"Murder Your Darlings" by Chris Piascik; stuff available on society6.
on twitter as @umbrella_seller
popping in from self-imposed study hiatus to say seriously, just, fuck university
WAIT HOLD THE FUCK UP
IS ‘MRS’ JUST MR’S
LIKE BELONGING TO MR
Mr comes from the French monsieur, which I think literally translates as ‘my lord’ and basically just means master, and Mrs comes from maistre which is the feminine form of master, so actually—for once—no.
This was an extremely relevant comment and I thank you for educating me
i feel upside down
I’m writing an essay and— condensed version— talking about how the passage of the body through the world is made up of a reciprocal connection with and marking of our environment; we inscribe our selves onto the world and the world inscribes itself onto our bodies. To think of it this way— say you are writing with a pencil. The action of you writing wears down the graphite end of the pencil and in return the pressure of the pencil against your finger leaves a red mark where it presses into the skin; over time you will build up callus. You wear away at the pencil, and the pencil wears away at you. The things we touch, the actions we perform, it all leaves a mark, somewhere, even if it’s as insubstantial as a footprint or a few misplaced molecules.
And certain intimate spaces— places where we work, eat, sleep, shit, fuck— are saturated with records of our actions, so much so that these spaces become extensions of our bodies. Here is where I scratched the floor and the floor scratched me; here is where I left a dirty thumbprint on the wall and the wall pulled a print from my thumb and kept it. And when other people enter these spaces, they are, in a sense, entering a part of our extended body, because the record of our presence there is so thickly layered.
Anyway all of this got me thinking about cities and I had to stop and take a deep breath for a moment because—imagine a room is part of your body. Now imagine a house is part of your body. Now imagine that a whole city is part of your body, and not just your body but the bodies of millions of others, all jostling and overlapping and slipping in and out of each others’ space. Cities are thick with signs of presence; your feet touch a pavement carpeted by the memory of a million feet that have gone before you, the prints layered down and down and down over a period of decades or even centuries. There’s no removing these signs, if you rub out a stain all you have done is left a stain and a record of your removal of that stain. You hold the handrail on a subway car clotted with fingerprints; you place your hand against a wall for support and your hand is pressing gently against the bodies of a million other people. And now imagine for a moment that you could somehow see all these signs, this interconnected web of contact and release, and you realise that if it weren’t for your body and the body of the person next to you and the body of the person six miles south, this wouldn’t be a city— it’d just be collection of unmarked concrete and steel structures, just as if the structures were gone we’d all be a collection of unmarked bodies, drifting apart.
Hey this is just a quick PSA to say that if you’ve ever sent me a message and I haven’t responded I promise it’s not because I hate you or I’m secretly judging you or anything— it’s because often I have to sit and seriously think about how to reply and I end up turning it over and editing it and basically overthinking everything, so, yeah.
I know how awful the wait can be after you send someone a message, and you start to worry about what they think of you and how they’ve taken it and whether you’ve made a fool of yourself and all those stupid wriggly thoughts, because I get them every damn time. And I’m sorry if I’ve ever caused you to feel that way.
no but seriously I can handle pretty people pretty people are fine but if you open that pretty mouth and demonstrate wit and eloquence then I’m done
there are certain faces that were made to be buried between a person’s thighs and chris pine has one of those faces
I present to you Michael Jones dancing in a dress