TUMBLE

  • You know, I wasn’t going to buy anything at End of All Music’s Record Store Day because I didn’t get there early enough to catch a copy of Heartworn Highways.

    But then Justin from Water Liars pulls up and drops off a beautiful wooden bowl full of strawberry biscuits for everyone. So I decided to buy Wyoming. And, in a way, my need for heart wearing and highways has been fulfilled. 

  • I feel like Manhattan's Mary Wilkie everywhere I go...

    IKE You didn’t like the Plexiglas sculpture either?
    MARY (Sighing) Oh, it’s interesting. (Shrugging) Nah, I-uh, I, uh, tsch.
    IKE It-it was a hell of a lot better than that-that steel cube. Did you see the steel cube?
    TRACY (Overlapping) Oh, yeah, that was the weirdest.
    Ike laughs nervously.
    MARY Now, that was brilliant to me, absolutely brilliant.
    IKE The steel cube was brilliant?
    MARY Yes. Uh, to me, it was-it was very textural. You know what I mean? It was perfectly integrated and it had a-a-a marvelous kind of negative capability. The rest of the stuff downstairs was bullshit.
    Ike raises an eyebrow, reacting, as the film moves outside the museum to the sidewalk where Ike and Tracy, Yale and Mary walk in the sun, four abreast, talking.
    YALE (To Ike) You wanna go see the Sol LeWitts?
    IKE Sure, that’d be fun. (To Tracy) You wanna see Sol LeWitts t

  • Shut the light. Shut the shade
    You don’t have to be afraid. 

  • …My people were not remarkable. We were ordinary, but even so we were mythical. We were the they everyone talks about, the ungrateful poor. I grew up trying to run away from the fate that destroyed so many of the people I loved, and having learned the habit of hiding, I found that I also had learned to hide from myself. I did not know who I was, only that I did not want to be they, the ones who are destroyed or dismissed to make the real people, the important people, feel safer.

    Entitlement, I have told them, is a matter of feeling like we, not they. But it has been hard for me to explain, to make them understand. You think you have a right to things, a place in the world, I try to say. You have a sense of entitlement I don’t have, a sense of your own importance. I have explained what I know over and over again, in every possible way I can, but I have never been able to make clear the degree of my fear, the extent to which I feel myself denied, not only that I am queer in a world that hates queers but that I was born poor into a world that despises the poor.

    That fact, the inescapable impact of being born in a condition of poverty that this society finds shameful, contemptible, and somehow deserved, has dominated me to such an extent that I have spent my life trying to overcome or deny it. I have learned with great difficulty that the vast majority of people pretend that poverty is a voluntary condition, that the poor are different, less than fully human, or at least less sensitive to hopelessness, despair, and suffering.

    Even now, past forty and stubbornly proud of my family, I feel the draw of that mythology, that romanticized, edited version of the poor. I find myself looking back and wondering what was real, what true. Within my family, so much was lied about, joked about, denied or told with deliberate indirection, an undercurrent of humiliation, or a brief pursed grimace that belies everything that has been said—everything, the very nature of truth and lies, reality and myth. What was real? The poverty depicted in books and moves was romantic, a kind of backdrop for the story of how it was escaped. […] The poverty I knew was dreary, deadening, shameful. My family was ashamed of being poor, of feeling hopeless. What was there to work for, to save money for, to fight for or struggle against? We had generations before us to teach us that nothing ever changed, and that those who did try to escape failed.

    My family’s lives were not on television, not in books, not even comic books. There was a myth of the poor in this country, but it did not include us, no matter how hard I tried to squeeze us in. There was an idea of the good poor—hard-working, ragged but clean, and intrinsically noble. I understood that we were the bad poor, the ungrateful: men who drank and couldn’t keep a job, women, invariably pregnant before marriage, who quickly became worn, fat, and old from working too many hours and bearing too many children; and children with runny noses, watery eyes, and bad attitudes. My cousins quit school, stole cars, used drugs, and took dead-end jobs pumping gas or waiting tables. We were not noble, not grateful, not even hopeful. We knew ourselves despised.

    I knew damn well that no one would want to hear the truth about poverty, the hopelessness and fear, the feeling that nothing you do will make any difference, and the raging resentment that burns beneath the jokes.

    The horror of class stratification, racism, and prejudice is that some people begin to believe that the security of their families and community depends on the oppression of others, that for some to have good lives others must have lives that are mean and horrible.

    I grew up poor, hated, the victim of physical, emotional, and sexual violence, and I knew that suffering does not ennoble. It destroys. To resist destruction, self-hatred, or lifelong hopelessness, we have to throw off the conditioning of being despised, the fear of becoming that they that is talked about so dismissively, to refuse lying myths and easy moralities, to see ourselves as human, flawed and extraordinary. All of us—extraordinary.

    Dorothy Allison, A Question of Class (via takatsukishiori)

    Dorothy Allison gets it.

  • Two Days Ago I ::

    • stomped through the mud from a house to an art gallery 
    • sat on my stoop sunlight surrounded by sharp holly clippings 
    • wrote bylaws and edited articles of incorporation 
    • did not apply to my dream job 
    • said a morning goodbye 
    • walked nowhere in particular 
    • looked up every time the bar door opened.
  • (I wish I knew where this came from. This is someone else’s photograph and I want you to know that— whoever and wherever they are— they have made my life a little better.)
    Serious. Seriously.

  • “Linda! Larry! There’s no concept of weekends anymore!”

  • To crave for happiness in this world is simply to be possessed by a spirit of revolt. What right have we to happiness?

    Ghosts // Henrik Ibsen