelvo a despertarme cuando quiero
Vuelo a salir al frío y a orinar nuevamente
porque estas noches bebo mucha agua
El fuego hace sudar al que lo cuida
En fin…
Hice orinar a un hombre
Salvé del mar a una mujer lejana
Y sé que puedo recordar algunos otros
actos de más amor de más coraje
En fin…
Pienso en todas las horas pienso en todos los días
pienso en todos los años sin encontrar mi imagen
Pero una liebre un pájaro una perra
me miraron a los ojos al corazón al sexo
como creo que sólo me miró también el mar
una madrugada de verano en que vagaba
con una pistola en el puño sin tener dónde afeitarme
” Héctor Viel Temperley, Legión Extranjera
Jan
21
“
Today’s propaganda- not just in the narrow political sense- targets the very possibility of such Openness: it fights against something of which it is not itself aware, something to which it is structurally blind - not its actual counter-forces (political opponents), but the possibility (the utopian revolutionary-emancipatory potential) which is immanent to the situation:
The goal of all enemy propaganda is not to annihilate an existing force (this function is generally left to police forces), but rather to annihilate an unnoticed possibility of the situation. This possibility is also unnoticed by those who conduct this propaganda, since its features are to be simultaneously immanent to the situation and not to appear in it.
This is why enemy propaganda against radical emancipatory politics is by definition cynical- not in the simple sense of not believing its own words, but at a much more basic level: it is cynical precisely insofar as it does believe its own words, since its message is a resigned conviction that the world we live in, if not the best of all possible worlds, is the least bad one, so that any radical change can only make it worse.
” Zizek, God in Pain, Inversions of Apocalypse. (via noreasontoallreasonto)
Jan
10
This Week In History: 12-year-old Palestinian boy Muhammad al-Durrah is shot to death in his father’s arms by Israeli troops
On September 30, 2000, the second day of the second intifada, the father and son were caught in a cross fire and hid behind a concrete cylinder. For 45 minutes Jamal al-Durrah shielded his son from Israeli fire as several bullets narrowly missed them. He desperately waved and shouted: “Don’t shoot!” but to no avail.
Muhammad al-Durrah was shot four times and eventually slumped across his father’s legs, who was also shot and lost consciousness.
An ambulance driver who tried to rescue the boy and his father was also killed, along with a jeep driver, and a second ambulance driver was wounded. Muhammad lay bleeding for at least 17 minutes before an ambulance was able to pick them up.
:’(
I don’t ever post gore or anything death related, but I’m reblogging this.
FREE PALESTINE
Isreal and American will never be tried for war crimes. People need to open their eyes to the real enemy. How is this excusable? No one armed was even close to them.Palestina libre.
why care? Is it not enough to believe that no other person’s life is more valuable than yours? why don’t we care?
(via chibchombia)
Nov
1
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