Category: Non classé

ambient2:

there are these like.. “poli sci bros” if u know the type.. who sit in front of me in philosophy.. anyhow today the professor said something like “u wonder how marx ever had the time to write all these texts” and the guy in front of me immediately opened google and typed “karl marx virgin”

violagayvis:

there are only 350 women of color professors in the U.K. in 2018, out of
something like maybe 17,000 professors

i’m transcribing these feminist scholars talking abt like their lives and shit and she just quoted this statistic…… my jaw dropped LOL 

(…)

I’m forever what’s-her-face

Eyes closed and fast pace

It was hard to remember

So my name became a slur

A more-or-less giving a faint strum

Singing for sure, singing for none

And that is why tonight I won’t come

And that is why tonight I won’t come

Their beads had ringing appeal

If i’m not sick that’s how I feel

See the dreamer, she’s out to be found

Seek the dreamer, she’s out to be found

It’s been years since that playground

It’s been years since that playground

(…)

– Chris and The Queens, “What’s-her-face”

epicene-writings:

English is such an adaptable language. It lets you pick whatever bits you want, and build whatever house you want with it; it lets you refine it or shred it to pieces – its flexibility seems infinite. English doesn’t know any breaking point. It smiles, a smile full or warmth and casually yellow teeth, and greets you. Make yourself at home, it says. You can borrow what you want. Make yourself a home, English says. 

French, on the other side, is nothing but an evanescence – but one with muscles, and hard working, well-trained ones. French dances, so far away from you – and you can’t reach her – and you know you’re never going to ever ne serait-ce que come closer to her. She knows nothing but distance. She dances, and works the light she twirls around, and she’s made of stiff muscles and discipline; but sometimes – very rarely, only when there is a crack of light between her shoulders, or her thighs – sometimes you can see it: the space in which you would love to nestle; and she does or doesn’t stare at you – she doesn’t do this for you, she has known so many of you already. 

French is inaccessible. It doesn’t matter if you’ve trained just like her to try and forecast her moves – she dances like a dim light out of reach, on the very frontier of your tongue – and all you can do is wait for her next moment de grâce.