I was thinking about all the stories of exploited workers explaining that they can’t leave work even if they’re sick, prompted by coronavirus concerns & I was thinking about when I was a *part time* librarian at a community college and was made responsible for making ALL college IDs for students and staff and how once I called in sick for 2 days (unpaid because no benefits but I took the pay cut to stay home) and when I got back I had panicked emails from my boss who had gotten panicked emails from their boss who had gotten a swarm of panicked calls from people who hadn’t received IDs cause no one took any photos or processed or printed them for a week (cause I was only scheduled like 3 days a week to begin with) & therefore people couldn’t register for classes or in some cases even get in the building, and an emergency meeting was called where I had to explain how I got so far behind. Because they had no one else who knew how to perform this vital function to the college except a part time, unbenefitted person working in the campus library, and just relied on the assumption that I would never call in.
I’m sure none of the students realized how absolutely dysfunctional their college was. They probably thought the delay was some sort of disorganized bureaucratic nightmare, which would have been a valid theory. But no, it was 1 worker who was sick for 2 days and it brought the whole functioning of the college down.
People really don’t understand how precarious literally everything is. So much relies on the sacrifice of exploited labor, and the precarity only reveals itself when someone in that position refuses to provide that sacrifice
This is a comment someone appended to a photo of two men apparently having sex in a very fancy room, but it’s also kind of an amazing two-line poem? “His Wife has filled his house with chintz” is a really elegant and beautiful counterbalancing of h, f, and s sounds, and “chintz” is a perfect word choice here—sonically pleasing and good at evoking nouveau riche tackiness. And then “to keep it real I fuck him on the floor” collapses that whole mood with short percussive sounds—but it’s still a perfect iambic pentameter line, robust and a lovely obscene contrast with the chintz in the first line. Well done, tumblr user jjbang8
I hate that my aesthetic sense agrees with this but everything you just said was correct
I went back to dig up this post because I was thinking about poetry.
This is one of those non-poem things that are among my favorite poems.
As the OP stated, the use of alliterative consonants is aesthetically just great, especially the placement of the strongest use at the end: “fuck him on the floor.” The use of “chintz” is indeed great word choice.
Because I’m insane, decided to scan the poem:
Not only is the second sentence, indeed, perfect iambic pentameter, the entire poem is perfectly metered, though the first sentence has four iambs rather than five.
There are further things I love about this poem, though: I like the casual connotations of “keep it real” juxtaposed with “chintz.” It causes me to interpret the “chintz” more strongly as meaning something fake, a facade. There is also of course the coarseness of “fuck,” which is a contrast with “chintz” but a different kind of contrast, gutsy and carnal where “chintz” is flimsy and inanimate.
And then there is the storytelling: there is SO MUCH storytelling in just these two lines. To break it down: The speaker is having sex with a married man, in the house he shares with his wife, which is “filled with chintz”—something that here connotes fakeness, in contrast with “keep it real.”
The illicit encounter in the poem takes place within a house filled with facade, the flimsy construction of the wife’s marriage and domestic sphere, but the encounter itself is a taste of something “real.” That’s a story, and it’s just two lines.
This is EIGHTEEN SYLLABLES, y’all. The amount of meaning condensed into these eighteen syllables is stunning, and it is so elegantly done.
From a technical standpoint (and ive taken 300- and 400-level poetry classes so I can say this) this is damn near flawless as a poem.
Kept thinking about this ever since I saw it and had to do something
there’s art now
Ah dang to go further; the floor is framed as a refuge. As if there is literally no other space in this house that hasn’t been populated by his wife with flimsy inanimate fakery. There is no space for this man in this house save for the floor. There is no space for him on the sofa, oon the counter tops, and most notably, no space for him in the marital bed.
The reason vaginal atrophy in HRT is rarely discussed isn’t because some nefarious boogeyman wants to transgenderficate all your pretty lesbian crushes into chronic pelvic pain it’s because people don’t give a shit about transmasculine reproductive health and you hijacking the topic for your detransition propaganda will only make things worse as you discourage transmascs from researching the subject and learning that it’s treatable
“You’ll live with chronic pain for the rest of your life is it worth it” casual ableism aside you’re saying that as if vaginal atrophy doesn’t happen to half of all postmenopausal people, what makes you think you’re immune
Because I am on a mission to make sure everyone knows this and every time vaginal atrophy comes up, I will bring it up:
Vaginal atrophy is easily preventable and treatable. if YOU are on T and you’re experiencing it, PLEASE let your gyno/HRT doc know. They can prescribe topical estrogen which will treat the issue without interfering with your HRT!
I’ve looked into it a LITTLE and over the counter phyto-estrogen creams seem to have an effect but IDK if I’d 100% trust them.
Sorry, this is just super fucking important to me and literally everyone on T needs to know about it because when I was doing the research NO ONE brought up how easily it was treated until I looked into vaginal atrophy itself and found out because of how it’s treated in menopausal women.
When I talked to the doctor at planned parenthood she echoed this, too. That if vaginal atrophy starts to develop, I should just let her know so she can prescribe me topical estrogen to help!
the fact that we aren’t fucking told this is PART of the problem. The fact that we’re told it’s inevitable and untreatable is part of the problem. You don’t *have* to deal with that pain and discomfort.
!!!
Topical estrogen won’t affect your T levels either, from what I know. It will just affect the vagina, so you don’t have to worry that your transition will be impacted if you do get vaginal atrophy treated. If you are worried about topical estrogen affecting your transition talk to your doctor! There’s no reason trans people should suffer out of fear and misinformation.
This is true! Be aware that whether you can get effective treatments over the counter will depend on the exact pharmacy laws in your area – for example, in NZ it’s a prescription-only medicine (but prescriptions are subsidised so this isn’t too bad).
This matters because there’s a bunch of products out there that claim to treat vaginal atrophy, including lube and “vaginal moisturisers”, which don’t have the estrogen in them that makes it work properly. You’ll probably get some relief from the moisturising but it won’t be reversing the atrophy. These products are available over the counter and one is directly shilled by Buck Angel lmfao so it can be tempting to go for them rather than going through the hassle of getting a script, but please, if you can, get the prescription stuff that works the best ^_^
unstoppable force (i want to see this tragic character survive and heal) vs immovable object (their death was the most thematic and narratively satisfying resolution possible for their character arc and anything less than death just feels cheap)
“Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports—likely information on the Autumn Court that he planned to present to Rhys once he’d sorted through it all. Already dressed for the Hewn City—the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it.”
It’s an interesting choice of words in regards to Elain as well.
Yes, Azriel was SPRAWLED (he is NEVER sprawled. He is always ramrod, tucked-in, straight, and rigid) and the one time he is sprawled is with Elain.
But Elain–if you read the passage again, it seems like Elain is sitting WITHIN HIS ARMOUR. Like he is there to protect her and that his armour is there for her. She is completely safe with him.
Elain, who wouldn’t be left alone with anyone, and didn’t interact with anybody since she’s been turned, including her sisters, is sitting there, with this armour-clad winged man, completely at ease, and unconcerned.
The level of comfort between the two of them is remarkable. He allows himself to be utterly relaxed with her, sprawled, in front of her.
It also reminded me of the scene UtM, with Feyre digging in Rhys’s fireplace, picking up lentils. It was the first time when Rhys ever revealed his wings–to her (and us the readers). He was also sprawled on the bed, feeling remarkably comfortable with her (also, suspecting that she was his mate).
What is Azriel doing? He is showing off his wings in front of Elain. And Elain? She accepts the entire ‘package’. Doesn’t balk. No judgement. No fear. Complete acceptance. She is protected and comfortable.
Bottom line, I fucking love them together.
Gosh, I love them so much! The soulmate energy radiating from these two is no joke! I don’t care if they aren’t mates and won’t have the perfect babes or whatever the heck the bond is for, they were carved from the same flesh! Theses bitches share a soooooul! Look at this! I love them
i could watch brokeback mountain a million times and never not cry because it’s about the passage of time which is probably the saddest scariest thing in the world. they could have built a life together but ennis was afraid and he pushed jack away and there was so much space and time between them and then it was too late. the regret and the guilt and the being forced to grieve quietly….wishing things had been different wishing you had known better wishing there was still time, more time, one last time, any time. and the last scene i mean how doesn’t it kill you. One shirt inside the other like two bodies pressed together. shirts not worn in years. lost their smell. lost their purpose. like the fabric of a memory. it was TOO LATE do you understand….he could never get back there….to the good times. To his love. time kept moving on but their love never could. do you understand
my finals burnout has manifested as a complete lack of motivation to draw anything other than batfam pose sheets apparently. anyway here’s this fuckin guy
