I make stuff because I can. I am creative because I create. I have no delusions of talent, or peculiar worth. I mean, I kind of think creation—itself—is worthwhile.
still, I mostly hate myself most of the time. and, some days, tumblr gets to being the voice inside my head. as a depressive cycle starts to taper off—please, fuck, taper off—nothing can stall the beginning of a manic phase (which is also fucked, but bearable) quite like targeted abuse.
no. I don’t think most of what I make is particularly good.
yes. more thought goes into most of it than what I explain in tumblr posts.
sure. maybe I should make better use of self-deprecating tags about my own patheticness.
but … should I supply complete critical justification with everything I post? I don’t think so. I don’t think most of you guys are stupid enough to need that. I don’t think most of the internet is stupid enough to need that.
I’ve seen it—abuse—happening to other people far more frequently than it happens to me (it’s really not that often). and it’s fucked. I’m sick—particularly—of hipster craft culture—or whatever—and its naive elitism.
'I'm tons into craft and it's totally cool. but stuff you make is shit. you can’t do that, or you’re rubbish at it. now I’m going to blog about how I’m tons into craft, and how stuff you make is shit. … because that will fulfil my participation requirement, or whatever.’
I’m more attracted to an idea of craft that is encouraging, than one that’s limiting. I am interested in facilitating people to create, engaging them, showing them that creation is an end, regardless of the objective value of what is created.
I don’t know.
I’m more into surrounding myself with things that I admire than things I don’t. I certainly don’t see the point of lurking blogs I don’t follow to find content I don’t like, so that I can reblog it … simply to be cruel.
probably, I’m weak. I’m absolutely afraid this post will open me up to further shit. whatever. fucked people are fucked and should probably fuck off. if they’re not going to, that’s their problem. this has pretty much fulfilled my participation requirement, or whatever.
so I recently read some of a tumblr _thing_ which climaxed (for me, at least) with a young lady of the alt lit community rationalizing her decision to post nude photographs of herself (or, of her breasts, but I won’t get into Ways of Seeing here) with the claim that breasts aren’t sexual.
she argued that their perceived sexuality is purely the construction of institutionalised heteronormative gender oppression, and implied that considering them sexual is wrong.
as a straight female, I find breasts both sexual and awesome. sure, they can be used to exploit women, but only because they are so great: the problem is exploitation, not breasts. breasts are part of being a woman, part of female sexuality, and denying that—to me—denies the potential power of the female. I like the idea of gender equality, but am more convinced by equally-balanced power: I don’t want to be a man.
so I was offended by what came across as a direct—though naive—attempt to disenfranchise female sexuality in the name of feminism.
and I’ll delete this post in a bit, because I’m terrified of tumblr _things_ and of being attacked by defensive people. and because I haven’t directly engaged with the argument, so would probably be taken out of context. also: typing on my iPhone.
but it’s inspired me to develop an idea about feminist values that don’t deny female sexuality. and to start work with a talented friend on a photo series exploring it. specifically for the internet. idek, we’ll see where it takes us.
Velvet Underground (and Nico) - I’ll be your mirror
heart this always.
have all the feelings.
you guys are all fucking wonderful.
I’ve been a bit of a sulk lately, and I’ve probably given some bad impressions. but—wow—I have some amazing people in my life. and I’ve decided that caring hard isn’t something I should try to hide. hold tight, get brave.
so all the moving/hysteria will quiet by the end of the week. and I’ve got words to write, stock to list and people to love. plus there’s the zine catalogue. and these dresses I have in my head. and All the Ideas. and things to glitter.
His bow was condescending: too low to be taken very seriously, and far lower than the situation demanded. I dreamt—a moment’s inattention—that his Rubbish Hat might tumble from his Rubbish Head. I wished—another moment—that it would. I wondered—a fleeting wonder—which of them was more detestable.
He straightened, hat and head united in conspiracy. He repeated the question, slowly. His consonants spat disgust.
Pointedly, I wiped disgust from my cheek. I sneered at his sneer (or maybe it was just his face), and answered him as vaguely as I could.
I don’t know where the Little Banana Guy’s got to. he mentioned something about filming cheese.
He was persistent, I was abstract.
who am I kidding? bananas don’t speak. they go on breakfast in cereal commercials.
I had no reason to be difficult … but he had no reason to be wearing such a Rubbish Hat.
last night, packing seemed exciting. now I have too many books and boxes are annoying anyway and I can’t lift more than one item at a time, so what’s the point of grouping them together into containers?
I just want to watch Detective Cheekbones again (but I’m saving it for with Ale), or listen to That ‘Atmosphere’ Cover Band, and be in bed or in the sun.