“we’re MAKING the art and doing the work with the people -
not in an office analyzing it.” lchecks

“I was fucked,” Cat said from her inclined treadmill. Julia, in the middle of sprinting, immediately slowed her pace.

“What?” she asked.

They laughed, both maintaining concentration on the exercise at hand.

“My hair was wet from sweat. We didn’t have sex, I was fucked. I cannot believe he fucked me.”

Julia’s laughs turned to a smile. In her mind, she hoped it was sex. She hoped there was something, a transfer of some sort. A transfer of good. Of admiration. Your presence was so powerful, it needed to be felt, transfer.

“Julia, do you understand what I’m saying here?” Cat laughed.

“Yes and no. I’m always in a rush. When you’re making love, do feel there is enough time?”

“I wasn’t making love.”

“Well my friend, you have all the time in the world.”

I get are: ‘Your campaign gave me courage,’ or ‘I want to go back to school because of your campaign.’ So [my campaign] is unfinished business and young women know it. The vast majority will never run for political office. But they may decide to seek an education or move away for a job that is a bit frightening. All of that is a ripple that is building – and is unstoppable.”
-Hillary Clinton, NYTimes, via BUST

via NYTimes, 1988

For Everyone.
Thank you to Bob Morales and Laura Checkoway.
Thank you for reading and downloading.
Thank you to men.
Thank you to women.
Take. Your. Time.
Tell me how you feel when you’re done.
Download From Jump

animalbehavior y me

From Jump is a collection of short stories about emotion. Tangible and intangible feelings concerning love, pain, sex, fear and trust. My favorite aspect of the writing is how controlled and vulnerable it is. The perspective is focused and it’s written in a way where more than one interpretation is warranted. If you are a fan of words and interpretation, this is a good read.

via Dopart

The heartache lived within her for over ten years. She did the math after her fourth psychiatrist discussed her medical history on an early October morning. She was nine or ten or eleven, and thought, what was so bad then. Thought what was so bad now.

Months went by as she slowly stopped seeing that fourth psychiatrist. On a recruiting assignment with a small temporary agency she worked at, her boss asked her if she had been keeping up with her shrink appointments. She stared at the resumes on the desk in front of her and promised she’d start a new search in the morning.

She spent her days enjoying what she could. A comforting cup of coffee, emails from crazed men, a new foundation she’d pick up to cover up the stress that shown on her face. She enjoyed bookstores with a rare Americana section, giving up her seat on the train to people with crutches, bad songs about good sex, and counting the broken light bulbs on Boston’s Citgo sign. After hours in a café with free wifi, she’d found a psychiatrist, a private practice in Beacon Hill. The doctor accepted her insurance, she’d go in, say she couldn’t wait a month for an initial visit, and make her boss happy.

The day of her forced appointment she wore brown leather boots that she laced to the top, a colorful floral shirt and a black sweater. The receptionist called her name. “The doctor will see you now.”

He opened the door.

She walked behind him.

In his office, he closed the door after she took a seat. She looked up from her boots to his face. He had subtle freckles on his cheeks that you could notice only if you looked hard enough. Like the beauty mark she knew of somewhere on her face. The green of his eyes looked at her. He asked about her morning.

“I actually have to go to work,” she said.

Before he could react she got up and left. Out of the main entrance. And on to the street. Sitting at a café two blocks from the doctor’s office, she created a message to her boss, said she’ll be in late. She wanted to get a manicure or a massage before going in to look at resumes and her boss’ eager disappointed face.

“That was the quickest session I’ve had in years,” the doctor said standing across from her table.

Startled, she closed her laptop and grabbed her purse from the chair he stood behind. He sat down.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“There’s no book in front of me.”

“I read your file last night, said you like to read.”

“Is that how you spend your nights, reading about lost people?”

He slid a cup of coffee, and three packets of sugar next to her laptop. She looked at the coffee. Wanting to say thank you. Black coffee. She needed milk and more sugar. But there was no way her body would allow her to step away from this odd encounter.

“Why did you leave? Is it because I’m good looking?”

Her eyes glowed, and laughter escaped from the depths of her heart.

“Yes. Exactly. You’re too good looking for your profession.” She poured the packets of sugar into the coffee. “Can’t you get in trouble for this?”

“You’re no patient of mine, you left. There’s a bookstore a block from here, let’s take a walk.”

She grabbed her purse and followed him out, the black coffee staying behind.

“How do you think things would have turned out, had you stayed and talked to me?”

“First meetings are always hard. I usually feel fine. So I’m not inclined to talk about what I see, as my horrible life. I would have told you that I walked across a river yesterday, stopped, stared at the water. I cried until my contacts got really dry. I started to rub my eyes. Then I looked at my fingers. They were black from mascara. I reached in my gym bag for makeup remover pads. And though it was dark I could see my little face in my little mirror. I wiped the black away from my face, but left it on my hands. It’s okay for my hands to be dirty. But not my face. Oh, I also would have asked you if you watched the football game last night. There was a fan in the crowd crying. Tears just falling down his face.”

“Was he really crying?”

“No, it was probably just the wind.”

“Let’s go in,” he turned his head to the bookstore.

“I have to get to work. I’ll see you next week. Same time, but your office. There’s a lot of wind out here.”

it was more hope than it was lust. it was more fear than it was hope. there was the idea. there is the idea. that his thoughts and words and images that represent him. are perfect. there could be walks after dark. there could be dancing after hours. there could be smoke. and wine and skin. things bare. there would be fear. he could be just what she thought. a face timeless a smirk telling. but no words. a man amongst men. many men. or more fear. deep fear. a boy amongst boys. the thoughts and words and images give. something. good and perfect. the things that happen with girls and boys. the things that live with women and men. and he’s still perfect

title via johnny killeface