June 2013
3 posts
May 2013
10 posts
“Richardson—you know, with the horns? He was a background guy, Ralph Richeson. David saw one take where Ralph responded naturally instead of acting, and Ralph had that hangdog look and David just loved it. He goes up to Ralph and says, “Who are you? I mean who are you in Deadwood? Come up with a background story. Write two pages. Let me see that.” David, the whole horns thing and all of that—he loved the idea of Iago having a whipping boy. E.B. [Farnum] wasn’t really Iago, he was the Fool. But the Fool in [King] Lear—shit rolls downhill, so there’s someone for the Fool. So that’s how Richardson came about. With David’s mind, that was part of the story that wanted to tell itself. Absorbing everything from everybody.”
—W. Earl Brown (Dan Dority) on the writing on Deadwood | W. Earl Brown | TV | Random Roles | The A.V. Club (via quatsch)
Maureen Johnson: The Gender Coverup →
huffingtonpost.com
If you are a female author, you are much more likely to get a package that suggests the book is of a lower perceived quality. We’re the high fructose corn syrup of literature, even when our products are the same.
Author Maureen Johnson had her twitter followers create gender-flipped book covers for well-known books to demonstrate how female authors are often taken less seriously than their male counterparts. The awesome slideshow is here.
LOVE THIS IDEA!!!
I wish I had Photoshop - it would be fascinating to play with the idea of what kind of cover SPEAK or WINTERGIRLS would have gotten if I were a guy.
April 2013
45 posts
“
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
” —Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
Covered in Band-Aids: What does a rapist look like, and how does he come to be? (PART VII) →
coveredinbandaids.tumblr.com
My rapist’s name is Andrew Paul Bean. He was born in Ohio and graduated from Perrysburg High School in 2009. He currently resides in Los Angeles, California, where he studies theatre and desires to be an actor.
My name is Tucker Reed. I was born in California, and graduated from Ashland…
