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through the miracle of art
Apr. 13th, 2011 03:29 pm*looking at all the con vids (seriously? the people who vid, the people who photograph and twitter and transcribe, the people who compile all this epic together? you are so fucking awesome. dear god. i have no words. seriously.) and though J2 have chemistry up the wazoo, Misha and Jensen have kind of a --idk how to describe it. like, Jensen always seems to act all steady, logical, timid and commonsensical next to Jared's crazy, goofy crackiness, but with Misha it's almost like they have this friendly competitiveness of who is going to be more cray-cray and more up for anything? it's really genius to see Jensen loosen up like that and Misha preform for him like some weird form of courtship behavior. no, i don't actually believe anybody's sleeping together ('cept possibly Sebastian with ERRYONE) but yeah. if this wasn't real life, Misha would be displaying. ;D
*i need to watch Hawaii like yesterday. errybody's raving about how everything is gay and nothing hurts unless you want it to and i'm HELLA INTRIGUED.
*read "Push" which was awesome. i'd read some of Sapphire's work before, so i was totally prepared for the high kick to the solar plexus which is how most of her writing feels like. i did think it was gonna take me a bit of time to accommodate to the jargon/slang/Precious' particular way of spewing, but no. the writing was relentless enough that i felt carried along. haven't seen the movie yet and don't find myself particularly inclined to, which i guess is weird, but-- well, it's like when you watch something you love, but don't have any desire to find any fanfic.
*tis the month no? (the one i read was about "wilding" or something like that, basically about men looking for young women to gangrape in the park. this one is less gut-wrenching.)
Breaking Karma #5
by Sapphire
I
It is like a scene in a play.
His bald spot shines upward between dark tufts of hair.
We are sitting in a pool of light on the plastic
covered couch, Ernestine, his last live-in,
ended up with. But that is the end.
We are sitting in the beginning of our lives now
looking at our father upright in his black
reclining chair. It's four of us then, children,
new to Los Angeles--drugs, sex, Watts burning,
Aretha, Michael Jackson, the murder of King,
haven't happened yet.
He is explaining how things will be--
Which one will cook, which one will clean.
"Your mama," he announces, "is not coming."
Two thousand miles away in the yellow
linoleum light of her kitchen, my mother
is sitting in the easy tan-colored man's lap.
Kissing him. Her perfect legs golden like
whiskey, his white shirt rolled up arms
that surround her like the smell of cake baking.
"Forget about her," my father's voice drops like
a curtain, "she doesn't want you. She never did."
II
Holding the photograph by its serrated edges, staring,
I know the dark grey of her lips is "Jubilee Red"
her face brown silk. I start with the slick
corner of the photograph, put it in my mouth like it's
pizza or something. I close my eyes, chew, swallow.
*i need to watch Hawaii like yesterday. errybody's raving about how everything is gay and nothing hurts unless you want it to and i'm HELLA INTRIGUED.
*read "Push" which was awesome. i'd read some of Sapphire's work before, so i was totally prepared for the high kick to the solar plexus which is how most of her writing feels like. i did think it was gonna take me a bit of time to accommodate to the jargon/slang/Precious' particular way of spewing, but no. the writing was relentless enough that i felt carried along. haven't seen the movie yet and don't find myself particularly inclined to, which i guess is weird, but-- well, it's like when you watch something you love, but don't have any desire to find any fanfic.
*tis the month no? (the one i read was about "wilding" or something like that, basically about men looking for young women to gangrape in the park. this one is less gut-wrenching.)
Breaking Karma #5
by Sapphire
I
It is like a scene in a play.
His bald spot shines upward between dark tufts of hair.
We are sitting in a pool of light on the plastic
covered couch, Ernestine, his last live-in,
ended up with. But that is the end.
We are sitting in the beginning of our lives now
looking at our father upright in his black
reclining chair. It's four of us then, children,
new to Los Angeles--drugs, sex, Watts burning,
Aretha, Michael Jackson, the murder of King,
haven't happened yet.
He is explaining how things will be--
Which one will cook, which one will clean.
"Your mama," he announces, "is not coming."
Two thousand miles away in the yellow
linoleum light of her kitchen, my mother
is sitting in the easy tan-colored man's lap.
Kissing him. Her perfect legs golden like
whiskey, his white shirt rolled up arms
that surround her like the smell of cake baking.
"Forget about her," my father's voice drops like
a curtain, "she doesn't want you. She never did."
II
Holding the photograph by its serrated edges, staring,
I know the dark grey of her lips is "Jubilee Red"
her face brown silk. I start with the slick
corner of the photograph, put it in my mouth like it's
pizza or something. I close my eyes, chew, swallow.
