Hello!
Truth be told I have no idea how you ended up here, but welcome. I only have the one blog, which means it gets filled up with a lot of unrelated things. There will be numerous fandoms, posts about privilege and oppression, and lots and lots of pretty pictures. Frequently school gets in the way and this Tumblr goes dormant, and then break comes along and I queue up a flood of posts, so don't follow if you like your dash to be somewhat regular.
I'm working on plans for a hobbit hole mansion that me and my friends will live in. If you have ever thought about your own dream-home, then pretty please will you tell me about it?
I don't put up pictures or much biographical information about myself, but you can call me Sakura Nicole.
Oh, and even though this blog may not always be active, I will always answer my asks, so that's open if you ever need to talk to someone or rant.
P.S. I do occasionally put up personal posts, usually under a read more. I would never ask anybody to not read something I put out there publicly, but if I know you in person could you at least pretend you didn't read it? Please and Thank You.
{ wear }
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
Two Women
I am a woman.
I am a woman.I am a woman born of a woman whose man owned a factory.
I am a woman born of a woman whose man labored in a factory.I am a woman whose man wore silk suits, who constantly watched his weight.
I am a woman whose man wore tattered clothing, whose heart was constantly strangled by hunger.I am a woman who watched two babies grow into beautiful children.
I am a woman who watched two babies die because there was no milk.I am a woman who watched twins grow into popular college students with summers abroad.
I am a woman who watched three children grow, but with bellies stretched from no food.But then there was a man;
But then there was a man;And he talked about the peasants getting richer by my family getting poorer.
And he told me of days that would be better and he made the days better.We had to eat rice.
We had rice.We had to eat beans!
We had beans.My children were no longer given summer visas to Europe.
My children no longer cried themselves to sleep.And I felt like a peasant.
And I felt like a woman.A peasant with a dull, hard, unexciting life.
Like a woman with a life that sometimes allowed a song.And I saw a man.
And I saw a man.And together we began to plot with the hope of the return to freedom.
I saw his heart begin to beat with hope of freedom, at last.Someday, the return to freedom.
Someday freedom.And then,
But then,One day,
One day,There were plans overhead and guns firing close by.
There were planes overhead and guns firing in the distance.I gathered my children and went home.
I gathered my children and ran.And the guns moved farther and farther away.
But the guns moved closer and closer.And then, they announced that freedom had been restored!
And then they came, young boys really.They came into my home along with my man.
They came and found my man.Those men whose money was almost gone.
They found all of the men whose lives were almost their own.And we all had drinks to celebrate.
And they shot them all.The most wonderful martinis.
They shot my man.And then they asked us to dance.
And they came for me.Me.
For me, the woman.And my sisters.
For my sisters.And then they took us.
Then they took us.They took us to dinner at a small private club.
They stripped from us the dignity we had gained.And they treated us to beef.
And then they raped us.It was one course after another.
One after another they came after us.We nearly burst we were so full.
Lunging, plunging—sisters bleeding, sisters dying.It was magnificent to be free again!
It was hardly a relief to have survived.The beans have almost disappeared now.
The beans have disappeared.The rice—I’ve replaced it with chicken or steak.
The rice, I cannot find it.And the parties continue night after night to make up for all the time wasted.
And my silent tears are joined once more by the midnight cries of my children.
(Source: regrettoinform.org)
On Women Defending Themselves
1. They tell us to carry mace, flashlights, whistles
A gun.
And then sell us pants with no pockets.2. “Well, you got a purse,” the man says.
Yeah, just excuse me while I fumble through
my bag in a dark alleyway.
I’m sure my attacker will patiently wait.3. They say don’t drink.
And then tell us to
Ruin his libido with piss.
I don’t know about you,
But I get stage fright even with a full bladder.4. They say take a martial arts class,
Learn to defend yourself.
Ten years into that pursuit now, myself
And my sensei’s never turned to me and said,
“Why don’t you wear your heels into class?
Wanna make sure you can do a proper take down in them.”5. “Don’t wear your hair up,” says the person
Who’s never fought loose, waist-length hair in a windstorm.
Or pulled it out of sticky lip gloss for the umpteenth time.6. “Carry your keys between your fingers like a weapon.”
Because three inches of dull metal
Is really menacing to someone who is bigger and stronger
And determined to hurt me.
Roses are red, Sherlock’s blood too, there’s pain in John’s voice, “He’s my friend let me through”
GET THE FUCK OUT
Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics. You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded. Because the elements, the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars. And the only way they could get into your body is if the stars were kind enough to explode. So forget Jesus. The stars died so you could be here today.
Lawrence M. Krauss (via quintezzence)
fadeintocase:
helioscentrifuge:
Hey. Don’t just scroll past. Come back and watch this. You need it more than you know.
holy shit.the time out of your day to watch this will not be wasted, I assure you.
(Source: helioscentrifuge)
(Source: zirconn)
(Source: moonquaffle)
[tw: cissexism, sexual harassment, implied rape]
You wanna be Peter Pan.
You wanna be that fairy-dusted disaster that conquers Hook and slays pirates because that’s what strong boys do.
But they gave you a dress, and a name to match, and a lot of pink stuff you’d never play with.You loved action figures just as much as dolls (yeah, you love dolls, don’t lie).
You don’t walk like a lady though.
You flunked ballet class.
“You can’t go, it’s boys only.”
“Don’t wear swimming trunks, wear a bathing suit.”
“You’re too old to be a tomboy! GROW UP.”You can’t fly. You never will.
Even days when you’re wearing the perfect clothes
people will stare and say, “Is that a girl or a boy?”
And you smile to yourself because today,
maybe you might just pass,
but then you see their eyes register no facial hair,
no knot in your throat, no bulge in your pants, they say it again.Louder.
Tauntingly.
“IS THAT A GIRL OR A BOY?”
This time they know and they just wanna see you squirm
and you do and they snicker and give you that look that says, “You aren’t human here.”You’re stuck with the body you’ve got and the gender you don’t
There’s no fairy dust
No flying away
No childhood dreams
So you’re doing the best you can.You rock your indecisive parts proudly,
but there are days when you can be shattered by a quick tongue.
Days when men argue about the lines of your body, and then one says, “It’s got tits.”IT
because you’re not worthy of any other title.
Days when girls will hate you for what you are
whatever you are
you aren’t human here.
But I’ve got tits.So on that day when he said to me,
“I don’t care if you’re gay, I’d still fuck the shit out of you,”
I should’ve been willing, right?But I wasn’t.
So I walked faster trying to escape his leering face,
the look of malice in his eyes that I’ve seen in so many other men
“I’ll fuck you straight, girl.”I don’t know how much of a girl
I am but at that moment I wished I had the knuckle strength of men.But I don’t, so I left my pride in this throat,
I would try to glue myself back together for tomorrow
because there are always gonna be days like this.Days when you have to carry your somber heart like a coffin,
days when you pass until you slip and let your words fall from your mouth carried by a feminine voice and they know again.Know that you’re not a him, or a her, but something in between, not human to them.
What an abomination. What a monster.
Why can’t you be normal with your dress, your boyfriend, your virginity?
They wanna paint you the color of smashed hymens.
They want you to know that naked, you will always be soft like a woman;
naked, you will always have the parts of a woman,
you, IT, your telltale breasts
you will NEVER be one of those strong boys.
you are far from Peter Pan but learn to hold your back like a flagpole,
it’s all you’ve got out there.
there’s no Neverland.poetry makes me cry
favorite. favorite. favorite.
if this didn’t make you cry or at least feel something i don’t even have words for you. *snaps*
Holy FUCK. Please, please watch this.
he’s david tennantt that’s how
hes a timelord
timelords have springs in their feet
A wonderful thing is a Time Lord
A Time Lord is a wonderful thing
Their tops are made out of rubber
Their bottoms are made out of springs
They’re bouncy, bouncy, timey-wimey
fun, fun, fun, fun, fun
And the most wonderful thing about Time Lords is
I’m the only—oh.
Now you go sit in the corner and think about how you’ve ruined a happy post
(Source: gifmovie)
On average, 5 people are born every second and 1.78 die.
So we’re ahead by 3.22, which is good, I think.
The average person will spend two weeks in his life
waiting for the traffic light to change.
Pubescent girls wait two to four years
for the tender lumps under their nipples to grow.
So the average adult has over 1,460 dreams a year,
laughs 15 times a day. Children, 385 more times.
So the average male adult mates 2,580 times with five different people
but falls in love only twice in his life—possibly
with the same person. Seventy-nine long years for each of us,
awakened to love in our twenties, so more or less
thirty years to love our two lovers each. And if, in a lifetime,
one walks a total of 13,640 miles by increments,
Where are you headed, traveler?
is a valid philosophical question to pose to a man, I think, along with
Why does the blood in your veins travel endlessly?
on account of those red cells flowing night and day
through the traffic of the blood vessels, which if laid out
in a straight line would be over 90,000 miles long.
The great Nile River in Egypt is 4,180 miles long.
The great circle of the earth’s equator is 24,903 miles.
Dividing this green earth among all of us
gives a hundred square feet of living space to each,
but our brains take only one square foot of it,
along with the 29 bones of the skull, so
if you look outside your window with your mind only,
why do you hear the housefly hum middle octave, key of F?
If you listen to the cat on the rug by the fire with
the 32 muscles in your ear, you will hear
100 different vocal sounds. Listen to the dog
wishing for your love: 10 different sounds.
If you think loneliness is beyond calculation,
think of the mole digging a tunnel underground
ninety-eight miles long to China
in one single night. If you think beauty escapes you
or your entire genealogical tree, consider the slug
with its four uneven noses, or the chameleon shifting colors
under an arbitrary light. Think of the deepest point
in the deepest ocean, the Marianas Trench in the Pacific,
do you think anyone’s sadness can be deeper? In 1681,
the last dodo bird died. In the 16th century,
Queen Elizabeth suffered from a fear of roses.
Anne Boleyn had six fingers. People fall in love
twice. The human heart beats 3 billion times — only — in a lifetime.
If you attempt to count all the stars in the galaxy, one
every second, it’ll take 3 thousand years, if you’re lucky.
As owls are the only birds that can see the color blue
the ocean is bluish, along with the sky and the eyes
of that boy who died alone by that little unnamed river
in your dreams one blue night of the war
of one of your lives. (Do you remember which one?)
Duration of World War 1: four years, 3 months, 14 days.
Duration of an equatorial sunset: 128 seconds, 142 tops.
A neuron’s impulse takes 1/1000 of a second,
a morning’s commute from Prospect Expressway
to the Brooklyn Bridge, about 90 minutes,
forty-five without traffic.
Time it takes for a flower to wilt after it’s cut from the stem: five days.
Time left our sun before it runs out of light: five billion years.
Hence the number of happy citizens under the red glow
of that sun: maybe 50% of us, 50% on good days, tops.
Number who are sad: maybe 70% on the good days—
especially on the good days. (The first emotion’s more intense, I think,
when caught up with the second.) So children grow faster in the summer,
their bright blue bodies expanding. The ocean, after all, is blue
which is why the sky now outside your window is bluish
expanding with the white of something beautiful, like clouds.
Another fact: We fall in love twice. Maybe more, if we’re lucky.
Arkaye Kierulf; “Textbook Statistics” (via petrichour)
(Source: pigmenting)
Physics says: go to sleep. Of course
you’re tired. Every atom in you
has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes
nonstop from mitosis to now.
Quit tapping your feet. They’ll dance
inside themselves without you. Go to sleep.
Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch
by inch America is giving itself
to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness
lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep.
Astronomy says: the sun will rise tomorrow,
Zoology says: on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle,
Psychology says: but first it has to be night, so
Biology says: the body-clocks are stopped all over town
and
History says: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.
Albert Goldbarth, “The Sciences Sing a Lullabye” (via pigmenting)
(Source: jamieissleepy)
Rose went away
So the Doctor is blue.
Ask Donna, “Where’s the Doctor?”
She’ll reply, “Doctor Who?”
Sarah Jane, and Martha,
And now both the Ponds
Had their fun with the Doctor
And now they’ve all gone.
So ask me again
Why the TARDIS is blue:
There’s a sad man inside
With both hearts torn in two.
Spencer Finch - 366, Emily Dickinson’s Miraculous Year (2009)
This work is based on Emily Dickinson in 1862, when she wrote 366 poems in 365 days. It is a real-time memorial to that year, which burns for exactly one year. The sculpture is comprised of 366 individual candles arranged in a linear sequence, each of which burns for 24 hours. The colour of each candle matches a colour mentioned in the corresponding poem. For the poems in which no colour is mentioned, the candles are made out of natural paraffin.
Brown
She said I probably don’t use soap
which is why my skin is so dirty,
Brown.
Why can’t I just wash my genes clean,
wear my face, arms, back, legs
in the shade like forsha girls.
I learned to hate the sun at a young age,
and my skin long before then.
No amount of scrubbing and bleach
could fade this dirt, this hurt,
when I
would scrub my hands until hot water
scalded and fingers turned red
like sunburn—
if i could sunburn,
and not turn brown instead.
I discerned confusion.
But you live in America, you should be white!
Sorry to disappoint.
That my straight A’s don’t stand for “Anglophile”
and I don’t fit your fair-complexioned profile.
California sunkissed skin
translates to it’ll be harder for you to find a man.
There was an uncle whom I had never met,
What was he like? I asked.
Kalo. Dark.
Not dark like he was broody, or found morbid humor amusing.
Not even tall, dark, and handsome
because that word doesn’t belong with the others—dark.
They say dark chocolate’s an acquired taste.
How long will it be before my bitter flesh
turns sweet?
Then one day,
You look lighter than before!
and so I’m loved a little more.
The dark shadow crossing my dark eyes,
pales next to a paled cheek.
I can’t remember the color of my skin.
It grows dim, brown paper bag,
paper thin,
for you to wash me with color
or wash me clean.
Bleaches and creams,
I tried them all,
not eight years old,
but old enough to hate
this shamla chamra, ki nongra.
In my land of brown bodies,
I must be fair of skin to be lovely.
© Farhana J.
Farhana was born in Bangladesh and immigrated to the US as an infant. She grew up in California, living life on the hyphen. “Brown” was inspired by personal experiences of being a not-so-fair-and-lovely Bangladeshi girl. You can find more of her poetry at http://faeriehana.blogspot.com/
Submitted by Farhana
