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Posts Tagged ‘relationships’

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fashion, pretty girls, and other things with price tags

The Playground

I spend a lot of time criticising the boys who work on Wall Street, but if you’re not after anything too cerebral they can be quite good fun to hang out with. Fraser and Kathleen started spending a lot of time together in a weird sexless mini-clique. There had been rumours flying round that her job wasn’t as secure as it might be, and I think she was keen to get close to anyone who could help her career.

As a girl, you get used to bawdy comments from guy-friends. One of the things that really shocked me about the city guys was the number of them who had been with call-girls. Usually on foreign trips where nobody knew them, but sometimes at home in New York. “Their work builds up a lot of testosterone,” Lina would say, “they have to let off steam somehow.”

“Does your brother go with…

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The Patience Stone: “Sang-E Saboor”
by Atiq Rahimi

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“For far too long, Afghan women have been faceless and voiceless. Until now. With The Patience Stone, Atiq Rahimi gives face and voice to one unforgettable woman–and, one could argue, offers her as a proxy for the grievances of millions…it is a rich read, part allegory, part a tale of retribution, part an exploration of honor, love, sex, marriage, war. It is without doubt an important and courageous book.” from the introduction by Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns

In Persian folklore, Syngue Sabour is the name of a magical black stone, a patience stone, which absorbs the plight of those who confide in it. It is believed that the day it explodes, after having received too much hardship and pain, will be the day of the Apocalypse. But here, the Syngue Sabour is not a stone but rather a man lying brain-dead with a bullet lodged in his neck. His wife is with him, sitting by his side. But she resents him for having sacrificed her to the war, for never being able to resist the call to arms, for wanting to be a hero, and in the end, after all was said and done, for being incapacitated in a small skirmish. Yet she cares, and she speaks to him. She even talks to him more and more, opening up her deepest desires, pains, and secrets. While in the streets rival factions clash and soldiers are looting and killing around her, she speaks of her life, never knowing if her husband really hears. And it is an extraordinary confession, without restraint, about sex and love and her anger against a man who never understood her, who mistreated her, who never showed her any respect or kindness. Her admission releases the weight of oppression of marital, social, and religious norms, and she leads her story up to the great secret that is unthinkable in a country such as Afghanistan. Winner of the Prix Goncourt, The Patience Stone captures with great courage and spare, poetic, prose the reality of everyday life for an intelligent woman under the oppressive weight of the Taliban regime in Afghanistan.

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via Elephant Journal

11 Reasons Why I’m Getting Married (Again). .

Warning: some adult language ahead.

I swore off marriage when I was 12-years-old.

I was a jaded preteen with a bit of a feminist streak who had witnessed the demise of her parents’ relationship a few years before. I decided that I was never going to fall prey that heteronormative, societal slave trap. I was going to make something of my life and no amount of schmaltzy, romantic bullshit was going to stand in my way.

Ten years later I was married. (Life has a funny way of taking our belief systems and packing them with dynamite.)

I was a good wife—or at least I tried to be. I cooked and cleaned. I was understanding and kind (sometimes). And I really, really cared about my husband. But admittedly, my heart was not in it. It was nobody’s fault. We simply weren’t the best fit for each other and hung on for much longer than was respectfully necessary.

So, I ended up joining the ranks of one of the real housewives who get to say fashionable things like “My ex-husband this,” or “My divorce settlement that”—all before the age of 30.

Joking aside, it was a pretty intense period of my life. Walking away from everything I had known about love and relating made me Feel like a total failure, a selfish, sick little girl with no stable ground to stand on. Even though through it all, I knew I was making the right choice, I was shaking with fear behind my mask of quiet bravery.

And with that mask came a resounding voice from the past: don’t ever get married again.

No really. You are not wife material. You are not a mother. Do you want to put another man (and possibly innocent children) though hell?

Then five months ago, he came along.

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Hallidd's Weblog

Last Rites

Maybe you could tell me. The steps coming down the stairs. Your shoulders shaking. Too many pills. Chasing you down the boulevaard. Maybe it was something I ate for Christmas.

Listening to each other. The last syllable hangs in the air. Help you on with your jacket. You ask. Did you tip the waiter. I return to the booth. For my teeth. They’re still talking.

Maybe you could die. And I could start over. I’d divorce the first woman I married. And go through the bitter redress of my complaints. You get the children. You get the house. You get whatever is in our accounts. I get the last breath. From your lungs.

Why does life leave you. Feeling used. And worn out. I can hear the feet going down the stairs. Its Christmas morning. And the kids are laughing.

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the Labyrinth

the labyrinth

*

All through life we’re searching, searching,

searching for that someone who

will make our lives worth living/loving —

happiness in one from two.

*

The search will take us twisting, turning,

in and out and out and in

it may be long, hard and confusing,

and often ends where it begins.

*

Goals will change, be rearranged,

our guiding light may seem to dimn

Yet somehow while we’re wandering/searching

strength will come from deep within.

*

So when dreams die and aren’t reborn,

and friends are going, going, gone,

we learn to search inside ourselves

instead of moving ever on…

*

Oh, all through life we’re searching, searching,

searching for that someone else —

When will we begin to realize

that that person is inside ourself.

*

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Sweet Anesthesia

Anaesthesia

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listening to them on and on,

hearing Hate, their little son

cried till he was dead inside.

*

the bitter tears rolled down his face,

outwardly they left no trace,

but inwardly etched deep a scar.

*

he closed his eyes…his ears…his heart–

round him built a private shell

shutting out his parents’ hell.

*

and afterwards he felt no pain–

only a dullness deep within

no love, no feeling, could begin.

*

he didn’t know how long he cried,

he cried till he was dead inside

and comforted then fell to sleep.

*

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