alina pleskova

flotsam & jetsam, jolts, bric-a-brac, whatever catches--

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  1. September 17, 2014


    These girls aren’t wounded so much as post-​wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. They’re over it. I am not a melodramatic person. God help the woman who is. What I’ll call “post-​wounded” isn’t a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect: These women are aware that “woundedness” is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama, so they stay numb or clever instead. Post-​wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-​wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: Don’t cry too loud; don’t play victim. Don’t ask for pain meds you don’t need; don’t give those doctors another reason to doubt. Post-​wounded women fuck men who don’t love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blasé about it; they refuse to hurt about it or to admit they hurt about it—​or else they are endlessly self-​aware about it, if they do allow themselves this hurting.

    The post-​wounded posture is claustrophobic: jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick on the heels of anything that might look like self-​pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-​wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects: sarcastic, jaded, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-​pity might split their careful seams of intellect, expose the shame of self-​absorption without self-​awareness.

    " - Leslie Jamison, “Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain” (via et—cetera)

    (via thekudzuleague)

  2. September 17, 2014

    (via trishalow)

  3. September 17, 2014

    Single women your age are cool as cucumbers despite everything we all hear and how they’re portrayed in movies and television. They drink, you drink, it doesn’t matter. Everyone can handle sex sober now, though people still like weed. No one is surprised to be asked out and hardly anyone is cruel or volatile. Every single person your age has had absolutely every weird edge smoothed off their personality. No one is crazy like in the old days. People work out, find new ways to work out, make videos about new ways they’ve found to work out. People talk about the world as if they don’t understand it. People talk about their jobs, get self-conscious talking about their jobs. “Girl” or “woman”? People often don’t sleep over. Once in a while someone won’t respond to a text but in general almost everyone is fantastic about communication. No one seems to judge anyone on whether you pay for whatever. Maybe they’re torn internally. Romantic comedies seem profoundly hollow in a way that makes it seem like a lot more work to be honest. A prostitute will get arrested on the sidewalk at night and scream “What did I DO?” You’ll know pretty much everyone you see in three or four separate neighbourhoods around the city. You’ll see them every day. You will be so good with people. You will have little money. Your confidence about your musical tastes will be shot. You will have this one thing you know about. A song will come on in a restaurant and you will light up inside, every dormant republic of your personality will tingle. The waitress will approach. You will order breakfast. Like an old man in a movie in a country that doesn’t exist, you will have a thick, dry New York Times. You won’t read it. You’ll read a book about a group of artists in another century who changed the face of things they cared about. You will have no one to turn to when you feel as though every single day you’ve lived you’ve wasted. You will earn $250 for a true story you mostly invented. You will dream endlessly on bathroom tiles, after a shower, of old lovers and what ever became of their lives. Whatever they’re doing, whatever choices they made to get to where they are now, you want to be there too, in that sun-algaed room or expanse where their person is, gently.”

    excerpted from “The Life You Want” by Stephen Thomas.

    Read the story in its entirety - it’s gorgeous & quietly devastating.

  4. September 16, 2014

    "Jenny Holzer’s famous truism “Protect me from what I want” renders in a very precise way the fundamental ambiguity of the hysterical position. It can either be read as an ironic reference to the standard male chauvinist wisdom that a woman, when left to herself, gets caught in the self-destructive fury, so that she must be protected from herself by the benevolent male domination: “Protect me from the excessive self-destructive desire in me that I myself am not able to dominate.” Or it can be read in a more radical way, as pointing towards the fact that in today’s patriarchal society, woman’s desire is radically alienated, that she desires what men expect her to desire, that she desires to be desired by men. In this case, “Protect me from what I want” means “What I want, precisely when I seem to formulate my authentic innermost longing, is already imposed on me by the patriarchal order that tells me what to desire, so the first condition of my liberation is that I break up the vicious cycle of my alienated desire and learn to formulate my desire in an autonomous way.”" - Slavoj Žižek, How To Read Lacan  (via teacakes)

    (Source: linkinparkvevo420696661337, via thekudzuleague)

  5. September 9, 2014
  6. September 8, 2014

    Sonnett II | Ted Berrigan

    Dear Margie, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.
    dear Berrigan. He died
    Back to books. I read
    It’s 8:30 p.m. in New York and I’ve been running around all day
    old come-all-ye’s streel into the streets. Yes, it is now,
    How Much Longer Shall I Be Able To Inhabit The Divine
    and the day is bright gray turning green
    feminine marvelous and tough
    watching the sun come up over the Navy Yard
    to write scotch-tape body in a notebook
    had 17 and 1/2 milligrams
    Dear Margie, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.
    fucked til 7 now she’s late to work and I’m
    18 so why are my hands shaking I should know better

  7. September 7, 2014

    (Source: straightallies, via elderlymag)

  8. September 6, 2014

    (Source: someeforceofnature, via pankmagazine)

  9. September 5, 2014

    "Víctor Valera Mora, I have reversed the lines of your poem
    so that you will never crash your Maserati
    and all of us poets but especially the poets
    of revolutionary inclinations will go into the city of Caracas
    or Los Angeles to affirm that we must stop working
    and never ascend from this cave to the surface
    of stupid administrators and Mora, I also turn women
    into weapons of war and I think it’s funny when all the poets
    who live in shitty apartments get to a certain age and sheepishly
    ask one another if they are going to ever buy a house
    Never! No poet should ever have a jacuzzi I want
    A Jacuzzi! We must stop working so we can love again
    and pull ourselves from this stupid exile
    and everyone will learn the language of exile to burn it up
    The sun and the moon and the future are on our side
    and when I when I fuck my husband in the morning
    and walk into the city with sperm splashing inside of me—
    with the infinite universe going everywhere inside my flesh and pulling
    my cells along some continuum of nothingness—I will never be
    on the surface—I will always be naked down here
    among the poets and my body which is always underneath everything
    calls out and thinks of you constantly, my reader.
    I take one last red gulp of wine and duck out the door forever." - Sandra Simonds, from “To the Reader

  10. September 3, 2014
  11. September 3, 2014

    "for me, what falling in love means is different. it’s a matter of suddenly, globally, ‘knowing’ that another person represents your own access to some vitally

    transmissable truth
    or radiantly heightened
    mode of perception,

    and that if you lose the thread of this intimacy, both your soul and your whole world might subsist forever in some desert-like state of ontological impoverishment." - eve k. sedgwick, a dialogue on love (via karaj)

    (Source: wolfpile, via karaj)

  12. August 31, 2014

    Assistance | Darin Ciccotelli

    You have the vague hope. Like a fritillary 
    it ekes along the perimeter of what 
    you can see. It is some consequence of youth, 
    this idea that you can be revived. 
    Until then, each day seems like that 
    apartment you’ve lived in—unfurnished, 
    wet with primer. Then the weekend is gone, 
    television having usurped it with 
    the dressage portion of the event. Increasingly 
    you rely on the idea that you were nearly 
    understood. The sky all fumes. 
    Inside, a refrigerated lily holds itself 
    still. The post-industrial town fits its 
    hours in envelopes. So you assuage yourself 
    with the person you never knew. 
    She sits in the mind like a 
    telephone. The feeling can’t help be 
    compounded. I read the article that said 
    we weren’t supposed to look each 
    other in the eyes. Without being asked, 
    the unceremonious plot resets itself. You are 
    in love. Everyone, at every corner, 
    suddenly like road flares.

    (via BOMB)

  13. August 30, 2014


    Protests and looting naturally capture attention. But the real rage smolders in meetings where officials redraw precincts to dilute African American voting strength or seek to slash the government payrolls that have long served as sources of black employment. It goes virtually unnoticed, however, because white rage doesn’t have to take to the streets and face rubber bullets to be heard. Instead, white rage carries an aura of respectability and has access to the courts, police, legislatures and governors, who cast its efforts as noble, though they are actually driven by the most ignoble motivations.

    White rage recurs in American history. It exploded after the Civil War, erupted again to undermine the Supreme Court’s Brown v. Board of Education decision and took on its latest incarnation with Barack Obama’s ascent to the White House. For every action of African American advancement, there’s a reaction, a backlash.

    " - Carol Anderson, “Ferguson isn’t about black rage against cops. It’s white rage against progress.” (The Washington Post)

    (Source: citysleep)

  14. August 26, 2014

    (Source: ohsodirnty, via stayfunny)

  15. August 18, 2014


    A silent protest in Love Park, downtown Philadelphia orchestrated by performance artists protesting the murder of Michael Brown in Ferguson. The onslaught of passerby’s  wanting to take photos with the statue exemplifies the disconnect in American society.  Simply frame out the dead body, and it doesn’t exist.  

    Here are some observations by one of the artists involved in the event:

    I don’t know who any of these folks are.

    They were tourists I presume.

    But I heard most of what everything they said. A few lines in particular stood out. There’s one guy not featured in the photos. His friends were trying to get him to join the picture but he couldn’t take his eyes off the body.

    "Something about this doesn’t feel right. I’m going to sit this one out, guys." "Com’on man… he’s already dead."


    There were a billion little quips I heard today. Some broke my heart. Some restored my faith in humanity. There was an older white couple who wanted to take a picture under the statue.

    The older gentleman: “Why do they have to always have to shove their politics down our throats.” Older woman: “They’re black kids, honey. They don’t have anything better to do.”

    One woman even stepped over the body to get her picture. But as luck would have it the wind blew the caution tape and it got tangle around her foot. She had to stop and take the tape off. She still took her photo.

    There was a guy who yelled at us… “We need more dead like them. Yay for the white man!”

    "One young guy just cried and then gave me a hug and said ‘thank you. It’s nice to know SOMEBODY sees me.’

    (via overtheanvil)