I forget that old cameras don’t always have to take formal pictures
I honestly think this is one of my favorite photo sets. This made me so happy.
I forget that old cameras don’t always have to take formal pictures
I honestly think this is one of my favorite photo sets. This made me so happy.
Domestic service was viewed as a national service, as kitchens were the locus of many efforts to ensure the continued survival of the populous. With resources increasingly slim throughout the war, propaganda was directed towards the domestic habits of homemakers. “FOR GUNPOWDER – SAVE WASTE FATS – RUSH THEM TO YOUR MEAT DEALER”. “BUY FRESH FISH – SAVE THE MEAT FOR OUR SOLDIERS AND ALLIES”. There was an abundance of advertisements for the preservation of scarce food, for home canning and drying technology and information for fruits, vegetables, and meats. Posters and postcards were often directed specifically at housewives, “HOUSEWIVES! PLEASE FINISH TRAVELLING BY 4 O’CLOCK AND LEAVE BUSES, TRAMS, AND TRAINS FREE FOR WAR WORKERS!” Women were encouraged not only to preserve, but to recycle – “HOUSEWIVES UP AND AT ‘EM! PUT OUT YOUR PAPER – METAL – BONES – THEY MAKE PLANES, GUNS, TANKS, SHIPS & AMMUNITION!” There was a ‘make do and mend’ culture that was reliant upon housewives listening and obeying to propaganda in order to reserve resources, ensure the continuation of British trade, encourage and support their war worker family members and friends, and raise and educate children. While most resources and services were directed towards war, the country was run from kitchens, living rooms, and pantries. “HELP PUT THE LID ON HITLER BY SAVING YOUR OLD METAL AND PAPER”.
Both Warner and Plath portray a tension between being a woman in the home, and a woman outside of it. Between public life and private, dependence and independence, domesticity and what lies beyond. Both, however, fail to fall on either side of the binary. Plath’s poetic voice is always caught between two worlds, unable to happily settle in either space, in a form of torturous feminine purgatory, unhappy to be a mother, unsatisfied with her work. Consequently her feminine spaces are perverted – depicted as burning, or drowning, pictures have little smiling hooks, the sea has crockery – transformed into something unheimlich. Plath twists the homely, infuses it with myth until reality becomes escapist. Warner does the same, taking the upper-class idlewoman and refusing to give her either a domestic space or permanent employment. Lolly works temporarily through the war but isn’t liberated or changed by the experience. Warner denies the war its transformative power on gendered binaries, she denies Lolly a domestic space, rendering her forever transient. Instead, Lolly is granted a space of her own, one forged through magical realism – not Plath’s purgatory, but a unique niche, not between domesticity and work, but separate, and very much her own.
I have four exams, which equates in five essays, three comparitive, two on individual texts. So eight texts, and at least sixteen pieces of criticism. This all needs to go in my head.
So I’ve decided to streamline the process by essentially researching five essays.
Here it goes:
Romanticism to Decadence 1 - Food in Dracula and its function as a means of organising time, unravelling narrative, and allotting power
Romanticism to Decadence 2 - God knows. This is either going to be Bleak House as a metafiction (Lord help me) or the grotesque in the poetry of Robert Browning.
Renaissance - We’re getting this essay question to take home, so I’ll know for sure when I get it tomorrow. Right now I’m thinking something along the lines of cosmology and mineralogy in Paradise Lost?
Modernism to Contemporary - The representation of postwar domesticity in Lolly Willowes and Plath’s Ariel as a radical protest against domestic propaganda, focusing on the use of furniture in both texts.
Reason and Passion - Incest in 18th C literature as a means of undermining Enlightenment ideals of familiarization and unity with a focus on Evelina and The Monk.
If you are utterly uninterested or triggered by these topics then you may want to blacklist me for a bit.
YES THIS IS EVERYTHING I EVER WANTED EVER FANTASTIC I WILL NOW PASS MY EXAMS I AM CAPABLE OF ANYTHING FOR EVERYTHING IS PERFECT THE WORLD IS A BETTER PLACE THEIR FINGERS ARE CLASPED SO TIGHTLY I AM JOY IN INCORPOREAL FORM SUPERWHO HAS ENCOUNTERED ITS IDEAL PAIRING I AM MADE OF GASEOUS DELIGHT I AM THE STARS TWINKLING I AM SEAWEED GLISTENING UPON A ROCK THIS PICTURE HAS CAUSED ME TO SPONTANEOUSLY METAMORPHOSE INTO THE UNIVERSE ITSELF I AM STARDUST FUCK YOU BARROWMAN
i’m going to paint a fucking massive huge ass canvas portrait of medusa
lots of colours
i will bathe in paint
SINGULARITY starring Jensen Ackles, Neil Patrick Harris, Misha Collins and Mark Pellegrino (casting by radiantly-illuminated).
“Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste. Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name. But what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game. So if you meet me, have some courtesy, have some sympathy, and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I’ll lay your soul to waste.” - ROLLING STONES
Mr Tuesday (Pellegrino) kills on a Tuesday. Mr Thursday (Collins) kills on a Thursday. Sometimes they work together, sometimes apart - no one really knows, because they perform consistently perfect crimes. They’ve made something of an art out of it. They pay attention to the little details that really make a killing pop. Every death is an elaborate, tender, considerate, and fiendishly brilliant masterpiece.
But then they stop. Some assume Tuesday and Thursday have entered into early retirement - others know better. There’s only so many times you can execute the perfect killing for the sake of it before it all becomes terribly… routine. Mundane. Easy. Tuesday and Thursday require a challenge, but who in the world could challenge them? They defy government, law, morality, logic. They exist outside of expectation and flaw. They are a self contained intellectual event horizon, and it quickly becomes apparent the only challenge they have… is each other.
They come to an agreement. Last man standing. The two most creative, illusive and bored serial killers history has ever encountered, turning against each other in the name of sport. They strip the bloodlust from murder and transform it into a game. But what happens when the rules change? What happens when Thursday breaks the boundaries, subverts his opponent’s every expectation, and begins fraternising with the police to bring Thursday to his knees? Just to add a twist?
Detectives Harr (Patrick Harris) and Gillan (Ackles) are about to find out as they become inexplicably entwined in a web of cunning and showmanship, all to befriend one of the most iconic killers of the 21st century in an attempt to capture the other.
(But a question arises, perhaps the most important question of all, one neither Tuesday nor Thursday know the answer to: who, exactly, is Mr Wednesday?)
Hey, you see this fake-film idea I came up with on a whim last year? Apparently I accidentally rewrote a 20th century novel I’ve only just discovered exists: The Man who was Thursday. Weird, son.
Violet first noticed that they had really, truly grown up for good the night Vincent vomited blood all over carpet, and the only thing she could think was whether she should use bicarbonate of soda or vinegar to get it out.
Was that combination of blood, bile and (she dipped her finger in the puddle and put it in her mouth – bourbon, malt, though she couldn’t quite pick up the year without a second taste and she didn’t wish to spoil her dinner) – and whiskey acid or alkali? She’d have to ask mother, next time she saw her. She’d put the rug over it until then. Hope the cat didn’t wiggle under it and feast on what was left of Vincent’s liver.
“I’m going to assume that’s a gift,” she said dismissively, and she put the rug over him too, because his lips were turning blue and clashing with the curtains.
“Don’t let the cat get at you,” she ordered deaf ears, because by now Vincent was snoring, and she wasn’t sure which liquefied organ was bubbling from his magnificently formed nostrils.
Even sprawled in this state he was like a painted statue, from Rome, or Greece, somewhere with pale marble and black leather jackets. He was a ruined purple thing, like a new born baby pickled in alcohol, and all the more beautiful for it. She loved every molecule of grease in his finely quaffed black quiff, nearly as much as every particle of dirt beneath his bitten-to-the-quick nails.
Violet switched off the light, and shuffled in her carpet slippers to the mattress on the other side of the room. It always tickled Vincent that to bed she would wear slippers and nothing else. She wondered if it would ever tickle him again, as she tucked herself under her moth-eaten blanket (the one made of bits of Vincent’s old boxers and her old knickers, from the days they used to bother even wearing such things) and let the uneven rhythm of his bubbly breathing lull her off to sleep. She dreamt of thick, scarlet milkshakes that clotted halfway up her bendy straw.
By the time he began to stir at three in the afternoon she was already eating breakfast and feeling quite productive for it. “Morning, darling,” she greeted, through a crumbly mouthful of dry toast, her glasses perched on the end of her nose and yesterday’s newspaper held up in front of her like a riot shield just in case he happened to vomit again. Her nightgown was real silk and she wasn’t one for taking risks.
“Terribly sorry about last night,” he managed to grunt through the searing migraine, shrugging the rug from his back. On a normal man it would look like any old rug had been tossed over him by an uncaring matron. On him it was a regal cape, all velvet dripping from his shoulders like shimmery molasses. She tended to take to lyricism in the mornings.
“Quite forgiven. I did find it rather endearing, like a mother penguin fetching tea.”
“That was, clearly, the desired effect,” he agreed agreeably, scraping himself to his feet, much like one would scrape dog shit from a boot. He winced at the crusting, rusty puddle left beneath him, which had, by this hour, roughly conformed to his sprawled body, leaving a Vincent-shaped blood splatter matted into the fibres. “Oh my. I’d get some vinegar on that, if I were you.”
Violet spluttered an ‘a-ha!’ of victory, dropping her newspaper to her lap. “Vinegar! You know, that’s been haunting me all night.”
“Apologies. Should’ve left a note,” he nodded, delicately swiping at the corner of his mouth. He looked quite simultaneously rabid and vampiric, with a gossamer foam of maroon lining his lips like dollar store lipstick.
“Make sure you do next time. I expect to find full instructions for your recommended method of clean-up stapled to your back next time you tumble through my door at 4am,” she said, coming as close to chastising him as she ever would or ever could.
By this point Vincent was padding around in his bare feet with her toothbrush between his tiny pearl teeth, “Staples? In this jacket? Do be so kind as to fuck off,” he replied, spitting a mouthful of pink toothpaste into her coffee mug. She finished its contents with a tiny grimace and pulled herself to her feet.
“Language. You’re under my roof now,” she reminded him, with a gentle wag of her finger, untying her nightgown and allowing it to pool at her feet in a puddle of printed silk. Naked and milky pale, she sashayed across the room like a dancer in a music box, stepping lightly over Vincent’s crusty shadow and into the iron tub set on the opposite side of the room to the tiny kitchenette.
“Help yourself to toast. There’s milk on the windowsill. I know you heathens like your coffee white.”
where is this guy’s blockbuster movie
La Cosecha / The Harvest (2011)
“Every year there are more than 400,000 American children who are torn away from their friends, schools and homes to pick the food we all eat. Zulema, Perla and Victor labor as migrant farm workers, sacrificing their own childhoods to help their families survive. The Harvest / La Cosecha profiles these three as they journey from the scorching heat of Texas’ onion fields to the winter snows of the Michigan apple orchards and back south to the humidity of Florida’s tomato fields to follow the harvest and provides an intimate glimpse into the lives of these children who struggle to dream while working 12 – 14 hours a day, 7 days a week to feed America.”
just goes to show you that not consuming animals does not mean you are supporting a system that is cruelty free
Ladies and gents and etcetera, let me tell you about JAMES FUCKING BARRY, aka Mr Awesome.
He was a surgeon from the UK and lived mostly in the first half of the 19th century. He was a damn Inspector General in Military Hospitals. He worked in South Africa and India and Jamaica and Canada and Saint Helena and damn a lot of other places.
He fought for better food, sanitation and medical care for prisoners and soldiers and their families and basically MEDICAL CARE FOR EVERY1
He was the first Brit to perform a succesful Ceaseran section (in Africa) and the child was named after him okay
He had a dog named Psyche
Wherever they sent him he was soon kicked out or moved because well he was quite bitchy. He got into trouble with local politicians and soldiers and stuff like A LOT. It got him arrested once.
He did what he wanted.
He got into fights a lot.
Duels forever. He killed a guy in one of them.
He hated on Florence Nightingale once. Like, hated really hard. She remembered it till he died.
He got accused of homosexuality bc of his close relationship with the governor of Cape Colony Lord Charles Somerset (who was also quite a cutie himself, go check him out)
Oh did I mention he was born as a “she” and managed to pass as a guy for over 50 damn years and was therefore the first Brit born female to be a fucking qualified surgeon isn’t that shit fucking COOL.
He was forgotten for long because people didn’t want any scandal about his/her/whatever gender.
Ze is called a “he” out of habit by people because let’s face it we’ll never know whether ze was trans or genderqueer or just REALLY damn wanted to be a doctor.
Either way James Barry is fucking awesome.
He is my crush forever.
Obama’s one-liners during his speech at the White House Correspondents Dinner.
it’s an honour to live in a time period where this dude is president
while i believe crowe got an unnecessarily tough rap, i will eternally bemoan the lack of daniel-craig-as-javert in my life