From “Rural Dravidian Women” by S.Elayaraja.
I know next to nothing about art, aside from the odd ramble through the National Portrait Gallery. But something about these oil paintings captured my imagination.
There’s an area of Seoul which has managed to retain a lot of pre-war/colonial architecture, markedly different from a lot of the cookie-cutter buildings built nowadays: high ceilings, huge, wall-length windows, etc. Because the buildings are so old, they can’t be developed, which means elevators can’t be installed. This, in turn, means that the rent stays low, and it’s becoming the perfect place for artists and designers who can’t afford to be in, say, Hongdae.
We climbed to the top of this one, right in the heart of the city, built in 1937. We drank wine from red cups and enjoyed the cool breeze, a welcome retreat from the normally humid Seoul summer.
Anonymous said: As a sex-repulsed asexual... how it's like to live in a hypersexualized society? How do you cope? Are there days when sometimes it's just too much? And what do you do then?
i’m not repulsed by sex, but yeah i’m asexual
short answers: it sucks and i don’t think asexuals are the only ones to feel this way; i cope by ignoring everything lol; yeah i guess but my friends are pretty good about respecting boundaries and such so it’s not very common for me to be overwhelmed + i don’t get stressed or even grossed out that easily; my coping mechanism for pretty much everything is just ‘ignore it’ so that’s what i do
long answers: please come off anon :)
Over 20 civilians dead in Idlib (where ISIS has no presence) from US air strikes. Earlier this week over 30 children dead in Idleb from contaminated measles vaccines from the UN.
i got an anon asking me questions on being asexual and it feels like im some test subjected that’s soon gonna be experimented on but at the same time i kinda do want to answer the questions because what if someone out there is wondering the same things and having the same trouble navigating a hypersexual society and stuff u know
so what do
The Color of Paradise // Rang-e Khodā (Majid Majidi - 1999)
Our teacher says that God loves the blind more because they can’t see. But I told him if it was so, he would not make us blind so that we can’t see Him. He answered “God is not visible. He is everywhere. You can feel Him. You see Him through your fingertips.” / Now I reach out everywhere for God till the day my hands touch Him and tell Him everything, even all the secrets in my heart.
Unfortunately for South Asian writing, what the publishing industry has decided is best for Western readers is pandering, cliché-heavy, lunch-buffet fiction that’s easy to digest and doesn’t contain too many weird, foreign ingredients.
“Those books” Thayil refers to are South Asian diaspora novels about the Indian subcontinent. Mangoes, spices, and monsoons. I’ll add saris, bangles, oppressive husbands/fathers, arranged marriages, grains of rice, jasmine, virgins, and a tacky, overproduced Bollywood dance of rejection and obsession with Western culture. The frustration Thayil expresses has been echoed by other South Asian writers and readers who don’t identify with the stories and struggles presented in many of the South Asian novels published in the West from 2000 forward — the era ushered forth by the Pulitzer Prize-winning Interpreter of Maladies and all the copycats that followed. They see nothing of the real India, or the real Pakistan, or the real Bangladesh, or the other real South Asian communities reflected in these novels, which are designed for a primarily white reading public. What they do see are stereotypes — a colonialist “jewel in the crown” version of the subcontinent that includes tall servants named Raj and palm fronds, mosquito nets and teatime and exiles longing to return to their super romantic homeland. In much contemporary literature, South Asians are exotic little creatures fluttering about in glass jars for the bemusement of monocle-clutching Western observers.
Perhaps this seems a highly cynical position. How can it be that South Asian novels, primarily written by South Asians and published by the intellectual one-percenters in cosmopolitan centers who understand the world and wish, through literature, to edify it for the rest of us, skew the reality of South Asia and its people?
I genuinely resent how ‘respecting parents’ often translates into allowing yourself to be an emotional (or even physical) punching bag, doormat or vessel for them to relentlessly project their idealized image of the perfect child, which often proves detrimental and inhibiting. Fuck that shit.
I love how in Bollywood movies the characters openly discuss being in love with their parents. If I told my parents they’d be like wtf?!?!!!! get back to studying what pyaar
"possessing a female body is weird: discursively, my body doesn’t entirely belong me. it never has. when i was a minor, it belonged to my father (see: the idea of purity pledges where young girls pledge their virginities god and their father, “the high priest of the home”). as i grow older, it will belong to my partner, as female sexuality ultimately serves to complement the male counterpart, but only in moderation. now, my black female body belongs to me even less: it belongs to the state and to science (see: henrietta lacks and the black female bodies on whom experimentation helped to advance our knowledge of human physiology) to the white gaze, to society (see: miley cyrus and the myriad other individuals and institutions who reduce black women to an aggregate of consumable physicality and profoundly untrue stereotypes). when you really get around to unpacking the gendered politics around the corporal ownership of female and feminised bodies, it’s understandably difficult to love yourself. particularly when your sexuality is being policed and we’re made to feel shamed and scandalised by it"
Zoe Samudzi, nudes and female corporal ownership
5 drowsy kittens.