"Second, what do I mean by ugly? Like all things subjective, it’s arguable to infinity. I think when women are called ugly, they are not actually ugly — they are simply noncompliant."

Will Women Ever Have the Freedom to Be Ugly?

Tags: feminism

"I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature."

— Had a panic attack this weekend and this was exactly what I felt like. The Scream - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Tags: anxiety art

hyenabutter:

The Year Of Magical Thinking details Didion’s reaction to the death of Dunne, a few days after Christmas, 2003, a period of time in which their daughter was hospitalized and near-death and, following a brief recovery, once again fell ill and died shortly before the book’s publication. A later book, Blue Nights, chronicles Didion’s coming to terms with that loss.
Heavy stuff, right? This should be some seriously deep, gut-wrenching material. But I was just bored by the thing. The telling of the story is flat and undramatic in what I suppose is an attempt to portray just how awful such events are, how they come from nowhere (“Life changes fast,” she writes, “life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.”) and wipe you out so completely that all that is left is the barest ability to describe or explain. I understand that, I do, but it doesn’t make for a terribly compelling read.
From Wikipedia: “Didion applies the iconic reportorial detachment for which she is known to her own experience of grieving; there are few expressions of raw emotion.” Yeah, sure, I get it, but all this does is to create that same sense of detachment in the reader. There’s nothing in the book that makes you particularly care about Didion or her troubles, and since her insights into grieving aren’t especially unique or compelling—she can’t believe her husband is dead; she won’t give away his shoes, because that will confirm the reality of his death; she broods over the possibility that his death could have been avoided—you’re left feeling not much at all about what happened. And I find that iconic reportorial detachment very unappealing. I don’t know when I last read a colder book.
There was also this nagging undercurrent in my own mind as I read the book, of some blue collar, class-war style resentment. Didion and Dunne were rich and leisured, in that east coast, old money sort of way that makes me think of prep schools and John Irving novels. They seem like the kind of people who use the word “summer” as a verb. Or the kind who would casually mention attending a Knicks game with David Halberstam and his wife, being able to get good tickets because of a friendship with NBA commissioner David Stern.
(I wonder if the seed of this resentment—not toward wealth and leisure; that’s a basic hatred that was bred into my very bones, but toward Didion herself—comes from my reading of Stephen King’s Danse Macabre when I was fourteen or so, in which he dismisses Didion’s The White Album: “for rich folks, I suppose it’s a pretty interesting book: the story of a wealthy white woman who could afford to have her nervous breakdown in Hawaii.” Of course, King, even at the time he wrote that line had more money than he could ever spend, but he’s saved from hypocrisy by the simple virtue of writing something honest. And the fact that I’m quoting Stephen King speaks to what people like Didion—or what I imagine her to be—would probably see as emblematic of my own basic ignorance, the lack of sophistication among the great unwashed, that whole messy throng.)


The nagging undercurrent I got reading Magical Thinking was that there were parts of the story Didion was conveniently leaving out. Such as the fact that her daughter’s extensive illness was likely a result of hardcore alcoholism. Perfect little family, huh?

hyenabutter:

The Year Of Magical Thinking details Didion’s reaction to the death of Dunne, a few days after Christmas, 2003, a period of time in which their daughter was hospitalized and near-death and, following a brief recovery, once again fell ill and died shortly before the book’s publication. A later book, Blue Nights, chronicles Didion’s coming to terms with that loss.

Heavy stuff, right? This should be some seriously deep, gut-wrenching material. But I was just bored by the thing. The telling of the story is flat and undramatic in what I suppose is an attempt to portray just how awful such events are, how they come from nowhere (“Life changes fast,” she writes, “life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.”) and wipe you out so completely that all that is left is the barest ability to describe or explain. I understand that, I do, but it doesn’t make for a terribly compelling read.

From Wikipedia: “Didion applies the iconic reportorial detachment for which she is known to her own experience of grieving; there are few expressions of raw emotion.” Yeah, sure, I get it, but all this does is to create that same sense of detachment in the reader. There’s nothing in the book that makes you particularly care about Didion or her troubles, and since her insights into grieving aren’t especially unique or compelling—she can’t believe her husband is dead; she won’t give away his shoes, because that will confirm the reality of his death; she broods over the possibility that his death could have been avoided—you’re left feeling not much at all about what happened. And I find that iconic reportorial detachment very unappealing. I don’t know when I last read a colder book.

There was also this nagging undercurrent in my own mind as I read the book, of some blue collar, class-war style resentment. Didion and Dunne were rich and leisured, in that east coast, old money sort of way that makes me think of prep schools and John Irving novels. They seem like the kind of people who use the word “summer” as a verb. Or the kind who would casually mention attending a Knicks game with David Halberstam and his wife, being able to get good tickets because of a friendship with NBA commissioner David Stern.

(I wonder if the seed of this resentment—not toward wealth and leisure; that’s a basic hatred that was bred into my very bones, but toward Didion herself—comes from my reading of Stephen King’s Danse Macabre when I was fourteen or so, in which he dismisses Didion’s The White Album: “for rich folks, I suppose it’s a pretty interesting book: the story of a wealthy white woman who could afford to have her nervous breakdown in Hawaii.” Of course, King, even at the time he wrote that line had more money than he could ever spend, but he’s saved from hypocrisy by the simple virtue of writing something honest. And the fact that I’m quoting Stephen King speaks to what people like Didion—or what I imagine her to be—would probably see as emblematic of my own basic ignorance, the lack of sophistication among the great unwashed, that whole messy throng.)

The nagging undercurrent I got reading Magical Thinking was that there were parts of the story Didion was conveniently leaving out. Such as the fact that her daughter’s extensive illness was likely a result of hardcore alcoholism. Perfect little family, huh?
"If tomorrow, women woke up and decided they really liked their bodies, just think how many industries would go out of business."

Dr. Gail Dines (via beartrapdreams)

(Source: artiquno, via awelltraveledwoman)

My WKD: Always for PleasureWe got back from Glacier National Park late Friday and spent the day Saturday taking care of stuff…View Post

My WKD: Always for Pleasure

We got back from Glacier National Park late Friday and spent the day Saturday taking care of stuff…

View Post

Stop 2: tiki drinks at @2xtroubletx with @snipe2084

Stop 2: tiki drinks at @2xtroubletx with @snipe2084

Starting the night with 2 Star Symphony in me next door neighbor’s living room.

Starting the night with 2 Star Symphony in me next door neighbor’s living room.

Still snowing as we pass the Red River and the Six Flags of Texas. #snowday #whitechristmas  (at Texas Travel Information Center)

Still snowing as we pass the Red River and the Six Flags of Texas. #snowday #whitechristmas (at Texas Travel Information Center)

Snow (Taken with Cinemagram)

Snow (Taken with Cinemagram)

Tags: Snow oklahoma

Ice (at Biltmore Hotel)

Ice (at Biltmore Hotel)