Sep. 2nd, 2017

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girlphantomoftheopera:

and then you’d burst into fire. forever. and the angels wouldn’t help you. because they’ve all gone away. (for @littlejeyne)
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sashayed:

no offense but i cant believe you guys are, on purpose, bringing back the Harry Potter epilogue? like, we’re just all going to blithely reblog the most embarrassing piece of writing ever committed to print like it’s something we ENJOYED?? something we might think of with FOND NOSTALGIA and want to be reminded of?? a series of words we might choose to READ AGAIN, for PLEASURE????? get a grip
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How hard it is to take September
straight—not as a harbinger
of something harder.

Merely like suds in the air, cool scent
scrubbed clean of meaning—or innocent
of the cold thing coldly meant.

How hard the heart tugs at the end
of summer, and longs to haul it in
when it flies out of hand

at the prompting of the first mild breeze.
It leaves us by degrees
only, but for one who sees

summer as an absolute,
Pure State of Light and Heat, the height
to which one cannot raise a doubt,

as soon as one leaf’s off the tree
no day following can fall free
of the drift of melancholy.


- Mary Jo Salter
(via kuanios)
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therepublicofletters:

Details of Saint Mary Magadalene (1635) and Saint Cecilia (1606) by Guido Reni
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officialmickrock:

I’m in love with the great British bake off
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Heathcliff’s persecution in childhood is distinct, a racist oppression. But the locus of male dominance, of power abused, is, according to Bronte, in the commonplace experience of being a male child, powerless as all children are, hurt and humiliated by older boys or adult men. Using narrative, Emily Bronte wrote a psychological and physical profile of the power dynamics of the English ruling class, gender male: how boys, treated sadistically, learn to take refuge in a numb, orthodox dominance, insular, hermetically sealed against vulnerability and invasion. A more familiar example might be the socializing rituals in elite English public schools: how ruling class boys are put through sadistic humiliation and physical abuse. A boy escapes this or other choreographed powerlessness into socially secure and physically safe dominance, and he never risks the possibility of being vulnerable to such injury again. This training, occurring in whatever circumstances, destroys any possibility of empathy with the powerless or the socially weak or women or the exiled or the colonialized or the ostracized because one’s own body, having experienced the pain and humiliation of being powerless, is safe only in a complete disavowal of social vulnerability, of identification with the injured. Dominance means safety. One is taught, through emotional and physical torture, to snuff out empathy.

The vengeful sadism of the adult had in it the more horrible patience of the abused child. Bronte shows the ineluctable logic of what has become a contemporary sociological cliche: child abusers have often been abused as children. She shows how the tree grows from the acorn. We might have short-circuited a century of pain had we bothered to learn from her. (The Brontes are iconized but what they know about life is ignored; why? The question is one of sexual politics; the answer is nasty but inescapable.) Heathcliff survives because he learns the will to revenge and because he turns his desperation for both love and respect into an affirmative pleasure in causing pain. He causes pain to those who stand in for the adults who hurt him when he was a child. To endure as a child, he waits out cruelty, inevitably learning that same cruelty as an ethic and as a substitute for love. 

As an adult, he acquires the social right— the power— to be cruel: money, property, manners, dress, the language and education to pass as one who has some right to dominance, though he is still perceived as dark, now called morose, not dirty. His distinctive rebellion was to become an oppressor of purposeful, canny, and merciless cruelty: not a slovenly perpetrator of random violence who hurts those in his immediate reach; not a down-and-out drunk whose circle of violence is limited to his own outcast status. Heathcliff’s sadism is an energetic upward mobility, but to a political purpose: the radical repudiation of, the violent subversion of, the class system that hurt him.


- Andrea Dworkin, from ‘Wuthering Heights,’ Letters from a War Zone (via atreides)
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humanoidhistory:

The total solar eclipse of June 29, 1927. (Cambridge University)
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emcapi:

emcapi:

thischarmingmothman:

marauders4evr:

Aw, how’s this for some good old nostalgia?

Wait…

No way.

I guess nobody remembered that I was on FictionPress, too.

So, hi. I’m the girl you all knew as Tara. My FF.net account really was hacked (twice!), once in 2006 and again in 2009. As of 2017, Support still doesn’t answer my requests to regain it, although I can’t say I blame them. They’re probably scared I’ll flood their site with poorly written sex scenes again.

I’m lucky the hackers never migrated to this account, considering it had the exact same login credentials. (They’ve since been changed, don’t worry.)

I’ll let the account’s creation date speak as to whether it’s legitimate or not.

Thank you all so, so much for keeping My Immortal alive over the years. You fill my heart with so much love. (Preppy moment, oops.)

That’s about all I have to say for now.



Because I’ve received several messages asking this, and predict I may receive more, I’ll answer it here. No, I am not Lani Sarem. Really bad fiction simply tends to read the same. No, I’m not on Facebook. Or Deviantart. Or MySpace. Or Youtube. (Etc.) I am on Tumblr. But I use my real name there, and it’s not Tara.

She’s okay!

You know, you almost had me here. This is good. There’s some audacity in what you’ve done, because it took me longer than it should have, and the help of talking to blackflirtlarping on Discord in panic mode, to discredit it, and usually when a “real Tara” pops up I’ve identified eight problems with their story in the span of like a minute. I was legitimately ready to send off a PM to this account asking if the story was fake or not, because I have a 14,000 word essay on why it’s fake that if disproven would destroy my life and reputation. But, mm, no, this. This isn’t right at all.

So for one, this fictionpress account. This “nostalgia”. Interesting that I have never seen or heard about a fictionpress account before. It’s never come up anywhere in any of the accounts or infoposts or links of accounts or anything of the sort. Even the My Immortal wiki, which gives a lot of time to the proven-not-real Youtube channel, only has new mentions of this fictionpress account in the wake of this post. They’ve never seen it before. This fictionpress account that is for you apparently a nostalgic enough part of this saga to want to revisit and look at. But, nobody has talked about it seemingly ever, and it’s not actually listed anywhere on the internet, so I’m just curious as to how you found it and know about it, and the convenience of this account that nobody has ever seen before being the hot get only days after an update.

But wait a second. How did you even find this? Because in trying to search for this, a funny thing comes up

XXXblodyblaktearz666XXX didn’t fucking exist until a few days ago, it seems. Nobody was talking about it, nobody was linking to it, nobody knew it existed until this post came into being. Even Google’s spiders didn’t find it, but fictionpress isn’t spider-proof; find a writer with a distinct enough handle, punch them into Google, and their FP account will come up just fine. So, how is it that this account with no activity or stories or favorites or anybody talking about it fell into your lap?

Well, I think it’s because despite being from March of 2006, the account had on it a very different name until recently. This is not a known account of Tara Gilesbie and it never was. Nobody knew about it, nobody talked about it, and that’s because this is another fake. A well aged fake, I’ll give it that; a fake that at least used an old account and didn’t start throwing around lots of inconsistent stories and reveals that don’t mesh with anything. But one that’s coming about to cash in on the popularity of the Lani Sarem debacle in what is a too sweet, too perfect coincidence to make this sham any less transparent.

The only way that this is the real Tara’s profile is if you are in fact the real Tara herself.

that’s a bit odd? I did just search for it on DuckDuckGo and it turned the profile right up, though, so I’m not sure this proves anything.

alright, your local nerd is back, having done a bit of sleuthing. it looks like fictionpress actually IS somewhat ‘spider-proof’ due to a convenient little bit of code known as a “robots.txt”, which websites can use to block search engine crawlers. this would be why I did find it through DuckDuckGo which presumably uses different algorithms and crawlers. (for comparison, I did take a random ficpress account and toss it into Google; same deal, nothing turned up.)

I found this by trying to plug the page into the Wayback Machine, using only the user ID and not the actual username (so I plugged in http://ift.tt/2wsqx0x, rather than http://ift.tt/2wsqyBD). This should have shown me if the page in question had been changed at some point in time, assuming Wayback Machine crawlers had archived it. However, not only were there no captures, but Wayback spat out that it couldn’t get data for the page specifically because of the robots.txt–the one attached to the entirety of fictionpress (there wouldn’t be one just for the user page).

as such, your evidence for this being a fake relies on a faulty premise. unfortunately, the same reason that your premise is faulty (blocked from Google due to robots.txt) also makes it very hard to prove that it’s real (also blocked from Wayback due to robots.txt). so it remains, as with everything surrounding My Immortal, an incomprehensible enigma. what you make of it is up to you.
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Girls love each other like animals. There is something ferocious and unself-conscious about it. We don’t guard ourselves like we do with boys. No one trains us to shield our hearts from each other. With girls, it’s total vulnerability from the beginning. Our skin is bare and soft. We love with claws and teeth and the blood is just proof of how much. It’s feral.

And it’s relentless.


- Leah Raeder, Black Iris (via quoted-books)
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burned-toast:

great-tweets:

it’s true [source]

it’s WHAT?
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emilieblunt:

“Whether we fall by ambition, blood or lust,
                       like diamonds, we are cut with our own dust” (for @carriefiser)
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mishasteaparty:

fight mode: on.
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Rebecca

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