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sarahj-art:

Sorry… this one is a bit of a downer…

sarahj-art:

Sorry… this one is a bit of a downer…

(via falconwing)

# Batman

oneweekoneband:

II. I WON’T DECORATE MY LOVE

Liz Phair, Nashville, off Whip-Smart (lyrics)

Liz Phair is not an artist one listens to for beauty, but Nashville is one of the most genuinely beautiful songs I know. It isn’t pretty, exactly, but it has a sparse loveliness that suits the lyrics, which are plain and gorgeous simultaneously, grounded above all in honesty, which, the song posits, is how love should be: simple, unadorned.

This is a song that sounds like what it describes. It opens with a tinkling as if of wind chimes, suggesting open windows, warm weather, soft breezes. The literal truth of this is irrelevant; the scene is set with their connotations of ease and stillness.

It takes a moment for the music to kick in, and here is what I mean when I say this song sounds like what it says: in that pause is the utter stillness of waking, before the mind has registered its own return to consciousness. A guitar strums discordantly, almost clumsily, the hint of an echo creating aural space; the slow drumbeat could barely be called a rhythm; the sprawled-out chords narrow into something tight that could almost be insistent if it weren’t so lax. This is the first stirrings of morning: hazy and slow, unconscious movement, outlines not yet clear. There’s a fuzziness to the production that coats the world in dimness, dust motes foregrounded as they drift across the sun slanting through the space beneath the blinds.

It’s almost a full minute in when Liz starts singing, in a low near-whisper that could be contained in the space between the mouth of one and the nape of the other’s neck. Nobody sparkles like you, she murmurs after musing on the compulsiveness with which people chase love, the way love becomes an abstract prize separated from its true rewards (they don’t know what they like so much about it; they just go for any shiny bauble).

That is not what this song is about. It is about what takes up residence in knees resting against each other on the subway and smiles over private jokes, in gestures thoughtful and guileless; that peculiar gentle force that brews in comfortable silences and falling into shared habits too fast. Too fast and too soon, and I’m starting to think it could happen to me like it did to you: they’ve both been through this before, they know how it can end. They know the heady rush of the early days can lead straight off a precipice, and Liz doesn’t want to fall off that cliff again - I won’t crack the door too far for anyone who’s pushing too hard on me.

But he isn’t pushing too hard, and so the door is swinging open of its own accord. That hint of fear in the lyrics is belied by the music: unhurried, almost lazy, the melody content to take its time on each syllable. Listen to Liz’s voice, thin but clear, opened farther than on any other song off Whip-Smart, with hints even of sweetness. A speaking cadence sneaks into some notes as the melody arcs up, lending it sluggishness and honesty. I won’t decorate my love, she promises, over and over; this song does not sound like the trappings of romance.

It sounds like: stretching your body up against another body, before you’ve even opened your eyes, so that the first thing you relearn on your way to wakefulness is that this person is here and thus was here, lessons taught by the artless brush of heel against ankle. Like skin-warmth, and the smell of someone else’s shampoo. Early morning traffic, garbage trucks and stores opening. It sounds like pale dawn light on the messy carpet and the alarm going off just out of reach.

It sounds like:

I can’t imagine it in better terms
than naked, half-awake, about to shave and go to work…

And I can’t either.

# Liz Phair# song# music

(Source: repllicunt, via heytinafey)

# BroadCity

wearethetay:

jedavu:

Charming Illustrated Cinemagraphs Reflect The Idyllic Mood Of Lazy Summer Days

by Rebecca Mock 

You can feel each one…

(via iamhisbadwolf)

# artPWN3
watchthewalls:

#superman #wonder #woman #tangle up #lovers #DC

watchthewalls:

#superman #wonder #woman #tangle up #lovers #DC

(via garryvakari)

# SupesWW# HOTness

For mothers and daughters… “First Moon Party”
Hilarious!

# funny

"Who’s the man behind the bat? Maybe you can help me find the woman behind the cat."

(Source: louisdreyfus, via kickasswomenofcomics)

# BatsCatwoman# movie# HOTness

Some Nightwing hotness for your dash

(Source: reyesrobbies, via brucediana)

# Nightwing# HOTness

Maizee constantly finds ways to amuse herself.
hair thingie + door = hours of entertainment

# cuteness# Maizee

oneweekoneband:

Liz Phair, Supernova, off Whip-Smart (lyrics)

For all its popularity in music since pretty much ever, love is hard to write about interestingly, especially at its most starry-eyed and giddy; to paraphrase Tolstoy, all unhappy couples have their own problems, but all happy couples are (sweetly or sickeningly, depending on your outlook) alike. The trick, then, is to strive for originality of expression rather than of experience, pinning down what’s unique not about your feelings (hint: nothing is) but about your vocabulary, your lexical fingerprint.

Supernova is three minutes of bliss, rock guitars backing up utter pop sweetness, but it’s also pure Liz, emotional precision crafted with unique details. The opening — I have looked all over the place, but you have got my favorite face — is so honest in its plainness, a perfect description of the delight taken in a significant other’s features, and its simplicity is well-served by the minute specificity that follows in your eyelashes sparkle like gilded grass. The sweetness of his lips veers towards traditional pablum when she calls in a cherub, but it’s brought back to the personal by singling out the chubby Valentine’s staple’s bare wet ass - you can hear the smirk in her voice as she dirties up the Hallmark cliche. She captures the expansiveness of love, too, essentially taking on the idea of “you are my sunshine” with singular flair reaching towards the cosmic: supernovas and solar supermen, an angel given an edge of danger by its wings of fire, wind ushering in the private sensuality of smell, the sexual undercurrents of friction.

In the second verse she makes the sexual explicit with two lines so delicious I can’t even comment on them except to say that if you don’t think this is basically the most sexy-romantic thing you can say to a person, you probably shouldn’t bother asking me out:

Your kisses are as wicked as an F-16
And you fuck like a volcano, and you’re everything to me

Notice the way she sings fuck, or rather, how little there is to notice about it. There’s none of the self-aware playfulness from the cherub’s ass, none of the sense of obscenity it carries in context of the jaded narrator from Exile's Fuck and Run. This isn't Liz as provocateur: this is just Liz unvarnished, celebrating fucking because let's be real here, fucking is awesome.

In that last everything to me, she finally succumbs to cliche, but coming at the end of the song it feels less like giving up and more like giving in — and why shouldn’t she? She’s done her part to add her own spin to romance. Some things are cliche for a reason.

# Liz Phair# song# music
mylandyseal:

Well… not much to say. Is Catwoman and all her it is incredible, this sketch is just perfect, made by the magnificent ~ Alex Ross

mylandyseal:

Well… not much to say. Is Catwoman and all her it is incredible, this sketch is just perfect, made by the magnificent ~ Alex Ross

(via lyrafay)

# Catwoman# a:AlexRoss

heatvents:

We’re all imagined it, but I can’t believe you DID it.

(via likebirdsofprey)

# BlackCanary# Huntress# BirdsOfPrey# comic
I Don't Care If You Like It

meredithmo:

Ungggh, this is so good. Bless you, Rebecca Traister. <3

I wish it were different. I wish that every woman whose actions and worth are parsed and restricted, congratulated and condemned in this country might just once get to wheel aroundon the committee that doesn’t believe their medically corroborated story of assault, or on the protesters who tell them that termination is a sin they will regret, or on the boss who tells them he doesn’t believe in their sexual choices, or on the mid-fifties man who congratulates them, or himself, on finding them appealing deep into their dotageand go black in the eyes and say, “I don’t fucking care if you like it.”

(via wilwheaton)

# feminism# truth

ruiningurtumblogs:

twilektimelord:

fororchestra:

adrianshhh:

image

Sometimes I think of how one tiny mutated cell can wipe out our whole civilization, but then I watch a video like this and think “nah, we’re way too awesome of a species to be defeated.”

I feel like my life is complete after watching this.

HOLY SHITTING CHRIST.HOW DOES HE MANAGE TO KEEP SUCH A GOOD TONE QUALITY. WHAT THE SHIT. I CAN’T. JUST.

Seriously, as somebody who is relatively good at the flute let me tell you that that is really fucking difficult. REALLY FUCKING DIFFICULT. That’s like the flautist’s equivalent of trying to talk normally whilst breathing in: it just isn’t doable. This guy is using some freaky fucking sorcery. As if that weren’t bad enough: HIS FINGERS ON THAT LAST BLOODY SCALE HOLY SHIT. HOW CAN YOU MOVE THAT FAST. I CAN’T EVEN DO F BLOODY MAJOR THAT FAST AND IT’S THE EASIEST BLOODY SCALE WE HAVE HOLY CHRIST.

(Source: adrians, via silentworldpilot)

# music# wow
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