“Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years I’ve acquired stacks: One is leather, a rope of Rapunzel’s hair braids its spine. Another, tree-friendly, its pages reincarnated from diaries of poets who now sit in cubicles. One is small and black like a funeral dress, its pages lined like the hands of a widow. There’s even a furry blue one that looks like a shag rug or a monster that would hide under it— and I wonder why? For every blown out candle, every Mazel Tov, every turn of the tassel, you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages. It’s never a notebook we need. If we have a story to tell, an idea carbonating past the brim of us, we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin. In the absence of pens, we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number of a parting stranger until we become the craziest one on the subway. If you really love a writer, fuck her on a coffee table. Find a gravestone of someone who shares her name and take her to it. When her door is plastered with an eviction notice, do not offer your home. Say I Love You, then call her the wrong name. If you really love a writer, bury her in all your awful and watch as she scrawls her way out.”—Megan Falley, “If You Really Love a Writer” (via pigmenting)
“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important.”—
Negativity is a waste of your precious time. You deserve much better, so give the very best of life to yourself.
When you catch the slightest bit of negativity creeping into your thoughts, visualize yourself taking hold of it and then simply letting it drop to the ground. Feel the spark of energy that comes from your newly gained freedom, and step positively forward.
Worries are worthless, so don’t bother with them. Resentment over a difficult situation actually makes that situation worse, so remind yourself there’s no point in it.
Limitless abundance and great value are here to be found in this moment. What a shame it would be if any little bit of useless negativity were to block that abundance from your awareness.
Joy and fulfillment are your destiny, so let them flow freely from you. Rise above the pettiness that often threatens to draw you in, and give your focus to the good things that truly matter.
Give your precious time the respect and appreciation it so richly deserves. Fill it with beautiful, meaningful, positive purpose.
Sometimes I am just disgusted by the absolute shit that people can believe is right. Maybe it’s that I’ve lived in another country for three years, or maybe it is just my natural born ability to see past my own retinas, but this Rush Limbaugh thing has just gotten me so, so angry. I realise that we’re all pawns in this political shit. I know that Obama’s call to Sandra Fluke is just another move on a chess board— he’s up for election again and is playing the cards (and my bet is that he’s just won not a few votes from women) and Rush Limbaugh is generally a fat man with too much mouth and not enough consideration for other people. But the root of the entire situation, once you clear up the shit, it what makes me so unequivocally furious. This is a man denigrating a woman’s opinion on her own body, a man speaking over a woman’s voice about a medical need for contraception, and overall, a man calling a woman a ‘slut’ for disagreeing with him.
Now you have to understand that I am not a feminist, not in the crazy way that feminists are made out to be. I was raised to make sure that I was considered as an equal, and to hold on to the belief that my opinion is equal to everyone else’s. And it’s not just my mother that installed this in me: it was my father too, you know, and every other person in my family, as well as teachers and others along the way, and especially myself. I hold on to this belief because I will want my children to believe the same: my daughter will be equal to my son in humanity. That’s equality: fair and simple. I do not, however, believe that women are the same as men. We aren’t. I see it as two sides to a coin, both worth the same, both money, just different. And I don’t see a problem with that.
Therefore, I don’t believe that birth control is just a topic for women. Contraception is everyone’s conversation, and perhaps that’s why I am so enraged by this. Where are the women? And why is the one with a voice not only insulted, but called by the wrong name? This is not an issue of economy, this is not an issue of tax-payers money or politics. This is an issue of respect: the disrespect of a talk-show host who believes he has the right to call women sluts, and moreover to not even pay enough attention to her to get her name right. The disrespect of the entire conversation which believes that contraception is only useful for sex: that it is not also a medicine, and that women need it for innumerable medical reasons ranging from convenient control of pain to the regulation of life-threatening issues, and therefore that it should not be provided for those who can’t afford it. The disrespect inherent in this argument about sex in the first place: the disrespect in believing that you, Mr. Limbaugh (and many others like you so adamant in their agreement as so post hideous sexist comments where-ever they can), are at the centre of this universe: that what you believe is right is obviously so, and therefore that those who disagree with you are first of all wrong, and secondly, will suffer by your choices. The disrespectful and repulsive tendency to reduce the topic of contraceptives into money: the lack of consideration for others’ relevant medical needs (and what this says about these people’s lack of consternation for the women in their lives), and finally the lack in politics to account for the humanity of the situation.
Now, sex can be about a lot of things: physicality, sensation, lust, love— but these are all human things, and while some of them lack lasting emotional engagement, sex is not a leisure activity. I, frankly, do not believe that anyone thinks so: that sex is about as physically and emotionally engaging as tanning, or jogging, or that it is inherently wrong. Now then, why is it made out that a woman who needs and wants contraceptives even though she cannot pay for them is a prostitute? That she is having enough sex that all of the taxpayers are her ‘pimps’ to be providing her with means for safe sex? Funnily enough, even though it’s mostly men in politics who are speaking about this… where are the men in this conversation? When will the sexual activities of men be up for critique? When will we discuss whether or not we should pay for men’s reproductive health, when will we reduce men’s concern for themselves into a nauseating numerical figure? This is a conversation about respect, and should be a conversation that is in every way American, regardless of ‘conservative’ and ‘liberal’: this is a conversation about equality, about respect for women, respect for each other and each other’s choices, respect for humanity and the drives and wants that make us so.