Art and glamour
(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via felicefawn)
My grandpa has Alzheimer’s so he has no idea who my grandma is but everyday for the last three or four months he brings her in flowers from their garden and asks her to run away with him and be his wife and everyday she says she already is and everyday the smile my grandpa gets on his face is the most beautiful heartfelt thing I have ever seen.
(via planetaryrose)
Sophie photographed by Jonas Jensen for Elle Denmark, June 2013
(via planetaryrose)
(Source: fitzgeraldquotes, via vaguelyhomicidal)
okng:
Let’s go back to 1945…
Let’s not… Let’s play a game called “Context Matters!”
That picture on the left, so iconic and romantic? Yeah, that’s a sexual assault right there. That man was a stranger, a strong stranger who grabbed a random woman on the street, and “kissed” her. In her words:
Suddenly, I was grabbed by a sailor. It wasn’t that much of a kiss… “I felt that he was very strong. He was just holding me tight. I’m not sure about the kiss…it was just somebody celebrating. It wasn’t a romantic event.
That picture on the right, the one that looks like a man holding a woman down in the mists of a riot, her clothes disheveled as he kissed her hard? That man is her boyfriend. He’s comforting her. Her real attackers are the police. An eyewitness stated:
The girl who was knocked over landed head first on the pavement with her boyfriend landing partially on top of her. She was in visible pain, crying, but the two officers gave them a parting shove and moved on.
The left picture: an icon of sexism, male privilege, and female objectification.
The right: real love in the face of brutal state force.
It doesn’t even look like he’s holding her down on the ground! Her head and shoulders are lifted up and she looks relaxed. The man on the left clearly has a strong grip and has twisted her into an uncomfortable position. How hard is it to read body language??
“How hard is it to read body language?”
Hard enough when verbal rejection is clearly not taken seriously enough these days either…
For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We insist each day wrap it’s knuckles through our heart strings and pull. The lows. The joy. The poetry. We dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off. So it goes. You will climb up again.
You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.
You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.
"(via planetaryrose)
