You can put what you’re doing ahead of what you look like anytime, sometimes, or all of the time.
You have the right to get sweaty and dirty. You have the right to sport visible hair on your legs, your armpits, and wherever else your body happens to grow it. You have the right to walk or run or bike or skate down the street in sweat-soaked workout gear with your head held high. You have the right to grimace and make faces when you’re exerting yourself. You have the right to be unprimped and unperfumed and un-made-up.
You have the right to wear a ratty old T-shirt to exercise class. You have the right to wear Spandex. You have the right to have your hair plastered to your head with sweat or water or rain. You have the right to move in ways that mean that people are going to see your butt and your belly and your thighs and your upper arms and all the rest of it. You have the right to be flushed and red-faced and breathing hard.
You have the right to have cellulite where other people can see it. You have the right to have a belly where other people can see that too, and the same goes for sagging breasts or missing breasts or scars or an insulin pump or whatever else you’ve got going on. You have the right to tie a bandanna around your head and not think about how it looks because it keeps the hair out of your eyes when you’re concentrating. You have the right to not smile unless you feel like it, even if someone tells you to. You have the right to cause others to witness the sight of your completely unpedicured feet.
You have the right to not have to constantly manage how you look for other people’s sake. You aren’t here to decorate the world for other people. You’re here to live in it for yourself, no matter what that looks like.
|—||Hanne Blank “The Unapologetic Fat Girl’s Guide To Exercise And Other Incendiary Acts”|
A bouquet of clumsy words: you know that place between sleep and awake where you’re still dreaming but it’s slowly slipping? I wish we could feel like that more often. I also wish I could click my fingers three times and be transported to anywhere I like. I wish that people didn’t always say ‘just wondering’ when you both know there was a real reason behind them asking. And I wish I could get lost in the stars.
Listen, there’s a hell of a good universe next door, let’s go.
|—||E.E. Cummings (via wordsthat-speak)|
Mikko Kuorinki, Wall Piece with 200 Letters.
John Cage: Some rules and hints for students and teachers.
beer belly and tobacco
stains on his shirt,
watching suicides happen from his window.
I would have liked to drink with you.
They call you a misogynist, I believe it.
None of your love poems were
very lovely. Your prostitutes
who you fondly called “whores,”
the woman you allowed to live with you,
Jane Jane Jane, you crushed all of
them with your metaphors.
You were better off alone but
never brave enough to believe it.
Who is? I chase love like you-
foam dripping from my mouth and
hands bound. I meet your followers,
boys with daggers in-between their teeth.
They are always too drunk and not
good at holding their liquor either.
They show me the bluebirds in their
chests and I show them mine too.
Neither of us know anything about
the pain that brought you to poetry.
You were a man
an outcast king
shouting at the horse races
drooling at women in their mini skirts
but I like you,
Charles, Henry, I like you.
Because beneath your beer gnarled face
and tender blue feathered heart
I see so much of me.
To Bukowski | Lora Mathis
Because people keep asking me if I like Bukowski or not. Yes. I do.(via lora-mathis)
|—||writingsforwinter (via thatkindofwoman)|
A poem in which I don’t compare
you to anything.
In which you are not an
elevator that I got stuck on,
or a train that never left,
but no more than a person.
No less than a person.
Today, you are not a mistake
or a rip in my tights or a lesson.
Today, I take myself home and undo,
I take myself home and
write a poem about my skin
for the third time in a row and
then wash myself in it until
I’m clean and new.
A poem for the first full month
that didn’t hear the ache
of your name,
and for every month after.
A poem in which I am singular.
A poem in which I am more than
the people who never wanted me,
and I know this.
that insists things
than they seemed.
|—||Michelle K (via avi-g)|
|—||Ray Bradbury (via iwishtheseweremywords)|
Me + tequila
|—||Andrea Gibson, excerpt from “Bone Burying” (via feellng)|