It ends in a///////////////everytime

Man Box

http://blog.ted.com/2010/12/09/a-call-to-men-tony-porter-on-ted-com/

One of my favorite Ted Talks. One of many. But I think this is important cause it clearly shows to men that feminism isn't just about women getting paid well. It's about an attitude, it's about human inter-relations. It's about saving humans from self-destructing.

It was rape cuz "While [she] never said NO, she never said YES"

I need to start a feminist Blog. I need to do something.

It's burning inside me, this problem, this need to help women, to save men, to tell the truth to save us from our boxes, our impoverished hearts, our cages. The lack of freedom. Men cannot be free till women are free.

I need to get involved, and I want it to be bigger then what I'm doing I want to be in danger, I wanna go places where no one speaks my language, and all I have is love, and my overwhelming knowledge that our common humanity is the most important thing, and that with that knowledge, and with love, we can tear down these regimes, these ideological systems which cage men so that they cannot connect to women, cannot respect women.

These regimes, these ideas destroy women, over and over, starve rape beat women, over and over, deprive them of education, of a life and thus the world exists in poverty, starving spiritually, starving emotionally, starving physically.

And oh, if we all cared about that, about others, instead of our pockets, instead of our safety, our social security checks. Yesterday it was ruled that insurance needs to cover birth control without a co-pay. What a victory. And yet, we must take a step back.

This is a victory?

This should be the norm, the accepted, the obvious OF COURSE women need access to birth control. Instead of denying them rights to abortions because abortions offend your moral system, teach women to respect themselves so that they DEMAND that men use a condom, they demand inexpensive birth control options from their government, their healthcare provider. They DEMAND sex education for their children. So that men will respect women, and not be afraid to use condoms, in fact, they would never consider having sex withOUT one, or another form of birth control, because they respect women too much too put their physical and mental well-being at risk. Where men don't look at pornography because they respect women, and refuse to engage in a culture which OBJECTIFIES women. Objectifies their mother, and their sister, and their friends, and their lovers. So that men realize they cannot be happy unless women are also happy. They will remain enslaved as long as they allow women to be enslaved. Not just sex slaves, though that is the most violent, egregious and obvious example of this. But slaves in language. Because women are spoken of as sex objects. Slaves in images,where women are violently fetishized and shown in submissive behavior.

Americans could not be free while race based slavery existed, for to deny the humanity of your brother is such a terrifying evil, a plague, which infects and destroys all it touches. Neither can the world be free while slavery exists, and the greatest form of enslavement which exists in 2011 is gender slavery.

I am so mad.

I am so mad

But I'm gonna do something about, I'm gonna do something YOU GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT,WE GOTTA CHANGE THINGS.

No one else is gonna do it for you.

And if your world is shit its "nobodies fault but [your] own". What is it, you have to be the change in the world you want to see...

silent barn

Spring Fire

Desperately trying to catch up on back photos. never enough time.

more attempts at people.

The same people

Don't know which photo I like better

this is like my ideal photograph

Artheroarthuro. Skeleton Boy

This is a response to a very old post.
A project started last year, which I was unable to finish until now. Long time. Amazing how college sucks the life out of you. Only catching up now.

So here's a link to the other post if you want to see the history of this project, a lil bit more of the process, and some related characters which i've finished
http://tanglesastangled.blogspot.com/2010/03/little-climber-and-ever-drowning-fish.html

A marked beginning to a project, a doll.
A little boy.
Who has shown up in dreams, a skeleton boy, one without life, with tragedy and a drowned heart

His Heart

Here he is, inflated and sewn together, with a letter for a brain, and a heart, made of fabric with flowers commercially embroidered on it.

I hand stitched him, using a pattern I made in Freshman year, with some moderations. For he is smaller, thinner, yet has long arms and legs.

He is very dear to me.
I recently read about the ritualistic, ancient power of dolls, their important role in pagan rites etc.
made me feel as though my intuition to make these dolls was right and strong

He is not done yet

I still have to add embroidery to his hands and feet. Constellations

...

But that will come in time.

when I have time

When Spring comes so do the ideas.

And Oh. I realized that I never posted the short story that I spoke of in the original post.

The assignment was to write about a dream in response to the artist Alfred Kubin.

One of my favorite artists in the world( If you like Odilon Redon, Jean Genet, and Edward Munch etc...you'll love him...https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqAXI4jzNOook1KNhwUxOsYzFebcWvyeTQj9TKdUOnVcpXboeWPvpzcIW6uCGIRp_Nh8RDShWj7W1J4fP8yrm9Sj7FbCo_-IaURtVQM9pvgLa6ruv6aCmV7k8WMy9yGegcZMA6iEn43FI3/s1600/alfred+kubin2.jpg)

anyway.

Here is the Dream. Unedited from last year.

a little embarrassing. but not the worst for something I never really edited

The Miles to

February 27 Dream Tale

“There’s a surprise for you upstairs.”

The pale woman let these words stream behind her with one foot on the sidewalk. I gazed past her down the dark street.

“It’s been dark like this for more then two months.” Before that the days flickered between light and absence.

So it was, is, everywhere, not just in this strange town.

Everywhere this new dark.

Some days I went about as though the sun rose…visible. Warm to the eye/touch.

The light in my heart buoyed my steps.

But when the activities of the day died down, so did these fantastical rays, light I falsely perceived, and not would it be night, but the aching cold in my marrow reminded me it had been so for weeks.

“yes.” I slowly replied. “Yes, it’s dark everywhere, Everywhere I go.”

She shrugged and closed the gate. The scrape of her heels moved in the otherwise cloaked still.

Up.

The hundred stairs to her house waited for my seeking feet and I began the ascent, trees reaching clingingly to trip and caress.

Up.

The dark clung to me, mist swirled. Mist swirls, swirling mist, spinning about my calves and pulling on my clothes.

The neighborhood as usual silently moaning, and patterns of the evening finding pleasant spots in my ears to harmonize and echo.

Distorted refrains of Cry me a river (click for julie london) took the chorus, gloomy and longing. Distorted as it echoed, the feminine strains growing coarse and empty. Such syllables, meeting muting, passing into one another, too fullness, coating the slick darkness.

Washing over the streets...where a million stories not mine, dirty footprints I did not leave beneath street lamps I pass under only to loose their dusty light.

There’s a surprise upstairs

Mute awareness of someone behind me and the door opens, the golden fluorescent light flaunting its irony.

My name was not said, yet they call me two small boys and here is the surprise, two boys where once only a slip of a girl danced.

Sweetness, like memory, slithers and glides down each step towards me, preceding the boys like the scent of past

Behind that quickly the present, with its cast of blood, its cry of

Look!

What’s your name boys.

Oh you must be hers

Oh you must be hers, for the fire and curls she usually carries seem to have been left behind with you as caretaker.

Your mother left her sparkling eyes and red lips to you as well. What will she do now they are yours?

Corinth? Was that your Fathers name?

And you. Smaller.

Arthero.

LOOK!

Arthero.

They walk towards me and through it is the panicked lightness of childhood,

What do you have to

LOOK (plea, command, my heart calling me face)

to the small one...Arthero’s skin and muscle and skull all peal back on just the top and a bit to the side of his soft child’s head. Revealed is few inches of a soft fibrous pink tissue.

The reason for such a wound remains unknown to me, yet it crawls sly, into and through me nesting within my heart and hands, a poison of helplessness.

Oh we are caught dear Arthero, And the trees cling tighter and there’s no way to know the way, The movements I make float away in the rising flood and nothing I do, nothing nothing.

The darkness softly enters our brains through our breath and enters our eyes, till north is good as south, and brambles tighten over our mouths so no words they make but more of the same.

And Arthero.

Waiting, waiting as I and others graspingly…don’t know the way.

We, none, for none, oh none of us remember the way. Ich nicht vergisse.

He too fades into the brambled knotty stair.

pt. 2

Released, and having finished the stairs, I find the house empty. Arthuro not forgotten, just a case turned to air and stone, another ghost for the house, waiting silently on the stairs for help that will never come and a life he will never lead.

Corinth is hiding.

His hands take the shapes of letters, his mouth the forms for words.

His body a palette.

Inside the crusted mahogany door

Inside is a bowl with a fish, Japanese.

(“They haunted me too long, such beautiful strange creatures, so I bought my own, just to prove he had no power over me. But his voice filters through my ears as the waters does its’ scales. It envelops me as the water does its’ too finless body

Isn’t it beautiful?

Some people say she’s just a fish.

Some people don’t know anything.")

Orange and fire. It writhes, and flips with the filmedfirmfired roundness of its smooth body, urging to breathe as only half of it lies covered with water. Precious water. Precious fish, which requires an environment pure. She needs water.

(“They can only exist in un-flouridated, un-chlorinated water. It makes them very difficult to keep. I suppose it also gives them their peculiar value”)

I only have a faucet, cold dripping metallic with a filter catching dirt and chemicals. I only have this, it has nothing but death to fill the tank of a fish with. The same story of Arthuro and it’s him in her wild fish eyes, cold begging eyes. Over and Over and OVER and Again I refill the bowl, the clear pan, never enough, never enough, oh and even when she floats, tense and frightened, staring into me with still–heightened movements, I know its only moments.( to fight and yet achieve nothing, to throw yourself in the air to find no impact)

I have nothing that you need to live. I have not to sustain you. I have no life to give you.

Hear, yet, here you lay in my hands and I am punished in this grand house, a marked by the futile struggle to save the lives of the irretrievable.

(I am scarred, slave to the death i cannot retreat. The need I cannot fulfill)

Kkk. Thats it. If you wanna read some other weird stuff I wrote in that class, check out this old blog entry

http://tanglesastangled.blogspot.com/2010/03/glove.html

Family in the park for spring hope

As always, I am three months behind with my photos.

One day, when I grow up, I will be on time.

God I hope I never grow up

I love having this blog. It's like a gallery, all my own

I can put up whatever i want and not care

Lately, have been experimenting with pictures of people. Self portraits, etc. Here is a collection all dedicated to people. Mainly only two, a day in experimenting. trying to see which images are more powerful, are better. They may not seem that wild or experimental, not so much like other pics definitely. How do you capture people you care about and make them interesting to others?

sorry I say experiment so much. just woke up, not feeling too genius....

Those first few days of thaw. When you wish the sun would come but it doesn't, and you have to settle for the fact that though the grass is dead..you can see it

It's interesting to see what makes a good photo. Sometimes it's the subject, sometimes the composition. Sometimes it's only beautiful to me because it someone I love enjoying themselves. But humans are amazing, our experiences incredible. The shapes we are constantly making in association with our world, our bedecked bodies in contrast with dead winter earth.

Not that these are good(though some of them I would root for). But I find meaning within them. What is it to be human within earth, what are our bodies. creating landscapes with skin, blue legs

Favorite

Gloe Glow

This photo is not just a photo of trees. see?

which one? I think the first...

which one?

Smiling

Trapped still climbing

Single

interesting in movement?

just shapes

Portrait due to smile? half smile?

Alice