Navigating Solutions and Darkness

The threat of further violence - the threat of death as a punishment - is very clearly an effective deterrent when it comes to women reporting rape as a crime in India.

Photo by  William Isted  on  Unsplash I wanna say I had a productive social media cleanse, but considering it was punctuated by horrifying real life situations, I'm not so sure it comes out to a net win.

Photo by  Mateus Campos Felipe  on  Unsplash "I believe you find life such a problem because you think there are the good people and the bad people,“ said the man. ”You're wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides. " He waved his thin hand towards the city and walked over to the window. “A great rolling sea of evil,” he said, almost proprietorially. “Shallower in some places, of course, but deeper, oh, so much deeper in others. But people like you put together little rafts of rules and vaguely good intentions and say, this is the opposite, this will triumph in the end. Amazing!” He slapped Vimes good-naturedly on the back. “Down there,” he said, “are people who will follow any dragon, worship any god, ignore any iniquity. All out of a kind of humdrum, everyday badness. Not the really high, creative loathsomeness of the great sinners, but a sort of mass-produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might s

Photo by  Scott Webb  from  Pexels The entire familial unit was down recently for a visit, and I was braced for the usual volley of criticism. However, aside from the well-deserved declaration that my room smells of cat pee (I'm lucky to have an impaired sense of smell), and some unwarranted comments about how I laugh "like a hyena", all was smooth sailing. I mentioned that I needed a new cat carrier, because the one I'm using has a hole in it big enough to fit a skinny cat (read: Lydia). Predictably, my parents jumped at the opportunity, especially since the carrier had previously belonged to them. "It was fine when I gave it to you," my dad declared confidently. "What did you do?" "It was not fine," I snapped back. "The hole was there when I got it." "No, it wasn't--" he began, as I went to the offending carrier and turned it around to display the hole. And there, for all the world to see, was a crucial

Photo by  Clever Visuals  on  Unsplash Frankenstein was the monster’s name. There’s no such thing as climate change. A solero is a type of hat. The planet is not round but flat. Six is the legal drinking age. Women are paid an equal wage. Elvis was influenced by Take That. The planet is not round but flat. Achilles had a dodgy knee. Terror comes from refugees. Insomnia affects most cats. The planet is not round but flat. There are no fascists on the rise. A politician never lies. It’s impossible to change a fact. The planet is not round but flat. - Bryan Bilston (Source here)

Mi son alzato O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao Una mattina mi son alzato E ho trovato l'invasor O partigiano, portami via O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao O partigiano, portami via Ché mi sento di morir O partigiano Morir Ciao, ciao Morir Bella ciao, ciao, ciao O partigiano O partigiano Bella ciao, ciao, ciao E se io muoio da partigiano O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao E se io muoio da partigiano Tu mi devi seppellir E seppellire lassù in montagna O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao E seppellire lassù in montagna Sotto l'ombra di un bel fior O partigiano Morir Ciao, ciao Morir Bella ciao, ciao, ciao O partigiano O partigiano

Photo by  Aaron Burden  on  Unsplash They say good writing comes from pain. The only thing that truly comes from pain, is pain. Sometimes, I try to stimulate inspiration. I hunch my shoulders as if I’m about to pounce. I prime my mind – I warn it, get ready. And for a fraction of a second, it  almost  works. I feel as though I’m on the verge of the greatest writing. And then I’m empty again. Writing isn’t easy. It’s just as difficult, as boring, as down-to-earth as anything else. Sometimes. But what about the stories I write every minute of every day, inside my head? Are they enjoyable only to me? Are they a masterpiece in my eyes only because they are tailor-made to fit my every whim, my every need, my every secret fantasy? For a long time, I have sought the secret to the perfect story. The one which appeals to everyone. The one that appears magically, fully formed, upon the page, and isn’t vulnerable to criticism from silly people who don’t know anything about it

Photo by  Wellington Cunha  from  Pexels For almost a decade of crushing on girls, I didn't even know that homosexuality was a thing - let alone bisexuality. Even when I found out about homosexuality, of one thing I was sure - that wasn't me. I wondered though - I wondered who I might know that might be. And I thought about the older, attractive girls I admired. The ones who had a reputation for disregarding social norms and conservative school rules about segregating boys and girls. The ones I so desperately wanted to be... but never to be with. Right? I thought about them and concluded that perhaps they might do these strange things with each other - make out with each other the way guys and girls were supposed to do. I tried to imagine it, and experienced a thrill, and came away even surer than before: That that's not me. That's just not me. It was only when I found myself hanging around a schoolmate's classroom, hoping to catch even the slightes

Photo by  Sharon McCutcheon  on  Unsplash Much has been written about biphobia and bi-erasure in recent years, and I think about it every time I go home. This is because in the last five years, I have had to come out to my family at least 10 times. Twice a year, every year, each time I go home. And I'm received with the same exact reactions each time. There's (1) completely ignoring what I just said, and acting like it's nothing to do with them. There's (2) a 3 hour discussion on how bisexuality isn't a real thing because "everyone feels affection towards members of the same gender, and that doesn't make you queer or anything." And (3) you're not bisexual because you've never been with a woman, you just want attention/ to boost your SJW cred. Set aside the fact that I've had crushes on girls exactly as long as I've had crushes on boys (read: since kindergarten.) Set aside the fact that you're not actually "required

Photo by  Allef Vinicius  on  Unsplash Dreams split wide/ Revealing The blood of delusions seeping through My head light/ dizzy A blood rush down and away/ Seeking egress Toes tapping against imaginary dances To the beat of a long dead story A string tied to a rib/ Only To be yanked viciously Follow on/ Or die alone bleeding Out from separation anxiety/ Separation From a rib that turns out to be More than a little important Once/ Or so the story goes Ariadne’s thread glowed bright Leading heart to heart through A labyrinthine world/ Twists And turns only to lead right back to you Always find my way back to you Once/ Or so the song is sung Until to ashes the magic yarn Fire-kissed twine did turn To reddish-copper burnished Sullen in the flames of betrayal Longer, stronger, worthless now/ Leading Off into a different world’s timelines A dull ache left behind Resounding/ with failure/ with

Photo by Hasan Almasi, Unsplash What hands are these/ Reddened By complicity/ A baying silence In the shadow of the mob What greed is ineffectually condemned In the safety of self-righteous handwringing What thoughts pass unnoticed In muted prayers Of "Take any that Spare me" What will is signed Behind closed oaken doors of minds fraught With unease and laden with the roaring of guilt And whence comes the day With the dogs at the door What cats will slip on velvet paws Out the back door into oblivion And what birds will succumb To the tragedies they foretold in their morning chants

Are you, are you Coming to the tree They strung up a man They say who murdered three Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met at midnight In the hanging tree Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where dead man called out For his love to flee Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met at midnight In the hanging tree Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where I told you to run So we'd both be free Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met at midnight In the hanging tree Are you, are you Coming to the tree Wear a necklace of hope Side by side with me Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met at midnight In the hanging tree Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where I told you to run So we'd both be free Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met at midnight In the hanging tree Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where they strung up a man They say who murd

Photo by  Julien Millet  on  Unsplash I have words hiding inside my mind/ knocking to come out and I have forgotten the way/ white space rushes in to fill the gaps between the thoughts i meant to speak the memories fading like sick kittens i used to know crumpling inwards and downwards drowning never resurfacing/ one step after the next/ one key after the next/ a burning refusal of accountability/ a vengeance just out of reach/ breaths come fast and slow a few million hours sat in tapas absorbing the same damn tale over/ and over again/ fear and fury warring over details inconsequential both and engraved on the hearts of those long fossilized within the cooling embers of a forgotten tragedy

Black women are the most incisive, insightful people on the planet (and with good reason - they seem to end up having to deal with an even greater amount of garbage than normal). A lot of the best advice I've gotten in recent times has therefore come from black twitter, and the greatest of them is this: Stop trying to preach to them. They hear you. They just don't want to do it for you.

Photo by  Tim Marshall  on  Unsplash Wild stroke flailing wide  Wistful song shepherding Light-hearted feet dancing  Around the maelstrom/ Is now  Wall of fury/ night's  Fear revealed in silence Keeping its deafening vigil/ Circling  A yawning abyss/ As  Bloody broken ruins tower  Teeter, topple, tarnish  Falling through my outstretched palm Sightless eyes unsurprised  Having known a patient future/ Home  Beckons/ Its toothless gap split  In ghastly smiles since forgotten  The music bids  Adieu/ Time to fade into  Priorities/ into deathless sleep  And memories long obscured 

Title: Captive Author:  Aimee Carter Year of Publication: 2014 Series:  The Blackcoat Rebellion Series #: 2 Goodreads Rating (Avg.): 3.77 Goodreads Rating (Mine): 2 Spoilers Plot Description:  Kitty is supposed to continue pretending to be Lila Hart, but her rebelliousness gives Daxton Hart, the Prime Minister, reason to publicly disown her and send her Elsewhere. In  Captive,  Kitty navigates survival in Elsewhere and continues her efforts to further the Blackcoat Rebellion. The word Blackcoat is unnecessarily grandiose and superficial, just like everything in this book. I mentioned in my review of  Pawn  (Book 1 in this series) that the story could easily have been wrapped up by the end of that book. But Carter sacrifices good writing in favour of world building (and the mandatory YA trilogy) and  Captive  suffers the brunt of that choice. In a word,  Captive is as superficial and redundant as the name Blackcoat (which is what the rebels choose to call themselv

Photo by  Maid Milinkic  on  Unsplash Written August 24, 2014 I'm sure you've heard these words before  I'm sure these dreams have come a visiting Dropping in when you least expect them  Come to transport you  Back to a place you used to call home  A place where the roads were paved In the sounds of your footsteps  High heels running home  Feeling breathless and angry  Because they're all gone  They didn't care to wait for you  Didn't let you linger awhile  Sing a few more notes  Before the night takes its window signs down  A place where the air whispers of cinema  Of dreams you breathe in  Ballooning up within you  And you're rising up, up Up along with it  Because the cinema is just down the road All your paths take you  Back into the dreams you had  Of the boy in class who was/ Most definitely an actor's twin  A place where every night is dandiya night And a song of euphoria populates your ears  You wore the le

Photo by  frank mckenna  on  Unsplash Well. I was going through posts from my old blog to add to the "Throwback" series when I came across  bona fide  evidence of cool-girling. You see, as far as I'm concerned, all girls have this one true best friend, the one to whom you say everything, no matter how dirty or disgusting it is. But after that, surviving the whole best friend minefield is a dicey business, I tell you.  Now, no offence to my guy friends, (and any guy readers)-- because I love you guys... but boys are stupid in a lot of ways. They're good with mechanics, and engines, and directions. But at spotting the obvious, at doing the right thing, at following their heart and when it comes to girls, in general, they are idiots. Period.  But however, guys do know how to have fun. In style. Why? My good friend Pavvi has a theory. She thinks its because they just don't care. I think she may have a point there... because after all, guys have been brough

Photo by  Mohamed Nohassi  on  Unsplash Attempting to outrun the inevitable is a horrible feeling. When you know there's no escaping it, when you know your efforts to mitigate the fallout will be laughable at best, how do you summon up the motivation to keep running anyway? Is there even a point? Now, I know I'm supposed to challenge my thinking. I'm probably supposed to point out to myself that I cannot predict what will happen. That simply because it has been inevitable in the past, doesn't mean it will be this time. This time could be different, if only I could put in the requisite effort. That is what therapy seems to be telling me. It's exhausting, holding onto hope like that. The urge to curl up and let the storm take over is far too strong, always. And that's how you end up fighting your instincts, your despair, and your depression, all at once. Is failure surprising, in this scenario? Depression feels inevitable to me - even more so wh

Title:  Pawn Author:  Aimee Carter Year of Publication: 2013 Series: The Blackcoat Rebellion #:  1 Goodreads Rating (Avg.):  3.80 Goodreads Rating (Mine): 2 SO MANY SPOILERS Plot Description:  Kitty Doe lives in a world where everyone takes a test at the age of 17 which evaluates their worth in society. She receives a 3, rather than the average 4 on her test. Just when she thinks she's doomed to a life of menial work, she's whisked off to be a doppelganger for the Prime Minister's dead niece, Lila Hart. As Lila Hart, Kitty is supposed to help stop a rebellion against the current regime - a rebellion Lila had secretly been fostering. Disclaimer: I didn't want to read this book, but it was lying around at home and I was starved for options. Since I was going into this book with no expectations whatsoever, I actually ended up pleasantly surprised at times. It was only after I started reading YA almost exclusively that I came across the phrase "TSTL&