… but from an ongoing list I work on like once a month
Being responsible and counted on
Real luxury, not brand luxury
I treat myself like I would my daughter. I brush her hair, wash her laundry, tuck her in goodnight. Most importantly, I feed her. I do not punish her. I do not berate her, leave tears staining her face. I do not leave her alone. I know she deserves more.
I know I deserve more.
Michelle K (via aforceofcircumstance)
this. this. THIS.
my interview with clare along with the premiere of her heart-wrenching new song “whenever you want it”:
it’s not the new year but it’s almost the new year so i’ve decided something, a resolution for myself. it concerns women, especially women working in professional settings together and something i myself have been far too guilty of. i resolve to not purposefully hinder or tear down other women in the music industry. ever. no matter what my personal feelings are about them, i won’t let them spill into the professional side. EVEN if they’re just like so totally the worst ever blah blah. even if i think her ideas are totally different from mine or i don’t like her opinions or just in general her hair seems weird. even if, at times, i’ve watched her struggle with work and how to piece things together. struggles aren’t definitive proof that someone isn’t fit to participate in dialogues or share their opinions. struggles and failures aren’t the last word on someone’s abilities and talents. these aren’t good reasons to hamper the work of women in an already callous field that’s nearly impossible to find peace, grace or encouragement in. this is not a scolding toward others, this is, if anything an admission of my own mistakes and a public statement that i am determined to be stronger & better & support women. even if they don’t support me. even if they reject me or hate me or are rude to me or i’m pretty sure that one time were talking about my outfit. openness breeds openness, grace breeds grace. i resolve to be open.
internettrash asked: hi im a 20/M and an aspired writer/journalist who can't afford college. i was wondering if you have any advice how to get my foot in the door without a degree. thanks.
just write. wherever & whenever, & especially when you must.
solange forever & ever & ever & ever.
the view from @audiofemme’s greenpoint offices <3 (at AudioFemme HQ)
i used to write. i used to want to write. i used to take to the urge with a jolt of arrogance, like a preening bird. it would pour out of me with power and precision and I used to think my perspective invaluable, iron-clad, important. somehow i was the only one who could do it. i used to write poetry about kitchen stoves and birds on electric wires and make them into sentences. then they took me and told me to write. but i didn’t want to write anymore because my mouth was invisibly gagged. i wrote less and less. i tried to write the way i used to and almost got there a few times but the exertion it took was almost more than I could bear. i wrote but it was all rote, worn out cliches that didn’t hold water like a glass with hairline fractures all through it. measly, sickly sentences that lay there limply instead of dancing. as if i couldn’t tell the difference? it felt like looking in a mirror and seeing the wrong reflection. it felt like rolling over and patting the side of the bed for a shoulder that no longer sleeps there. i remember the hours staring at the goddamn screen, hating the person to my right and those to my left. hating who i was becoming, who i had already become. hating the embarrassment i felt at my own work. longing for that urge, that old familiar pride to well up. too stubborn to actually quit, not stubborn enough to continue fighting for the change i was supposed to help create. I felt like a little sapling whose life was leeched by a nearby, full-grown and sprawling tree. then i’d remember I still hadn’t finished my thesis and feel the failure and judgement of myself that sprang from that—the terrifying feeling of fraud. i actually haven’t done a lick of work on it since L and K left. when S left i couldn’t stop writing, it poured out of me like blood from an open wound. but once it became a pattern, once the problem felt too permanently me, I couldn’t write it. now, he’s here and he hasn’t left yet, although it’s been close. i try to comfort myself with the shadows of the greats, their addictions and insanity—alcohol, cigarettes, mental illnesses—even Van Gogh and his ear. but i want to hold my own child in my arms. i want a flower garden. i want to look with love into the same eyes every morning for 40, 50 years.
i used to write.