"The average prison sentence for men who kill their intimate partners is 2 to 6 years. Women who kill their partners are sentenced, on average, 15 to 17 years. A pair of Maryland cases vividly illustrates this inequality in sentencing. In one case, a judge in Baltimore County, Maryland sentenced Kenneth Peacock to 18 months for killing his unfaithful wife. The very next day, another judge in the same county sentenced Patricia Ann Hawkins to three years in prison for killing her abusive husband. Significantly, the prosecutor in the Peacock case requested a sentence twice as long as the one imposed, while the prosecutor in the Hawkins case requested one-third of the sentence imposed.”
“As many as 90% of the women in prison today  for killing men had been battered by those men.”
~ The Michigan Women’s Justice & Clemency Project
try and tell me sexism isn’t real
Hold the fucking phoneSo about that one song in Chicago
by John Ashbery
Orpheus liked the glad personal quality
Of the things beneath the sky. Of course, Eurydice was a part
Of this. Then one day, everything changed. He rends
Rocks into fissures with lament. Gullies, hummocks
Can’t withstand it. The sky shudders from one horizon
To the other, almost ready to give up wholeness.
Then Apollo quietly told him: “Leave it all on earth.
Your lute, what point? Why pick at a dull pavan few care to
Follow, except a few birds of dusty feather,
Not vivid performances of the past.” But why not?
All other things must change too.
The seasons are no longer what they once were,
But it is the nature of things to be seen only once,
As they happen along, bumping into other things, getting along
Somehow. That’s where Orpheus made his mistake.
Of course Eurydice vanished into the shade;
She would have even if he hadn’t turned around.
No use standing there like a gray stone toga as the whole wheel
Of recorded history flashes past, struck dumb, unable to
utter an intelligent
Comment on the most thought-provoking element in its train.
Only love stays on the brain, and something these people,
These other ones, call life. Singing accurately
So that the notes mount straight up out of the well of
Dim noon and rival the tiny, sparkling yellow flowers
Growing around the brink of the quarry, encapsulizes
The different weights of the things.
But it isn’t enough
To just go on singing. Orpheus realized this
And didn’t mind so much about his reward being in heaven
After the Bacchantes had torn him apart, driven
Half out of their minds by his music, what it was doing to them.
Some say it was for his treatment of Eurydice.
But probably the music had more to do with it, and
The way music passes, emblematic
Of life and how you cannot isolate a note of it
And say it is good or bad. You must
Wait till it’s over. “The end crowns all,”
Meaning also that the “tableau”
Is wrong. For although memories, of a season, for example,
Melt into a single snapshot, one cannot guard, treasure
That stalled moment. It too is flowing, fleeting;
It is a picture of flowing, scenery, though living, mortal,
Over which an abstract action is laid out in blunt,
Harsh strokes. And to ask more than this
Is to become the tossing reeds of that slow,
Powerful stream, the trailing grasses
Playfully tugged at, but to participate in the action
No more than this. Then in the lowering gentian sky
Electric twitches are faintly apparent first, then burst forth
Into a shower of fixed, cream-colored flares. The horses
Have each seen a share of the truth, though each thinks,
"I’m a maverick. Nothing of this is happening to me,
Though I can understand the language of birds, and
The itinerary of the lights caught in the storm is
fully apparent to me.
Their jousting ends in music much
As trees move more easily in the wind after a summer storm
And is happening in lacy shadows of shore-trees, now,
day after day.”
But how late to be regretting all this, even
Bearing in mind that regrets are always late, too late!
To which Orpheus, a bluish cloud with white contours,
Replies that these are of course not regrets at all,
Merely a careful, scholarly setting down of
Unquestioned facts, a record of pebbles along the way.
And no matter how all this disappeared,
Or got where it was going, it is no longer
Material for a poem. Its subject
Matters too much, and not enough, standing there helplessly
While the poem streaked by, its tail afire, a bad
Comet screaming hate and disaster, but so turned inward
That the meaning, good or other, can never
Become known. The singer thinks
Constructively, builds up his chant in progressive stages
Like a skyscraper, but at the last minute turns away.
The song is engulfed in an instant in blackness
Which must in turn flood the whole continent
With blackness, for it cannot see. The singer
Must then pass out of sight, not even relieved
Of the evil burthen of the words. Stellification
Is for the few, and comes about much later
When all record of these people and their lives
Has disappeared into libraries, onto microfilm.
A few are still interested in them. “But what about
So-and-so?” is still asked on occasion. But they lie
Frozen and out of touch until an arbitrary chorus
Speaks of a totally different incident with a similar name
In whose tale are hidden syllables
Of what happened so long before that
In some small town, one different summer.
The Miniature Model Behind ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’
While “The Grand Budapest Hotel” is busy with smaller design elements, one of its most striking designs is the hotel itself. Outfitted in shades of pink and purple and situated atop a hill, the hotel is grandiose and picturesque. It also happens to be nine feet tall. For wide shots of the hotel, the director Wes Anderson and his team decided to use a handmade miniature model.
“I’ve always loved miniatures in general,” Mr. Anderson said, speaking by phone from Paris. “I just like the charm of them.” He used miniatures in “The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou” and more extensively in “Fantastic Mr. Fox.” He said he feels that audiences tend to recognize what is artificial, whether in computer-generated effects or otherwise, and that gave him liberty to use models. “The particular brand of artificiality that I like to use is an old-fashioned one,” he added.
He collaborated again with the production designer Adam Stockhausen (“Moonrise Kingdom”) to come up with the look of the hotel, then had it built by a crew. Here is a closer look at the hotel, including commentary and ideas from Mr. Stockhausen.
Adapt to this
LET ME JUST POINT OUT THE VARIOUS FLAWS OF LOGIC HERE. FIRST OF ALL DARWINS POWER IS TO LITERALLY ADAPT TO ANYTHING IN THE EFFING UNIVERSE. HIS POWERS DEEMED IT TOO DANGEROUS TO FIGHT THE HULK AND TELEPORTED HIM TO ANOTHER COUNTRY. HE ONCE BECAME PURE COSMIC EFFING ENERGY AND SHORTLY AFTER REMATERIALIZED AS A HUMAN BEING TO PREVENT HIS DEATH. DARWIN IS LITERALLY INEFFINGVINCIBLE. AND YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT A PATHETIC BALL OF KINETIC ENERGY FROM SEBASTIAN SHAW MERKS HIM?!?!?! THEY OBVIOUSLY ARE OUT TO KILL THE BLACK MAN IN THE PLOT AND LITERALLY WROTE THIS SCENE WITH NO REGARDS TO DARWINS POWERS WHATSOEVER AND ITS FRUSTRATING THAT THEY WOULD GO OUT OF THEIR WAY TO KILL HIM OFF LIKE THAT
I’m saying. Even in sci fi we ain’t safe
in my headcanon darwin literally became a being of energy and ascended to another plain of existence so he doesn’t have to deal with anymore of this white nonsense
Even in Scifi? We not safe in real life.
thank you I’ve been saying this for the longest!!!!! He is a damn omega level mutant, meaning in the movie he would be a class 5! Dude even adapted into a God and became the God of Death! Dude was college educated in the comics and they made him a taxi driver…like Black folks weren’t educated in the 70’s. And they didn’t even acknowledge that he was an Afro Latino…his name is Armando Munoz, he’s one of the few Afro latino superheros and they did him so dirty.
A movie that’s a metaphor for prejudice/racism/etc did the black guy dirty.
I was so frustrated by this moment, and by the fact that the only other person of color was a prostitute and a “traitor”, both of which the movie openly condemned and made sure that she suffered for.
reservetank asked: YEAH RORY WHAT'S SO WRONG WITH THIRST FOLLOWING? IS IT ALSO WRONG OF ME TO REBLOG SOMEONE'S SELFIE AND ADD COMMENTS LIKE "SPANK ME" OR "I'D TAP THAT WITH A SILVER HAMMER"????? IS IT SO WRONG TO DEHUMANIZE SOMEONE ON THE INTERNET JUST BECAUSE THEY FEEL SAFE AND CONFIDENT ENOUGH TO POST PICTURES OF THEMSELVES? COME ON RORY IT'S JUST THE INTERNET IT'S NOT LIKE THEY HAVE FEELINGS OR ANYTHING
i love you so much paxton
"What were you wearing?"
I wore a red dress to work today. It has a zipper at either side of my chest that can unzip and reveal a thin strip of skin. A coworker, without warning, tried pulling at the zipper and when it wouldn’t zip, instead revealed a good portion of my collarbone and shoulder as well as my bra strap. An hour later, the same coworker came up and told me to not wear clothes with zippers because he’ll go right ahead and unzip them. I shot back that unzipping me without my permission is sexual harassment. Apparently a manager heard and berated my coworker. At the end of my shift, my coworker told me that my little comment got him in trouble and that he no longer feels comfortable saying anything to me other than “hello” and “goodbye.”
I am supposed to feel guilty for pointing out that he can’t lay his fucking hands on me.