Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago


Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago

(via nimblermortal)


Anonymous said: I hope your bicycle suffers a minor malfunction!


My bicycle is a minor malfunction. It’s almost as old as I am, and you can tell. So this isn’t exactly too horrible, really. Still, have a sonnet! It’s an absolute classic of dick poems, and it’s Shakespeare’s, so how can you not like it. I’ll go dig up that post about Will feeling so clever about having written this one of these days.

Sonnet 135

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus;
More than enough am I that vexed thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
   Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
   Think all but one, and me in that one Will.



also that whole tale of aragorn and arwen thing where he saw her in the woods at twenty and fell instantly in love and it’s very beren and luthien? lies.

aragorn decided he was going to marry arwen when he was like, six.

and everyone thought it was just the cutest thing, baby estel with his little crush on the great immortal evenstar, and everyone would tease him about it relentlessly and he would get so mad, and pout, because how dare they doubt his word.

(arwen spent a lot of time biting back smiles and nodding very seriously when aragorn brings this up with her. no, estel, I do not know why they are laughing perhaps they have remembered a particularly funny joke.)

and then aragorn grows into this gangly teen and oh my god can you imagine being a pimply greasy teenager around fucking elves it’s a wonder he has any self-image left. His voice breaks every other word and the laundresses are beginning to wonder if something is wrong with the sheets because estel keeps washing them himself and aragorn wants to die, god, arwen is never going to marry him if he stays all elbows and skinny knees and he can’t even look her in the eye anymore without blushing, eye contact is probably something to look for in a husband—

(arwen, who never had to go through puberty because elves don’t do anything so undignified, tries to comfort him by saying she likes his blemishes. aragorn gives her a look of such utter, miserable despair that she starts laughing.)

(this is a mistake. he spends the next three weeks nursing his wounded ego and refusing to see her.)

estel is twenty when he asks for her hand. he is lean, slender and fair as a new tree, and so arwen does not feel guilt in kissing his cheek and gently refusing. he is still green, he will weather greater storms than this—and he takes it as he should, clasping her hand and swearing to ever be her loyal friend.

they write to each other—when she is in lorien, when he wanders with the rangers of the north, fights alongside gondor, travels to distant lands. it is an inconstant tie—he is rarely afforded time enough to put pen to paper; she is reserved so as not to encourage what may not be. (she signs her letters always, your friend. She likes him too well to be cruel in this.)

the years pass. his weariness and strife creeps onto the page, and she sends him tokens to fend off the darkness—leaves from lothlorien, the ribbon from her hair, snippets of poems. it is not enough it is never enough I am sorry, she writes.

his reply is gentle: you are enough. do not stop writing.

(she carries that letter tucked inside her sleeve for a long while, like a talisman—though against what evil, she does not know.)

she is in the house of her grandmother when a familiar voice calls out to her: my lady luthien!

this is when arwen looks up, sees aragorn—broad of chest and rugged, still wearing his battered mail, with one hand balanced lazily on the pommel of his sword. All the trees of caras galadhon are gold but he is shadow and silver, kingliness resting lightly on his shoulders—

and arwen thinks, oh fuck

(via kenporusty)

Huh. I like that idea, I just don’t know if I know any good ghost stories… Perhaps I need to take a crack at writing one!

Any and all ghost stories are good ghost stories. But yes, feel free to write one! 


Anonymous said: You smell like a mildly unpleasant odor which is somehow still charming!


Well, I do smell of cigarette smoke, I think, on account of living with a bunch of smokers, so that is not exactly untrue, really. I could get used to anon hate like that, really. Have some more Shakespeare.

Sonnet 20

A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all ‘hues’ in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.

#it’s not really so much about dicks#it’s just about one dick#that has been rather inconveniently placed#and now our dear poet is a teensy bit not pleased with that#but he still has roughly a hundred sonnets to wrap his head around the idea of blowjobs

I only know one scary campfire story by heart, but I support this idea and would participate. :-)


THreeeeeeeeee. THreeeeeeeee scary storytellers. WHooooOOOOOOooooo. *serious face*

sounds good!





Harry Potter Challenge » Day 8 - A scene you really wanted to be in the movies, but wasn’t.

“I don’t think you’re a waste of space.”

If Harry had not seen Dudley’s lips move, he might not have believed it. As it was, he stared at Dudley for several seconds before accepting that it must have been his cousin who had spoken; for one thing, Dudley had turned red. Harry was embarrassed and astonished himself.

“Well… er… thanks, Dudley.” 


Dudley held out his large, pink hand.

“Blimey, Dudley,” said Harry over Aunt Petunia’s renewed sobs, “did the dementors blow a different personality into you?”

“Dunno,” muttered Dudley, “See you, Harry.”

“Yea …” said Harry, raking Dudley’s hand and shaking it. “Maybe. Take care, Big D.”

Dudley nearly smiled. 


See, this is the kind of character development they should’ve kept in! Not Aunt Petunia’s massively too little too late “I lost a sister” crap, because sorry lady, I don’t give a damn that you lost your sister when you spent the last sixteen years horrifically abusing her son and disrespecting her memory.

But Dudley was a child through all of this. It doesn’t excuse him for being a bully, of course, not at all but it leaves him more room for redemption. (and getting attacked by dementors is definitely more than a good enough punishment) He was raised in a toxic household and taught his entire life that Harry is worthless and was rewarded for enforcing that belief. But here in the last moment we see of them together, he basically says “fuck that, Harry’s a better person than us” and actually becomes better than his parents. And that’s something.

Enough Wonder In Small Things

(via queenofthepiskies)







a new zine called shitty horoscopes that i’ll be premiering this year at the Toronto Queer Zine Fair, among other things! hopefully i’ll make volumes available for online purchase soon. credit where credit is due: this was inspired by the huge number of made-up horoscopes floating around tumblr lately, and angry-poems.

yup, the Libra one is pretty accurate

I don’t give a rat’s ass about astrology or put any faith in it, but I really, really like these. Apart from the rocking illustrations, I love short, surreal, sort of fatalistic poetry (see WTNV twitter and Sexts from the Void) so.

Virgo one is p spot on

(via kenporusty)


When you are 13 years old,
the heat will be turned up too high
and the stars will not be in your favor.
You will hide behind a bookcase
with your family and everything left behind.
You will pour an ocean into a diary.
When they find you, you will be nothing
but a spark above a burning bush,
still, tell them
Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.

When you are 14,
a voice will call you to greatness.
When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.
They don’t know the sound
of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor,
use your sword, use your two good hands.
Do not let their doubting
drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.
You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.
Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation
like a broken heart.

When you are 15, you will be punished
for learning too proudly. A man
will climb onto your school bus and insist
your sisters name you enemy.
When you do not hide,
he will point his gun at your temple
and fire three times. Three years later,
in an ocean of words, with no apologies,
you will stand before the leaders of the world
and tell them your country is burning.

When you are 16 years old,
you will invent science fiction.
The story of a man named Frankenstein
and his creation. Soon after you will learn
that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying
than monsters, but don’t worry.
You will be remembered long after
they have put down their torches.

When you are 17 years old,
you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
one right after the other.
Men will be afraid of the lightening
in your fingertips. A few days later
you will be fired from the major leagues
because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”

You will turn 18 with a baby on your back
leading Lewis and Clark
across North America.

You will turn 18 
and become queen of the Nile.

You will turn 18 
and bring justice to journalism.

You are now 18, standing on the precipice,
trembling before your own greatness.

This is your call to leap.

There will always being those
who say you are too young and delicate
to make anything happen for yourself.
They don’t see the part of you that smolders.
Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound
of your own heartbeat.

You are the first drop of a hurricane.
Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed
by all the little girls still living in secret,
writing oceans made of monsters and
throwing like lightening.

You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.
You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.
The world laid out before you to set on fire.
All you have to do
is burn.

For Teenage Girls With Wild Ambition and Trembling Hearts, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)

(via tamorapierce)


Elizabeth I, anyone?


Elizabeth I, anyone?

(Source: lepas)



Henry V is in US cinemas from today, Canada Nov 8th.  Venues here: http://t.co/Rv7Ev7Kz6O
The management is not responsible for urges to storm the nearest French settlement, untoward giggling during the Most Awkward Wooing Scene Ever (tm) or newfound obsession with certain actors after viewing.  You have been warned.

The Globe really knows how to advertise, look at that paragraph.

*pouts* I could not find a single cinema showing it within a hundred mile radius. Which is /absurd/.



Henry V is in US cinemas from today, Canada Nov 8th.  Venues here: http://t.co/Rv7Ev7Kz6O

The management is not responsible for urges to storm the nearest French settlement, untoward giggling during the Most Awkward Wooing Scene Ever (tm) or newfound obsession with certain actors after viewing.  You have been warned.

The Globe really knows how to advertise, look at that paragraph.

*pouts* I could not find a single cinema showing it within a hundred mile radius. Which is /absurd/.

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