For people who are actually interested in how viking music might have sounded, “Drømde mik en drøm i nat" (/I dreamt a dream last night) is the earliest music (and lyrics) known in Scandinavia preserved on the last page of the (~1200-1300) Codex Runicus as rune notes.
The song and melody is still known and used today in most of Scandinavia, as a sort of folk-standard. This version, deceivingly slow in the beginning, is presented as close to the original sound of the years 900-1000 as historians think they can come.
This song might have survived because it was a gigantic hit, like the viking’s very own “Billie Jean”. A total pop slayer that stayed around long enough for music notes to be invented.
The more you know.
Cool as hell
We call ships ‘she.’ We call our war machines ‘women.’ We compare women to black widows and vipers. And you’re going to tell me it’s not ‘lady-like’ to scream, to take up space, to fight and demand respect and do whatever the hell I want. You’ve looked at nuclear bombs and been so in awe that you could only name them after women. Don’t try to down-play my power.
I want to frame this and put it next to my computer.
So anyway, I was having this argument with my father about Martin Luther King and how his message was too conservative compared to Malcolm X’s message. My father got really angry at me. It wasn’t that he disliked Malcolm X, but his point was that Malcolm X hadn’t accomplished anything as Dr. King had.
I was kind of sarcastic and asked something like, so what did Martin Luther King accomplish other than giving his “I have a dream speech.”
Before I tell you what my father told me, I want to digress. Because at this point in our amnesiac national existence, my question pretty much reflects the national civic religion view of what Dr. King accomplished. He gave this great speech. Or some people say, “he marched.” I was so angry at Mrs. Clinton during the primaries when she said that Dr. King marched, but it was LBJ who delivered the Civil Rights Act.
At this point, I would like to remind everyone exactly what Martin Luther King did, and it wasn’t that he “marched” or gave a great speech.
My father told me with a sort of cold fury, “Dr. King ended the terror of living in the south.”
Please let this sink in and and take my word and the word of my late father on this. If you are a white person who has always lived in the U.S. and never under a brutal dictatorship, you probably don’t know what my father was talking about.
But this is what the great Dr. Martin Luther King accomplished. Not that he marched, nor that he gave speeches.
He ended the terror of living as a black person, especially in the south.
I’m guessing that most of you, especially those having come fresh from seeing The Help, may not understand what this was all about. But living in the south (and in parts of the midwest and in many ghettos of the north) was living under terrorism.
It wasn’t that black people had to use a separate drinking fountain or couldn’t sit at lunch counters, or had to sit in the back of the bus.
You really must disabuse yourself of this idea. Lunch counters and buses were crucial symbolic planes of struggle that the civil rights movement used to dramatize the issue, but the main suffering in the south did not come from our inability to drink from the same fountain, ride in the front of the bus or eat lunch at Woolworth’s.
It was that white people, mostly white men, occasionally went berserk, and grabbed random black people, usually men, and lynched them. You all know about lynching. But you may forget or not know that white people also randomly beat black people, and the black people could not fight back, for fear of even worse punishment.
This constant low level dread of atavistic violence is what kept the system running. It made life miserable, stressful and terrifying for black people.
White people also occasionally tried black people, especially black men, for crimes for which they could not conceivably be guilty. With the willing participation of white women, they often accused black men of “assault,” which could be anything from rape to not taking off one’s hat, to “reckless eyeballing.”
This is going to sound awful and perhaps a stain on my late father’s memory, but when I was little, before the civil rights movement, my father taught me many, many humiliating practices in order to prevent the random, terroristic, berserk behavior of white people. The one I remember most is that when walking down the street in New York City side by side, hand in hand with my hero-father, if a white woman approached on the same sidewalk, I was to take off my hat and walk behind my father, because he had been taught in the south that black males for some reason were supposed to walk single file in the presence of any white lady.
This was just one of many humiliating practices we were taught to prevent white people from going berserk.
I remember a huge family reunion one August with my aunts and uncles and cousins gathered around my grandparents’ vast breakfast table laden with food from the farm, and the state troopers drove up to the house with a car full of rifles and shotguns, and everyone went kind of weirdly blank. They put on the masks that black people used back then to not provoke white berserkness. My strong, valiant, self-educated, articulate uncles, whom I adored, became shuffling, Step-N-Fetchits to avoid provoking the white men. Fortunately the troopers were only looking for an escaped convict. Afterward, the women, my aunts, were furious at the humiliating performance of the men, and said so, something that even a child could understand.
This is the climate of fear that Dr. King ended.
If you didn’t get taught such things, let alone experience them, I caution you against invoking the memory of Dr. King as though he belongs exclusively to you and not primarily to African Americans.
The question is, how did Dr. King do this—and of course, he didn’t do it alone.
(Of all the other civil rights leaders who helped Dr. King end this reign of terror, I think the most under appreciated is James Farmer, who founded the Congress of Racial Equality and was a leader of nonviolent resistance, and taught the practices of nonviolent resistance.)
So what did they do?
They told us: Whatever you are most afraid of doing vis-a-vis white people, go do it. Go ahead down to city hall and try to register to vote, even if they say no, even if they take your name down.
Go ahead sit at that lunch counter. Sue the local school board. All things that most black people would have said back then, without exaggeration, were stark raving insane and would get you killed.
If we do it all together, we’ll be okay.
They made black people experience the worst of the worst, collectively, that white people could dish out, and discover that it wasn’t that bad. They taught black people how to take a beating—from the southern cops, from police dogs, from fire department hoses. They actually coached young people how to crouch, cover their heads with their arms and take the beating. They taught people how to go to jail, which terrified most decent people.
And you know what? The worst of the worst, wasn’t that bad.
Once people had been beaten, had dogs sicced on them, had fire hoses sprayed on them, and been thrown in jail, you know what happened?
These magnificent young black people began singing freedom songs in jail.
That, my friends, is what ended the terrorism of the south. Confronting your worst fears, living through it, and breaking out in a deep throated freedom song. The jailers knew they had lost when they beat the crap out of these young Negroes and the jailed, beaten young people began to sing joyously, first in one town then in another. This is what the writer, James Baldwin, captured like no other writer of the era.
Please let this sink in. It wasn’t marches or speeches. It was taking a severe beating, surviving and realizing that our fears were mostly illusory and that we were free.
Reblogging this so I can come back to it in the spring when I teach the Civil Rights Movement to my 5th graders.
#pirates of the caribbean was kind of a formative influence #so here’s the thing #after years of chasing curses and hearts and fountains; losing the pearl and winning her back and losing her again #after rum enough to drown his sins and sorrows both#captain jack sparrow wakes up one morning and he’s immortal #just like that #no deals with calypso (he hasn’t been able to find her since the brethren court broke her chains) no desperate double-dealing #one morning he just…stops #stops aging stops dying #he gets the seas forever—except #except #the edges of the map are closing in #the lure of undiscovered treasures is waning and merchant ships are becoming better defended #the day that the East India Company takes Shipwreck Island; Jack feels a great chapter in the world’s history close #(he flees to the Barbary coast with the rest of his ilk; but the romance has gone out of it—the is too much desperation #too much hunger too much blood to it nowadays #the age of the swashbuckler won’t live out the decade) #I imagine this thing he’s chased all his life would crumble through his hands as he bounced from ship to ship #he never gets used to the square rigging on the clippers; though they lead to some good work running tea from china #but the first time he sees a steamship he nearly walks off the dock out of shock #of all the ways sailing would have changed; who thought you’d get rid of the /sails/ #(he swears he’s never getting on one of those monstrosities; let alone sailing on one) #(he manages to hold out until 1893 when the longing for the sea overwhelms him and he decides that even #that ghastly smog and the humming of the engines can be endured) #sometimes he’ll see calypso out of the corner of his eye—leaning on the deck railing; darting alongside the ship with the dolphins #(someone in the early 20th century tells him they’re not fish and he nearly busts a gut laughing) #he wears a hundred names and a hundred looks; cuts his hair short or grows it long #calls himself american; spanish; english (british); caribbean #he has two dozen different copies of Stevenson’s Treasure Island—it reminds him of something gone and half-forgotten #and in 1920 when Seitz comes out with Pirate Gold; Captain Jack Sparrow is in the first row (x)
And then in the future, everything changes. He’s been through it all, of course-watched humanity rediscover the heavens above them, watched them begin to wonder what’s out there. He cheered with the rest of the world when they landed on the moon, cheered as if he’d found Isla de la Muerta all over again, because there was something new. New treasure, a new horizon. But then they stop going, stop exploring, and he goes back to riding tankers across the rising seas. So he’s surprised when one day he wakes up from a night with his bottle of rum (his truest companion), and hears that there’s colonies on Mars now, and they need ships to supply them. He spends the next decade crafting new identities, learning all he can to qualify for the job, and after several tries (and even more faked deaths-this immortality thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be in the age of the inerasable digital self) he gets it. The ships go nearly constantly now, the needs of the terraforming project creating an unbroken line of vessels from Mars to Earth and back again. “Show me that horizon,” he whispers to himself, his personal prayer of thanksgiving, each time they leave orbit, because the worlds, the stars are in motion and it’s never the same, with nearly three years for a round trip the ports are always different, even if they keep the old names. And finally one trip something goes wrong with the reactor, they’re too low on power and have to deploy the backups, and Jack (Lucky Jack, they call him, for he survives too many things he shouldn’t but science has yet to accept that maybe some things weren’t old wives’ tales after all) goes out for the spacewalk to bring up the solar panels. And as they rise, geometric patterns black against the sun’s glare, he’s struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu, because it’s all here-wind and sails, a ship beneath his feet and stars above his head, horizon in all directions. He wonders, for a moment, if the reason he’s still here is because the universe wanted a witness, to mourn the end of one age of exploration, and rejoice in the birth of the next.
Thank you for writing this. It made me cry, but oh I am so relieved to see the yearning for the stars.
That shouldn’t have given me as many feels as it did…
had to shut a bitch down today
And that’s how public shootings and school shootings and shit like that happen. I’m not saying that this dude is not creepy as fuck, but this is not the way to handle this! He didn’t say anything mean (on purpose), and when you shut him down like that how the fuck do you think he’s going to react? He must know he’s somewhat creepy, but when a complete stranger that he adores tells him so vividly how creepy he is, that must wreck his world. I’m just saying I wouldn’t be surprised if he bought a gun (legally, but that’s a different issue) and went in to the store he knows you fucking work at. Just be nice to people fuck.
Alright, you know what? I don’t want to reblog this post. I want this post to die. And I have never once reblogged to reply to someone else’s comment on this post. But this one? This one I’m fucking gonna, because how. dare. you.
Are you seriously one of those slimy, inhuman grease traps of a human being who blame VICTIMS OF SHOOTINGS FOR THE FUCKING SHOOTINGS
Don’t you EVER come at me and try to tell me that I need to be responsible, personally responsible, for the mental satisfaction of the kind of monsters who would do something like that. Don’t you ever tell me I have to let myself be uncomfortable around people who LITERALLY STALK ME and put on a big smile and let them down gently because in your twisted little brain it is MY JOB TO KEEP THEM FROM KILLING PEOPLE
H O W F U C K I N G D A R E Y O U
YOU are the problem. YOU are the kind of person who justifies that kind of senseless violence by saying WELL IF SHE HAD JUST GIVEN HIM A CHANCE
IF SHE HAD JUST FUCKED HIM
IF HE HAD JUST ‘GOTTEN SOME’
HE WOULDN’T HAVE RAPED HER/SHOT THEM/DONE IT
Are you fucking proud of that? Are you proud that that’s the tiny drop you choose to drop into society’s bucket?
I don’t care if it ‘wrecked his world’ when he was called out on his socially unacceptable, disgusting behavior. I don’t caaaaaaaare
His actions are HIS actions. His actions are HIS fault
the next time I see a tragedy like the elliot rodger shooting on the news, I’m gonna think of all the vile comments from people online that say it all could have been avoided if the people he threatened and menaced would just relinquish their bodies and their comfort and their personal space for him, and I’m gonna s e e y o u r f a c e and I hope you fucking know it.
Don’t you ever talk to me. I am sick to my stomach over your fucking bullshit.
LMAO. this is why people are afraid to associate with feminists. Most of them are so fucking volatile and spew verbal acid on anyone who disagrees. Maybe this girl is right, but is that guy ever going to care? Being a righteous cunt is never going to persuade your point. All this woman is to anyone is a flamed up bitch, and if you wanna say “GET OVER IT SOCIETY, I HAVE RIGHTS” then get used to being shunned for the rest of your life.
Man, fuck those feminists, amirite guys? They’d rather have rights than be friends with people who don’t think they deserve them. That skeezy dude she didn’t want to fuck DEFINITELY won’t like her/agree with her now that she’s asserted herself.
Dude, I’m glad you’re afraid to associate with me. That’s one less lump of undercooked chicken in my life.
You know what, y’all? Maybe I DON’T want this post to die anymore. Fuck it. Reblog away! I hope everyone on the internet knows I’m not fucking with dudes like that, or the internalized misogyny enablers who think I should care more about those crusty dudes opinion of me than my own space and body and rights.
Members of Congress are living off food stamps for a week to protest Republican cuts. It’s a challenge for them, but GOP cuts would hurt millions of everyday Americans.
Why does this not have more publicity. This needs it!
I want a reality tv show where politicians have to live in poverty for a month. They have to live in Government housing, shop with food stamps, and get only a limited amount of money for clothes. Because here, they still have all their trappings, lilke nice cars and thousand dollar suits. I want them in Walmart jeans trying to determine if they can afford a carton of milk.
Give them a full calendar year. I want to see them confident in January, and sometime around June choking back tears at the Safeway because they are tired, so tired, of eating 25 cent cup noodles, eyeing other peoples’ full grocery carts with a dull bewilderment.
Let me see them despair because they have a persistent nagging cough that won’t go away and might be turning into pneumonia but the minute clinic is $60, which might as well be as six million dollars, either way they ain’t got it to spare - and that doesn’t count the cost of prescriptions. Let me hear them tell people about the muscle cramps they get at night due to eating non-nutritious garbage for months, the weakness from persistent hunger.
Let them know the shame and frustration of only owning one pair of cheap polyester pants for work and one pair of thrift-store jeans, and both persistently have ripped crotches and seams coming undone, no matter how many times they get sewn back up.
Let the women know the particular sort of despair that comes once a month when you can’t afford even the cheapest pads or tampons.
Let them understand the frustration of being charged a $35 fee for a $2 overdraft. Let them watch as the bank holds charges from different days in “pending” till they all come through on the same day, and the bank charges them four times for a single overdraft because “the charges all cleared at the same time”.
I want them to know the particular pain of having to decide between food for the week, or transportation costs to and from work. You can’t have both. Choose wisely.
You do not truly understand poverty until you’ve lived it and a month isn’t enough to encompass it. Not even close.
I have $7000 in medical bills this year because I let something go untreated for nine years because I couldn’t afford it. When I broke my hand I refused to go to the doctor because I couldn’t afford it - it wasn’t until my manager swore up and down that worker’s comp would cover it that I even considered going - and there were pieces of bone sticking out of my hand. I once walked on a broken foot for a year. A year. Because my boss wouldn’t let me have the time off to let it heal properly and my job required being on my feet for 8+hours a day. And that fucking foot kept starting to heal and then re-fracturing all over again. Spaghetti makes me sick to my stomach because I ate it every fucking day for months on end because pasta and tomato sauce are CHEAP, but there was no meat and no veggies, so it didn’t really do me any good.
Sometimes I buy things I don’t need just to prove to myself that I can. And sometimes I go crazy and buy bags of things for the homeless shelter and the food bank because Jesus, do people need it and I have a little extra to spare now. Sometimes I hoard things, like soap and food and old clothes that I don’t like and will never wear again, because what if I need it in the future and can’t afford it?
Sometimes I remember being so poor that my power was turned off and my bank account was negative and I had nothing in the kitchen but ramen noodles and canned beans and god only knew how I was going to scrape together $475 to pay the rent on my shitty apartment and the lingering stress makes me start to cry.
Rice for a whole winter, except weekends when my boyfriend came down and took me out, and margarine—forget butter—for it only rarely, so I couldn’t eat white rice for forty years. Pasta and soup with maybe a burger on payday as my only meat. No dental work, so my teeth are an ongoing trainwreck. Living in one-room studio apartments in residential hotels for a decade because we couldn’t afford a real apartment or utilities. And yes to all the bank crap.
I want the Congresscritters to live through a year of THAT before they vote on programs for the poor.
let me just give you a quick run down of all the things wrong with this ask:
1-you assume i care what some asshole anon has to say when i have 300 pounds and i’m going kikass birthday shopping today
2-you assume id care about some asshole anon any other day of the year
3-i care about the 50 shades of grey thing. and whether you do or not is irrelevant to me because you are, after all, just an asshole anon
4- this is my blog and i’ll post whatever the fuck i want, if you cant take three fucking posts about something without turning into a soggy cum stained dishrag then i suggest you make use of that unfollow button because youre gross
5- lemme break this down for you
if you dont care about this 50 shades situation, you need to grow the fuck up and look at the facts
the fact is the book was so misinformed that all the practises about bdsm culture were ignored and shit all over.
he ignores the safeword
he legitimately rapes her
he never explains everything about bdsm culture to her, shes so misinformed its ridiculous
and all of this is going even more public than it already has and its being romanticised and released on valentines day
like “happy valentines honey! i bought some ropes i dont actually know how to tie and a whip i dont actually know how to use and i’m going to just gloss over the fact you’re uncomfortable because that clearly doesnt matter!”
incorrect use of a whip can cause organ failure
incorrect knots used on wrists or feet can literally cause them to need to be amputated
its perpetuating rape culture in ways ive never seen it be advanced to this leve; and if you dont care then youre truly disgusting
you dont care about the kids not fully understanding their sexuality being abused by older people who they think are totally allowed to do this shit?
you dont care about the people that will be raped because of this because hey apparently rape is sexy?
you dont care about the fact that the bdsm culture is, once again, being portrayed as people who are fucked up and must have been abused to be that way rather than normal people who enjoy a kink in their own homes?
you dont care about the fact that youre not supposed to bleed on your first time. ever. and now tons more girls are going to think that its completely normal? that tons more guys will? that tons of people are going to think its expected for the female to bleed when SHE WONT IF SHES BEEN SUFFICIENTLY TURNED ON AND STRETCHED ITS REALLY NOT THAT HARD
you dont care about the stereotype of subs not actually enjoying bdsm culture is being widespread? that all subs dislike it and simply have an ulterior motive?
you dont care about the underlying message of the book being “a woman should give everything, including herself, to a man”?
you dont care about all the people in abusive relationships that will think “oh well this must be normal then” and stay there?
christian grey is a run-of-the-mill abusive boyfriend. he isnt a dom.
a dom loves his/her sub completely and the motto of bdsm is "safe, willing and sane" (or something like that anyone feel free to correct me)
it means that both partners have to be completely willing, with boundaries, safewords and everything worked out before they even think about touching eachother intimately.
if something is a boundary, you dont fucking do it
if the safeword is used it stops. everything stops
a dom should treat his sub like a goddamn princess (unless they have prearranged and understand that he wont eg-pet play, slave play where anything outside of the bedroom is also in the same dynamic HOWEVER IT IS STILL CONSENSUAL SO IT IS STILL OKAY)
a dom is not christian grey
but millions of people are going to think he is and are going to think that thats the way bdsm should be and they’ll get involved in something very dangerous if they dont have the real facts.
that people will think its romantic because this shit is scheduled for valentines day to treat your partner like shit, abuse her, and that what? getting them off absorbs you of all your shit? no. this is so fucking gross and im not taking a backseat when this shit happens
so in conclusion
literally fuck you, you insensitive fuck stain, this issue is so fucking important.
I was wearing this outfit today to a grocery store when I made a baby smile. I was wearing this outfit today when I threw my head back and laughed, when I sang in the car with my family, when I filled it with yummy food to keep it healthy.
I was wearing this outfit today to a grocery store when I overheard a woman telling her young daughter who was pointing and laughing that I would get what’s coming to me. I was wearing this outfit today when a woman told a man that it was the wrong kind of attention and that I was asking for someone to get me. I was wearing this outfit today when the same man stared at my body longingly and then agreed with the woman that I was asking for an attack.
I was not wearing this outfit when I was raped. I was wearing a size XXL hoodie and a pair of my mom’s sweatpants, much to the shock of the friend I told after, who asked what she’d been taught to ask: “What were you wearing?”. I feel so terrible for the little girl whose mother was teaching her at the grocery store that she deserved to be assaulted if she dressed comfortably for the weather, which was climbing above 80 degrees, or for an injury, which called for a brace and a boot that doesn’t allow room for long pants, or for her body, because it’s hers and she can put on it what she damn well pleases. I feel terrible for the man who will look me up and down as though I was a 5 for $20 steak deal he might purchase and will immediately after speak to a presumable stranger about the violent fate I deserved. I feel terrible for the woman with fabulous hair who feels she can express herself but refuses to let me do the same.
Summer is coming up. It’s hot outside. I have an injured ankle, and a tight boot and brace to wear on one leg. I will not dress uncomfortably to protect complete strangers who are so offended by an expanse of skin that they console themselves by predicting my next rape.
Stop perpetuating slut-shaming and thus perpetuating a culture of excused rape. Stop perpetuating slut-shaming and thus perpetuating a culture of insecurity, inherent shame, and body image distortion which can cause an innumerable amount of incredibly dark issues nearly impossible to overcome.
My body is mine, and I love it. It is the house I live in, with which I will someday create a family, with which I run and dance and hold the strong lungs I use to sing. I refuse to be ashamed of it for any reason, especially the reason being that this culture which glorifies sex and punishes those who have it, which encourages being sexy and then preaches that sexy girls ask for attack, has taught its people that my stomach is a sin.
Please think twice this summer before you choose to say anything at all to or about anyone who wears something they choose to wear. Please think twice before you say that a girl deserves to be raped for wearing shorts. Please try and catch yourself when you think things like that. Please be courteous and gentle and loving, and spend your effort tackling real problems. My stomach and legs are not a real problem.
This. Spread this like wild fire.