A group portrait of female punk and new wave musicians in London, August 1980, L-R (back) Debbie Harry of Blondie, Viv Albertine of The Slits, Siouxsie Sioux of Siouxsie And The Banshees, (Front) Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders, Poly Styrene of X-Ray Spex, and Pauline Black of The Selecter.
“Crush on Pauline Black” status: Ongoing.
Dito on Pauline, Celebrate The Bullet, love The Selecter.
100% badasses
Source: theremina
What Disney’s now-aborted redesign of Merida is:
1. Unnecessary
What Disney’s now-aborted redesign of Merida isn’t:
1. “Slutty”
2. “Like a whore”
3. “A little whorey”
4. “Tarted up”
5. “A skank”
6. “A skank-assed ho”
7. “Skanky”
8. “Get-the-fuck-away-from-my-husband-Merida”
9. “Nasty”
All of these are actual quotes, posted by women. Now explain to me how blasting Disney for being anti-feminist by using these terms isn’t some bald-assed hypocrisy.
For the past couple of weeks I’ve been obsessing over the idea of keeping a diary, like one I’d (try) to write in every day that would be mostly just for my eyes (until after my death, when the world of course will demand access to every piece of paper that bears my distinctive handwriting on it). I’ve also been wanting to try art journaling, so I suppose I could try to combine the two, though I also thought that I should probably carry around a smaller notebook, to record my thoughts as they come to me, rather than waiting until I can get them down in a diary later.
All signs point to this being great for creativity. David Sedaris has an essay in his new book about how some of what he writes down in his diary ends up in his public writing. He notes observations, sayings, quotes from other people—at his book signing last week, I saw him take a small notebook out of his pocket and write down a bit of slang someone in front of me used. So I want to do this. Because I have some weird thing about time frames (though it’s likely just another form of procrastination), I’ve decided to officially start on my birthday, a little more than two months from now.
Here’s the problem: I doubt my ability to keep up with it for any real period of time. I’ve tried it before, and eventually slacked off. I know how I get about things, and I know that, despite this being a private venture, I’ll still question whether or not things are worth writing down. I’ll get lazy, I’ll tell myself “write about it tomorrow,” and then tomorrow will turn into a few days later, and then a week, and then a month, and then before I know it I’ve got yet another half-filled notebook sitting in a pile somewhere in my bedroom. I will do the best I can to not try to put any sort of expectations on it, or worry about cohesion or if my writing is any good. I’m not writing a novel, after all. Nevertheless, there’s a very good chance this won’t go anywhere.
But I’ll try. It’ll be good for me. Right? Right. I wish I had a “diary buddy,” or whatever, someone who would hold me accountable for keeping up with it.
By the way, for the two or three of you who read me here, I’m going to start treating this thing more like an actual blog. Which, of course, means that approximately one month from now Tumblr will go the way of MySpace.
I just finished The Journals of Spalding Gray the other day. It took me a while to get through it, as it’s so crushingly despondent that it probably shouldn’t be read cover to cover straight. It’s sad, fascinating, frustrating, and sort of terrifying—Gray was a textbook case of the chronically depressed, so loathe to admit when he was happy that when things were going good in his life he’d invariably commit some self-destructive act, like cheating on his romantic partner or picking up strangers for casual sex (though he was also terrified of contracting AIDS). The hardest part about overcoming depression is being able to accept that you’re as entitled to happiness as anyone else, that happiness should be the norm, not faulty karmic accounting. Chronic depression convinces you that the happiness you feel is fleeting, that it will eventually be revealed as a fluke, and you’re better off throwing your own spanner in the works before life does it for you. My own acts of self-destruction have been different from Gray’s, but not necessarily any better.
The book also drives home an unpleasant, difficult truth to face—that people with chronic depression can be hell on their loved ones. Gray played mind games with the women in his life, demanding constant attention from one while pushing another one away, then switching their roles when things seemed to be too calm. During the last year of his life, he spoke openly in his young children’s presence of his desire to commit suicide. His wife was essentially held hostage by his disease throughout most of their marriage. Depression is an ugly thing. It eats. It eats everything in its path. There but for the grace of whoever go I.
