heyteebs

heyteebs:

image

Sir Sasha Fletcher is the author of it is going to be a good year (Big Lucks Books, 2015), one novella, and several chapbooks of poetry. I first encountered Sasha’s work bc he and BFF Wilkes went to Columbia together, and occasionally she would send me his poems from places like Sixth…

tommy published this thing bc he is a fucking sweetheart

so an excerpt from the novel is live at time out ny. me, i am really fucking excited about it. um. more things from this are forthcoming at some point in pank, spork, and the american reader. so there’s that. meantime i’m sitting pretty in crown heights sipping on some chocolate mint tea and watching homicide: life on the street with the windows open on this autumnal as hell day.

sarahjeanalex
chelseahodson:

Inventory ends on October 19. Thanks to the Marina Abramovic Institute, and the Imagine Science Film Festival, I will read the project in its entirety on that day.
INVENTORY: UNDER OBJECTS UNDER OATH
Sunday, October 19, 2014
1:00 pm - 10:00 pm

The Made in New York Media Center by IFP30 John StreetBrooklyn, NY 11201(DUMBO, Brooklyn)
In line with the festival theme of “time,” Imagine Science Film Festival is excited to co-host a long durational performance piece in collaboration with Marina Abramovic Institute. Inventory: Under Objects Under Oath is a long durational performance by writer Chelsea Hodson. Every day for 656 consecutive days, Hodson has used her blog to catalog, photograph, and write about every individual object she owns. On Sunday, October 19th, she will read the project in its entirety. The performance and its accompanying live stream will be presented by Marina Abramovic Institute in collaboration with Imagine Science Films.
See the official festival listing here.


chelsea hodson is my favorite writer in brooklyn. her work is something that i find to be absolutely essential in my life, and since it is a thing i cannot make myself, i have become a super huge fan. if you are around i would sincerely suggest attending this. what chelsea does is a form of truth that i don’t know how to get my mind around but i try to.

chelseahodson:

Inventory ends on October 19. Thanks to the Marina Abramovic Institute, and the Imagine Science Film Festival, I will read the project in its entirety on that day.

INVENTORY: UNDER OBJECTS UNDER OATH

The Made in New York Media Center by IFP
30 John Street
Brooklyn, NY 11201
(DUMBO, Brooklyn)

In line with the festival theme of “time,” Imagine Science Film Festival is excited to co-host a long durational performance piece in collaboration with Marina Abramovic Institute. Inventory: Under Objects Under Oath is a long durational performance by writer Chelsea Hodson. Every day for 656 consecutive days, Hodson has used her blog to catalog, photograph, and write about every individual object she owns. On Sunday, October 19th, she will read the project in its entirety. The performance and its accompanying live stream will be presented by Marina Abramovic Institute in collaboration with Imagine Science Films.

See the official festival listing here.

chelsea hodson is my favorite writer in brooklyn. her work is something that i find to be absolutely essential in my life, and since it is a thing i cannot make myself, i have become a super huge fan. if you are around i would sincerely suggest attending this. what chelsea does is a form of truth that i don’t know how to get my mind around but i try to.

sarahjeanalex

sarahjeanalex:

halffun:

altcrit:

Chatlogs with rapist Stephen Tully Dierks (see previous post for firsthand accounts) reposted with permission from from a post made by Isabel Sanhueza in the Alt Lit Gossip facebook group.

As some of you already know, Stephen Tully Dierks and I were in a relationship from July 2014 until yesterday when he was publicly outed as a rapist and an abuser. After I found out, Stephen repeatedly sent me increasingly manipulative and disturbing facebook messages until I felt that I had no other choice than to block him for the sake of my safety and sanity. I’m choosing to share these messages because I think they serve as complete and total proof of the fact that Stephen either can’t or won’t take accountability for his actions and how they have affected the lives of others. Honestly, I feel scared to keep these messages to myself, on both a personal level and because not sharing them might mean that he could potentially get away with hurting more people. This is frustratingly difficult for me to do; as someone who has seen a very different side of Stephen, it has been so hard to admit that someone I loved and trusted is also a rapist and a predator. That being said, I think that because I was so easily fooled, it’s all the more important for me to share these messages. I want to add that I am posting these with the explicit consent and encouragement of Tiffany, who has been so brave, as have Sophia and all other women involved.

He and Tao in his flippant dismissal of EK don’t break character once

They’re clearly purposefully trying to continue to manipulate the situations

STD is fucking sick.

not that what i want matters but i just hope that all of this gets people on the internet and in the world to just think more about consent, and about respecting women and other people and the boundaries they set around their lives and bodies. i said a thing before about how i don’t like boundaries and it was the wrong word. not that anyone reads this or noticed. anyway but everyone has their needs and respecting that is important. please let’s all just be better people.

markcugini

markcugini:

ACTUALLY—if you’re annoyed by my constant shouting about this women’s safety//rape, i suggest you keep fucking following me. and look inward. and think about what you’re doing to contribute to rape culture. and about what you’re doing with your body. and your brain. and your power. and…

mark is my publisher, mark is my friend, mark is my role model, and everyone needs to think more about consent, and by everyone i mean men, i mean if you have a dick and a mouth and a body you fucking ask if it’s ok if you put these things near another person, because having a dick and a mouth and a body doesn’t mean anything other than that you have these things, no matter what you’d like to do with them, because like, because want, because these things don’t mean shit. they’re ideas and urges that exist inside us and our fucking heads and have little to do with the world around us that is real and physical and has been negatively effected enough by dudes with dicks and mouths and bodies.

sarahjeanalex
belishabeacons:

The rape culture continues because you let it
When I went to trial against my ex boyfriend, I lost on a technicality. Not because he didn’t admit to: being physically and psychologically abusive to me, harassing me, stalking me, or violating police orders not to talk to me. He did admit to those things- to the police- in his statement after he was arrested. No, the reason I lost was because, when I was forced to hand over all contact I’d had between us, I failed to share a conversation we had had on gchat with the police. One in which I explicitly stated that I felt he had sometimes coerced me into sex; he denied this repeatedly, stating we had an ‘insanely good’ sex life.I didn’t hand this conversation over because I thought that the law wanted examples of his abuse, his harassment.  I was wrong.The law wanted me to point out, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had done wrong by me and I had never taken any agency to counter him.
And so I lost. I went home for Christmas and I tried not to think about it. I tried to stop labelling what happened to me, I tried to stop reading blogs that illuminated my struggle, I tried to put it behind me.Every now and then, though, I’d come across something that reminded me. An ad for Mallorca- and I’m transported to a vacation we took together where he had sex with me without a condom (which I didn’t know about) and then ejaculated inside me without my consent. When I asked him why, he smiled- I was stuck on an island that did not offer the morning after pill over the counter, and he knew that. At the time, I knew that felt wrong. Now I know that was something called reproductive abuse.But I move on, ignoring other memories that come to the surface. “Grey sex” only makes me think of this time, when I was 19 years old, and he cajoled me into making a sex video with him, even though I protested (although not strongly) against it. At one point, he switched me into a position that exposed my body more to the camera. “No,” I said softly. “Come on,” he said. “No,” I said more forcefully. “It’s my birthday video,” he muttered. I relented.He would play that video sometimes when we had sex with the volume turned up high. I could just about hear myself saying “no, no, no.”Rainy mornings with a drier chill remind me of a nebulous number of times, how many I can’t tell you because I don’t remember them, where we were lying in his bed. He poked at me, calling me fat- his favorite abuse was appearance-based- and asked me to have sex with him. No, I’d ask. No, I’d plead. More ‘you’re fat’ would come at me until I said yes. Then, on top of me:
"Why aren’t you enjoying this? God dammnit, why aren’t you enjoying this?"All of these instances are examples of what the law would not hold up as rape. I sometimes even doubt myself labelling them as such; I feel guilty, lesser than someone who has been forcefully assaulted against their will. This isn’t rape. What happened to me wasn’t rape.What happened to me wasn’t abuse, I say. In the middle of the night, I wake up and feel the overwhelming urge to email him, asking him for forgiveness for taking him to trial. It was my fault- if I had shared that gchat conversation, it would have never gone to trial, and he would just have been arrested, released, and he would have maybe been scared enough to never contact me again.It was my fault. It was my fault that, one day when walking down the street, he raised his hand high above my head, and brought it inches away from my face. I cowered; he laughed. “Why the fuck would you do that?” I asked. He smiled, always. “Because you were raising your voice on the street. Why do you have to be so loud?”I tell myself it wasn’t that big of a deal that he pulled me by my hair, by my pixie cut, and told me I was a little girl. Women suffer worse, people suffer worse. It’s my fault that I obsess about it.And when he choked me in a bush until I either passed out or blacked out from panic- well, I shouldn’t obsess about that either. I wasn’t killed. I wasn’t even that harmed- just a scraped up knee. I slept the night in a guest room in his house, and his flatmates told me they’d look after me and make sure he didn’t come home. He did, he yelled at me, and the next morning I fell asleep in his bed again while I heard him tell his flatmate, “I think I was just waiting for an excuse to break up with her for a long time.”I tell myself it’s my fault these things happened because I went back to him. I went back to him so many times; I went back to him every second. Not because I loved him, not because I wanted him, but because I didn’t know if I had the strength to exist without him. And so you tell me: the rape culture exists because I let it. Because my words are not enough. Because shame is not enough.I used the law. I tried to get him the mental help he needed. I still lost.My words to him made me lose.So what are my words now?

belishabeacons:

The rape culture continues because you let it

When I went to trial against my ex boyfriend, I lost on a technicality. Not because he didn’t admit to: being physically and psychologically abusive to me, harassing me, stalking me, or violating police orders not to talk to me. He did admit to those things- to the police- in his statement after he was arrested. 

No, the reason I lost was because, when I was forced to hand over all contact I’d had between us, I failed to share a conversation we had had on gchat with the police. One in which I explicitly stated that I felt he had sometimes coerced me into sex; he denied this repeatedly, stating we had an ‘insanely good’ sex life.

I didn’t hand this conversation over because I thought that the law wanted examples of his abuse, his harassment.  I was wrong.

The law wanted me to point out, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had done wrong by me and I had never taken any agency to counter him.

And so I lost. I went home for Christmas and I tried not to think about it. I tried to stop labelling what happened to me, I tried to stop reading blogs that illuminated my struggle, I tried to put it behind me.

Every now and then, though, I’d come across something that reminded me. An ad for Mallorca- and I’m transported to a vacation we took together where he had sex with me without a condom (which I didn’t know about) and then ejaculated inside me without my consent. When I asked him why, he smiled- I was stuck on an island that did not offer the morning after pill over the counter, and he knew that. At the time, I knew that felt wrong. Now I know that was something called reproductive abuse.

But I move on, ignoring other memories that come to the surface. “Grey sex” only makes me think of this time, when I was 19 years old, and he cajoled me into making a sex video with him, even though I protested (although not strongly) against it. At one point, he switched me into a position that exposed my body more to the camera. “No,” I said softly. “Come on,” he said. “No,” I said more forcefully. “It’s my birthday video,” he muttered. I relented.

He would play that video sometimes when we had sex with the volume turned up high. I could just about hear myself saying “no, no, no.”

Rainy mornings with a drier chill remind me of a nebulous number of times, how many I can’t tell you because I don’t remember them, where we were lying in his bed. He poked at me, calling me fat- his favorite abuse was appearance-based- and asked me to have sex with him. No, I’d ask. No, I’d plead. More ‘you’re fat’ would come at me until I said yes. Then, on top of me:

"Why aren’t you enjoying this? God dammnit, why aren’t you enjoying this?"

All of these instances are examples of what the law would not hold up as rape. I sometimes even doubt myself labelling them as such; I feel guilty, lesser than someone who has been forcefully assaulted against their will. This isn’t rape. What happened to me wasn’t rape.

What happened to me wasn’t abuse, I say. In the middle of the night, I wake up and feel the overwhelming urge to email him, asking him for forgiveness for taking him to trial. It was my fault- if I had shared that gchat conversation, it would have never gone to trial, and he would just have been arrested, released, and he would have maybe been scared enough to never contact me again.

It was my fault. 

It was my fault that, one day when walking down the street, he raised his hand high above my head, and brought it inches away from my face. I cowered; he laughed. “Why the fuck would you do that?” I asked. He smiled, always. “Because you were raising your voice on the street. Why do you have to be so loud?”

I tell myself it wasn’t that big of a deal that he pulled me by my hair, by my pixie cut, and told me I was a little girl. Women suffer worse, people suffer worse. It’s my fault that I obsess about it.

And when he choked me in a bush until I either passed out or blacked out from panic- well, I shouldn’t obsess about that either. I wasn’t killed. I wasn’t even that harmed- just a scraped up knee. I slept the night in a guest room in his house, and his flatmates told me they’d look after me and make sure he didn’t come home. He did, he yelled at me, and the next morning I fell asleep in his bed again while I heard him tell his flatmate, “I think I was just waiting for an excuse to break up with her for a long time.”

I tell myself it’s my fault these things happened because I went back to him. I went back to him so many times; I went back to him every second. Not because I loved him, not because I wanted him, but because I didn’t know if I had the strength to exist without him. 

And so you tell me: the rape culture exists because I let it. Because my words are not enough. Because shame is not enough.

I used the law. I tried to get him the mental help he needed. I still lost.

My words to him made me lose.

So what are my words now?