more stars than in the heavens

not in our stars, but in ourselves

hodgepodge

– There was a nice little piece in the Michigan Quarterly Review called “Through Her Eyes: On Men Writing Women” by Sam Krowchenko earlier this week.  Basically, he’s calling out (and admitting to worrying mightily about his own) tendencies for male writers to create cardboard cut-outs of women in their scripts, novels, etc.  He doesn’t really get into it in the article, but of course it often extends beyond fiction; there are men who view women as essentially different, essentially less-than: less complex, less intelligent, less powerful, less capable than men.  The real-world view feeds into art, which informs the real world, which feeds into art, and so on and so on.  Isn’t it terrible to think that someone you love, someone you assume loves you, basically respects you less?  Or, if you can’t think of any examples of that particular tragedy, think of the daily and depressing unfairness of how famous women are treated by the media.  It all happens all the time, and you don’t have to look far for proof.

NOT ANYONE'S BEST FRIEND.

NOT ANYONE’S BEST FRIEND.

– I read “Have You Ever Tried to Sell a Diamond?” from The Atlantic last week, and it’s stuck with me ever since.  The tl;dr version: you are being swindled into thinking diamonds are worth anything more than plain old coal.  You are being swindled into thinking they’re a necessary component of True Love Everlasting.  Not only are you being swindled, other humans are being forced to work in genuinely horrifying conditions to dig up these pieces of compressed carbon, which will be hoarded Smaug-style by the world’s biggest and greediest diamond “warehouses” – all in an effort to preserve and inflate the high prices associated with diamonds when they were a true rarity, washing up on a select few river banks.  If you decide to symbolize your engagement with a ring, please consider a different (and prettier) gemstone than diamonds. (A friend of mine just got engaged, and her ring has a beautiful pink tourmaline.  It’s lovely to look at, and it suits her perfectly.)

– My boyf just pointed me to this, from Jacobin: “A Plea for Culinary Modernism” by Rachel Laudan.  Call it…food for thought.  Ha!  Haha!  Ahhh, I crack myself up.  Ahem.  No, but really, it’s a fascinating article about how we shouldn’t be turning our noses up at pre-prepared supermarket food, and fast food, and so on.  Laudan is (mostly) against what she calls “Culinary Luddism” – because she’s a(n) historian, and she realizes that hardcore advocates for “slow food” would shoot us right back to the bad old days when poor people could do nothing but toil in the fields and in kitchens, while rich people literally ate themselves to death.  Nowadays, everyone is eating themselves to death, so I guess that’s progress?  Maybe?

– On the subject of food, I met a new friend at lunch today:

I had a little friend at lunch ☺️

A post shared by amelia (@moonshinemaude) on

Super cute.  No idea if that’s a little boy squirrel or a little girl squirrel, but I intend to go back to the same spot tomorrow and see if I can keep winning it over.

– I’m a very old woman and it takes me a very long time to catch up with New Things, but I’m really into I Love You, Honeybear by Father John Misty at the moment.  Especially the title song:

Oh, honeybear, honeybear, honeybear
Mascara, blood, ash and cum
On the Rorschach sheets where we make love
Honeybear, honeybear, honeybear
You fuck the world damn straight malaise
It may be just us who feel this way
But don’t ever doubt this, my steadfast conviction
My love, you’re the one I want to watch the ship go down with
The future can’t be real, I barely know how long a moment is
Unless we’re naked, getting high on the mattress
While the global market crashes
As death fills the streets we’re garden-variety oblivious
You grab my hand and say in an “I told you so” voice:
“It’s just how we expected”

Everything is doomed
And nothing will be spared
But I love you, honeybear
Honeybear, honeybear, honeybear

You’re bent over the altar
And the neighbors are complaining
That the misanthropes next door
Are probably conceiving a Damien
Don’t they see the darkness rising?
Good luck fingering oblivion
We’re getting out now while we can
You’re welcome boys, have the last of the smokes and chicken
Just one Cadillac will do to get us out to where we’re going
I’ve brought my mother’s depression
You’ve got your father’s scorn and a wayward aunt’s schizophrenia

But everything is fine
Don’t give into despair
Cause I love you, honeybear
Honeybear, honeybear, honeybear

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This entry was posted on May 27, 2015 by and tagged , .
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