irresolutism

Look Both Ways by Alison Cherry (Bisexual YA)
Winning by Lara Deloza (Lesbian YA) 
Irrepressible: The Jazz Age Life of Henrietta Bingham by Emily Bingham (Bisexual Biography)
Run by Kody Keplinger (Bisexual YA)
Tumbling by Caela Carter (Lesbian YA)
You Know Me Well by Nina LaCour & David Levithan (Lesbian & Gay YA)
Style by Chelsea M. Cameron (Lesbian YA)
Read Me Like a Book by Liz Kessler (Lesbian YA)
Out On Good Behavior by Dahlia Adler (Pansexual NA)
The Road To You by Harper Bliss (Lesbian Romance)
Women Lovers, or The Third Woman by Natalie Clifford Barney, edited and translated by Chelsea Ray (Lesbian Fiction)
The Queer Limit of Black Memory: Black Lesbian Literature and Irresolution by Matt Richardson (Lesbian Lit Crit)

Queer women books out this month!

See more: Hot off the Press, June 2016 @ Women in Words.

viewpointmag.com
Antonio Gramsci: I Hate New Year’s Day
By Viewpoint

This text was first published in Avanti!, Turin edition, from his column “Sotto la Mole,” January 1, 1916.

Every morning, when I wake again under the pall of the sky, I feel that for me it is New Year’s day.

That’s why I hate these New Year’s that fall like fixed maturities, which turn life and human spirit into a commercial concern with its neat final balance, its outstanding amounts, its budget for the new management. They make us lose the continuity of life and spirit. You end up seriously thinking that between one year and the next there is a break, that a new history is beginning; you make resolutions, and you regret your irresolution, and so on, and so forth. This is generally what’s wrong with dates.

They say that chronology is the backbone of history. Fine. But we also need to accept that there are four or five fundamental dates that every good person keeps lodged in their brain, which have played bad tricks on history. They too are New Years’. The New Year’s of Roman history, or of the Middle Ages, or of the modern age.

And they have become so invasive and fossilising that we sometimes catch ourselves thinking that life in Italy began in 752, and that 1490 or 1492 are like mountains that humanity vaulted over, suddenly finding itself in a new world, coming into a new life. So the date becomes an obstacle, a parapet that stops us from seeing that history continues to unfold along the same fundamental unchanging line, without abrupt stops, like when at the cinema the film rips and there is an interval of dazzling light.

That’s why I hate New Year’s. I want every morning to be a new year’s for me. Every day I want to reckon with myself, and every day I want to renew myself. No day set aside for rest. I choose my pauses myself, when I feel drunk with the intensity of life and I want to plunge into animality to draw from it new vigour.

No spiritual time-serving. I would like every hour of my life to be new, though connected to the ones that have passed. No day of celebration with its mandatory collective rhythms, to share with all the strangers I don’t care about. Because our grandfathers’ grandfathers, and so on, celebrated, we too should feel the urge to celebrate. That is nauseating.

I await socialism for this reason too. Because it will hurl into the trash all of these dates which have no resonance in our spirit and, if it creates others, they will at least be our own, and not the ones we have to accept without reservations from our silly ancestors.

– Translated by Alberto Toscano

On People.

I understand that, for the most part, those of you who visit this page do it because you like my music.

I’m grateful for that, and try as best as a human being can to not take that for granted.

I also believe part of what you like about my music, at least some of you, is what it communicates, what it articulates, and that it does its best to communicate and articulate those things directly, and, wherever possible, with some degree of empathy, some effort at understanding the irresolute, complicated gray area in and around us, which I believe is scary, and is actually more abundant than life’s scant inarguable certainties, its primary colors supposedly pitched above, below, around.

I feel like I rarely see those, or trust them, and envy people who do.

I’m not an especially political person - I’m a lot more interested in social justice than politics - or an activist in what I consider to be the strict sense of that word.

As far as public figures go, I’m certainly not a celebrity, or anything close.

I’m a person/artist/entertainer with a platform at the corner of a niche, and I try to take that exactly as seriously as it’s to be taken.

I say all that because, what I’m saying here will send some of you away. Simply retweeting news in the past week without editorial commentary has done that already, which is, of course, fine, and doesn’t even rate on the scale of importance given what we’re discussing here.

I’ll be sorry to see you go, but I won’t try to talk you back in.

I’ve felt this way since at least Make The Clocks Move: there is no shortage of songwriters who never address/discuss/acknowledge this stuff, and if listening to one who does, even in roughly 10% of his recorded output, is distasteful to you, I absolutely understand, and we can agree to disagree on what my role’s meant to be, etc.

So:

I come from New York cops. My dad, his dad, two of his brothers, several of my cousins, friends of our family. I love them.

I remember being confused when I fell in love with Nirvana and saw a sticker on Kurt Cobain’s guitar that said, “Vandalism: As Beautiful As A Rock In A Cop’s Face.” I was 12, and I couldn’t square that initially my impressions of my family, and the men & women I’d met through my family. It was a real fraught, dissonant moment. Why would anyone want to throw a rock at my dad’s face?

I grew up some, and found myself realizing why that sticker existed, and empathizing with the rock throwers sometimes. I felt guilty about that, some vague sense of betrayal, an urge to defend police even in situations where their actions seemed excessive, wrong.

It took time to understand more than one thing can be true at the same time.

I don’t believe all cops are “bad.” Some are; some aren’t. They’re People.

But I also don’t believe that is what’s at issue here. Because individual people are never all one thing or another, on a moral or any other scale.

But systems rot, systems mutate, systems corrupt. And, to me, that’s what this is. What’s at issue is the basic value of a human life in an American society that’s gone bad in its prezteling efforts to protect power and privilege at any cost, and when cops are quasi-militarized and deployed to that end, and people end up killed in highly questionable-to-outrageous circumstances as a result, well….that’s “bad.”

Because people of color are also People, and People are scared, and angry, and exhausted. People are tired of seeing their kids, friends, family members killed, hurt, jailed at mind-boggling rates of disproportionality. People are wounded, fed up with seeing power abused, with seeing the gap grow wider between their reality and whatever shreds of the American Dream are left dangling at a distant, increasingly-hypothetical horizon. They’re sick of seeing injustice manifest itself in dead bodies, empty political rhetoric, no follow through, no protection, no change.

I’m a straight white male, and I don’t know what it’s like not to be. I should never be the loudest voice in this conversation. I think we (people like me) all have deep listening to do if we have any hope at making the people who aren’t us feel safe, valued, equal in this society. We have real & increased responsibility to bear as the power brokers, which we are, and have been. Anyone arguing otherwise, suggesting that we’re a “post-racial” society etc., is skirting offensiveness at worst and…sticking to a willful & highly selective understanding of America’s history, at best.

It’s not hard for me to empathize with the outrage of a person who watches their loved one murdered. And it’s not hard for me to empathize theoretically with someone making a catastrophic, fear-based, over-reactionary fight-or-flight error in judgement in the heat of a pitched moment that has violent, horrifying results.

But things don’t happen theoretically, or in a vacuum; they happen in context, bundled in absorbed information, under behavior-warping cultural weight.

And this is why we are where we are. We don’t value all lives the same in this society. And until we do, we’re in trouble, in our streets, in our souls.

There’s no bowtie here, no knot to tie neatly. It’s too brutally, endlessly sad and messy for that. My thoughts, my heart, are with Eric Garner’s family, and focused on the belief in our better nature, even when it is, at times, so difficult to see.

I would agree strongly that it is important to place these passionate declarations in context. Certainly not all professions of male-male devotion were declarations of sexual attraction - no more in the eighteenth century than in the twenty-first. But placed in context the ardor shared by Laurens and Hamilton achieves weight and significance. The Laurens biography includes ample evidence that he was cold toward women and emotionally drawn to men, and that Hamilton - whatever his later relations with women - at this stage of his life was much more devoted to his “friend” than to his fiancée. The biographer [Gregory Massey] admits that there was something odd and inexplicable about Laurens’s recklessness in battle:

“Yet for all the similarities with other gentlemen officers - the emphasis on status, the importance of honor, the passion for same - something about John was different, even unsettling….His continual risk-taking involved more than an outward combat against British tyranny; he also engaged in personal combat against an inner self he had rejected, the irresolute man who lacked self-control.”

The biographer is at a loss to explain Laurens’s recklessness (which eventually led to his death), attributing it to an attempt to atone for unnamed “prior sins.” The biographer categorically rejects any suggestion of sexual attraction between the two men - but then is puzzled to explain their behavior.

—  William Benemann, Male-Male Intimacy in Early America
To live in the Great Way is neither easy nor difficult, but those with limited views are fearful and irresolute: the faster they hurry, the slower they go, and clinging cannot be limited: even to be attached to the idea of enlightenment is to go astray. Just let things be in their own way and there will be neither coming nor going. Obey the nature of things (your own nature), and you will walk freely and undisturbed.
—  Sengcan
2

“I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,” said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.

“Yes,” he replied, “any body may know how highly I think of her.”

“And yet,” said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping—it was better, however, to know the worst at once—she hurried on—"And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other.“

I can’t resist these lonely little figures in the background of so many comic book panels. They’re the supporting cast in the windows, streets, and crowds. Some artists and inkers took them pretty seriously, but when you blow them up, every micro-detail, hasty ink stroke, and printing anomaly becomes a defining trait of a large picto-human. They’re all individuals, and the best of them have a lot of pathos.

What I like about this image is the irresolution. My crop eliminates all bounded spaces, setting the remaining hints of illustrative perspective adrift in the flat field of dots. This man is caught in the second-and-a-half dimension.

Pawley’s Island Moon – Pawley’s Island, SC, December 16, 2013

I have observed that, for the most part, people are not who they say they are–

And they are afraid to say–to be–who they actually are.

And the discordance between who they say they are and who they are

Is the source of much grief, pain and suffering.

But, it is not a simple thing, dropping the pretense, and being who you are.

Thus, I recommend moving slowly, imperceptibly,

Yet, steadily and irresolutely,

Over the rest of your life,

Away from the act and toward the reality.

Live to be who you are.

Live to get your appearance aligned with your heart and soul,

So that who you say you are is who you are

And everyone can take you at your word,

And know your part of their world is firmly set on the foundation stone.

    Flickering hues of ruby red to magenta, as if one would look into a candle when the darkest night had fallen upon the land, lulling everyone to sleep; everyone but ‘them’.In darkness born and given a name, in darkness twisted into the misshaped corpses; feeling nothing but hunger and lust.Those who wander the Earth day and night  yet are unseen by the human eye, those who hunt and haunt your irresolute minds which waver the instant shushed words whispered are into your ears.

                         "No one will come…“

"You are all alone…”

                                                                           "No one wants you…“

                                "HE has forsaken you!”

      Nothing has to be done by our hand, love and belief easily are stripped, leaving you barren to the talons and blazing fire of your own kind.Begging,cries and shouts ah so loud echo through thins realms where devils roam, chuckling at the bitter tears falling onto their palm.Breaking was the world once starting as garden of Eden, where HIS  favorite toys would play, but look oh now Heavenly chorus what had been done.Slaughter, pain, sadness, hatred, perversion, hunger and greed settling into their deepest core.Beasts of rotten souls slip through their steadily worn masks, crimson rivers flow beneath your feet while for us it becomes a blessing rain; abruptly the world pauses and all dark is again.

                        “Accept this sacrifice as a token of my power. 
                        Be welcome and cautious in your dealings with us!
                                     Tasa reme laris Satan!

      
 
 So willingly given are the corpses of your child,husband or wife.As long the monster inside you is sated and your wish granted, drink your own blood and feast upon your own flesh nothing halters you do summon now a deity of Hell ; of the Abyss.Renouncing Father of all, renouncing faith,good and light in which you bathed inside, for the sake of one foolish wish.Driven by emotions swallowing you whole till nothing there is but I and your everlasting soul, flickering  lightly until mine it is, residing in my paunch, sucked and torn apart into this demonic core of mine.Oh fuel me with your love and hatred, fuel me with your madness as you throw away eternity which not knowing you possess.

         Claw out your eyes, tear limb off corpses beneath your feet, gnaw and engulf the meat given to you by birth and never shall you dare to regret; for now you no longer a human you are.Scream out to the abyss when realization strikes you as a flaming rod across bare shoulders where you bear boundless grief and agony; true evil hides not for you say thy face every day.Whom fallen had from grace divine, who once was bathed in HIS love, we only offer our hand, but you it is who created concepts of evil and drawn image if Satan’s true self.As a painter on blank canvas you were, judged that radiant shades wholly and only can be good, while duskiness void of any brilliance shall be a demons cloak for disguise.The laughter in my throat finally sets free as I see struggle,pain drawn be across visage of those you adore and your own.Who the artisan is once again that uses hues of brightly red on your skin, ah yes….

                                       ”        man of course, who else~   “
                      
          
                                             ” And I shall be the one
                                                 to pretext you with blackness
                                                              of my world.
                                                       I shall be the one
                                     who acquires this bleeding painting of yours
                                                  so wonderful and adorable
                                  soaked with tears and sins of your existence.“

  For nothing is more charming

  than a broken toy ,
  which shaped can be once more
  with my own hands.

Homecoming Part 3

A/N: Finally I made it to write part 3 to this! :) Sorry that it took a while. I hope you guys like it, I really loved writing those 3 parts! Thanks for the original request. Here you can find part 1 and part 2. Also, new requests are welcome. :)

Isaac doesn’t yet dare to smile as you walk towards him. But the relief shows immediately in his face, especially as Lydia starts the engine and makes a turn. Nevertheless, he’s still nervously biting his lower lip while he waits for you to reach him.

“You decided to stay”, he says, a thankful statement rather than a question.

You shrug, stopping in front of his tall figure and standing there irresolutely, clearing your throat because it’s suddenly a lot harder to speak.

“Yes, Lydia had some valid points. You should really thank her”, you tell him, as if you need to clarify that this isn’t thoroughly your choice or his credit.

“I will”, he mumbles.

You turn away from him, mainly to flee his gaze and take a few steps towards the blanket to observe what he prepared for this awkward date.

“You bought mangos”, you discover. A smile almost brushes your lips, caused by this little attentiveness, but you hold it back in the last minute. Still, a kind of warm feeling spreads in your body.

Isaac does the opposite. He allows for the smile to slip.

“Course. I haven’t forgotten that they’re your favourite.”

You don’t exactly know how to properly react to that, so you just don’t. Instead you sit down on the fluffy cloth, grab a junk of the exotic fruit and focus on the amazing view of Beacon Hills in the soft moonlight right in front of you. Isaac makes himself comfortable next to you but in careful safety distance. He doesn’t eat. Maybe he’s too excited for that.

The silence hovers between you for a while. You know that his time it’s your turn to break it. It just takes a while to sort out your feelings.

“I haven’t been here in forever”, you finally admit. It’s not what you really want to say but you still need to assemble your bravery. Isaac observes you very closely, obviously trying hard to figure out what you’re thinking or feeling.

“Why?”, he asks.

“Don’t know. It didn’t feel right”, you mutter, unconsciously playing with a blade of grass at your feet.

Then you hold your breath for a second and finally say it.

“Why did you leave me?”

He gets the difference in the question. Not why he left in general, but why he left you. A sad expression appears behind his blue eyes as you turn to look at him.

“Because you deserved better”, he confesses sincerely. You can tell the difference, you always know when he lies. “I had no direction. No plan for anything. Everybody died around me after I turned and my past haunted me, so I needed to find a new way. I was broken at that time, Y/N, and you don’t deserve someone like that, you deserve someone whole. Someone who knows the right path and has some perspective.”

That’s new to you. You’ve never even considered that to be the reason. But hadn’t he in fact been kind of lost? However…

“I could’ve helped you”, you remind him.

“I felt like…I needed to make this on my own.”

You nod slowly. At least that you can understand.

“And…you’ve never dated anybody…in France, I mean?”, you press on weakly. Weakly because admittedly you are a bit afraid of the answer.

Thankfully he shakes his head.

“No. Not that there weren’t any chances. But I didn’t want to. I always wanted to return to you.”

You’re not proud of it but you are definitely relieved. Secretly you’ve dreaded a beautiful French girl just waiting for him back there.

“What about you, Y/N?”

Oh. Time to stare at the beautiful sleeping city again to hide your blush.

“I’ve tried…I had a date with Brad Hagen and to be honest: I kissed him. I realized that I wasn’t ready. It felt awful and I never did it again, although the others encouraged me to.”

He swallows hard, battling to hide his frown. No wonder. He has always been the jealous kind. You never bothered because for you the thought of losing him was just as painful. Then you did.

“So…the kiss with Brad Hagen wasn’t as good as our first one?”, he asks you, suspiciously casually.

You scan him to figure out the reason for this sudden change in topic but his face is unreadable.

“No. It wasn’t.”

“Do you remember our first date?”

Usually this memory is excruciatingly painful for you. Weirdly it’s different this time. It almost feels good as you think about the evening and the corners of your mouth twitch slightly. He doesn’t miss that.

“You mean as you dragged me here to have an extraordinary date and take a walk through this beautiful forest at night? How could I forget that?”

“You were so scared”, he smirks.

“Would’ve been typical for me to break my leg.”

“I would’ve prevented that.”

“You probably have”, you admit, remembering how he half carried you the whole time and how much you loved that.

That’s the moment when your mood turns. When the lightheaded conversation weighs in and suddenly the smile is gone and tears start to run down your cheeks. The desperation breaks it’s way through your self-protecting wall of indifference and you aren’t able to stop them.

“Wha…Y/N, are you crying?”, Isaac asks shocked.

You swipe the tears away unnerved but they just keep coming. Now even sobbing threatens to start. Great.

Isaac is frozen for a second until he moves automatically, crawling closer to comfort you. Before he really reaches you he stops shortly, checking if you are okay with this. You don’t object. You can’t fight against it anymore. You need him.

He softly puts his arms around your upper body and pulls you into a warm and tight embrace, resting his head on yours while you hide your face in his shirt, probably ruining it with your tears. It feels so good. So familiar and intimate.

“I am so sorry. I never wanted to make you cry. Never”, he mumbles, heart-broken at your sight.

“I know…it’s just…all breaking in. What I supressed this whole time”, you whisper.

Afterwards both of you keep quiet for a while. He strokes your back softly, drawing circles on it while you cling to him like a baby monkey. He’s the werewolf but right know you are the one in need of him as your anchor.

“Can you promise me that you won’t leave again?”, you ask him. You need to hear it. Probably over and over again in the next few months until you believe it.

“I promise”, he answers lovingly.

“I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to trust you again…”, you admit. “But I love you. I love you so much, you stupid idiot.”

He smiles softly, raising your chin with his fingertip to have you on eye level. His look is intense. “I love you, too. Is it okay…if I kiss you?”

Your strength to resist is long gone, so you just nod before you close your eyes.

His lips touch yours, at first carefully, then more passionately. You awaited it to be like back in the old days, like the thousands of kisses you’ve already shared. But to your surprise it isn’t. This kiss is so different. There is a desperation and longing to it that you never felt before. Another kind of love. Not innocent and fresh anymore. However, it feels like a first kiss over all. And it feels awesome. It’s Isaac and you never believed that you’d ever feel his lips again, therefore you don’t want it to stop. Ever.

But to avoid suffocation you have to break away eventually. You are relieved nevertheless that he holds onto you. He displays that smile that you like so much, his blue eyes sparkle and his cheeks are reddened from the effort. For the first time you can return it.

“You know that I won’t let go of you for the rest of the night, right?”, you ask him.

He chuckles. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let you anyway.”

“You have to tell me about Paris, though”, you mutter, scanning the small town once again.

He takes your hand in his and enjoys the view with you. “I will. And some day, I will show you.”

中文詞語表

紅暈 | 红晕 (hóng yùn) - to blush, to flush red

鯁 | 鲠 (gěng) - fish bone, blunt, unyielding

如鯁在喉 | 如鲠在喉 (rú gěng zài hóu) - like having a fishbone caught in one’s throat (when there is criticism that one must express)

猶豫不決 | 犹豫不决 (yóu yù bù jué) - hesitate, remain undecided, be irresolute

出乎意料 (chū hū yì liào) - to be beyond expectations, unexpected

告別 | 告别 (gào bié) - to leave, to bid farewell to

拘束 (jū shù) - constrained, awkward, ill at ease, uncomfortable

耿耿於懷 | 耿耿于怀 (gěng gěng yú huái) - to take troubles to heart, brooding

納悶 | 纳闷 (nà mèn) - puzzled, bewildered

懷有敬意 | 怀有敬意 (huái yǒu jìng yì) - to have respect for someone 

出人頭地 | 出人头地 (chū rén tóu dì) - to stand out among one’s peers, to excel

奈何 (nài hé) - to deal with, to cope, to no avail; (used in rhetorical questions) what’s to be done, what else can I do

錯愕 | 错愕 (cuò'è) - startled, to astonish

Happy Birthday KARL MARX! 
(May 5, 1818 – March 14, 1883)

From the Banner: PROLETARIOS DE TODOS LOS PAISES, UNIOS — WORKING PEOPLE OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE 

by Mike Alewitz/ 1997/ 7’ x 10’

Complete banner

“It will be the workers, with their courage, resolution and self-sacrifice, who will be chiefly responsible for achieving victory. The petty bourgeoisie will hesitate as long as possible and remain fearful, irresolute and inactive; but when victory is certain it will claim it for itself and will call upon the workers to behave in an orderly fashion, and it will exclude the proletariat from the fruits of victory.”

Via Mike Alewitz