In the world of feminism, music videos can tend to get a pretty bad write up: glorified masculinity, highly misogynistic portrayal of women and all emphasized by the patriarchal bullshit soaked lyrics. But equally the music video is becoming one the most creative, beautiful and experimental modern art forms. Not that I need to tell you guys about how pretty music videos can be; the likelihood is that you are a blogger, and therefore by definition super indie and interesting with a music taste to match. Therefore we can celebrate this wondrous art form together, through what will hopefully develop into a little regular thing where I just share my favorite eye candy from the realms of music videos.
Because of peer pressure and blogger's influence and stuff, I've done an outfit post. But the pictures are pretty terrible so, like, erm yeah.
I am finally blogging. After months of begrudged silence, my fingers are finally tapping across the keys talking to people who maybe care a bit more than most of the people I see everyday but in reality still not that much. My show is over, my English coursework is in and my physics ISA is successfully retaken. I'm doing ok in German*. But the foot high pile of books by my bed remains untouched. It's one of the most depressing/exciting sights in the world.
I also got Head Girl! Sort of yay. I never really got the high that you normal get after something like that. It was probably partly because I was feeling disgustingly ill, but it wasn't even that kind of neutrality of an anti-climax, if anything I was just feeling a bit down. Whenever my life has been crazily busy and stressful, when it finally stops and I can have time to bond with sofa, the next day I'll always get into this introverted mood, where my thoughts seem to continuously compete with the external world to be the main part of my consciousness. But this time it was so intense and persistent. And it lasted for days, until I just ended up having a really horrible day on Wednesday.
Despite the fact exams are next month I managed to swindle doing nothing yesterday. It was the end of term so my school had Dong Chen (Sixth Form football competition where the lower school get to goggle at sixth form girls running about in almost nothing**) to raise money for Leukemia research. I'm now wearing my "Can you handle this Dong?" T-shirt. Then I popped down into town with Max and Fleur, the latter of whom we discovered as a phobia of topless men. In the evening it was Fleur's 17th party, which was most enjoyable and teenagery.
*88% IN MY GERMAN MOCK. EIGHTY EIGHT PERCENT. LIKE WHAT.
**Year 12 and 13 choose a theme each along the line of slutty-[insert generic predictable theme here]. We had sports, so Fleur and I rocked the Gothic Lesbian Cheerleader look.
As the first day blood was spilled in open conflict, the 18th of March marks the start of the revolution in Syria.
I am privileged to have had a classmate telling us all this, reading the below poem in assembly and organising a workshop I will be attending this evening on the conflict in which over 150 thousand Syrians lost their lives in the conflict, and left over 2 million refugees, and 4.250,000 IDPs (internally displaced persons), a student from Syria who keeps telling us nobody is a number or photo or advertising piece for the media. Think about that last one –newspapers care about being sold, they decide what they publish based on what we want to read.
I know we can’t really do much ourselves, but at least we can try to learn.
By Muhammad Al-Maghout (1934-2006)
At the third hour of the twentieth century
Where nothing separates the corpses
from pedestrians’ shoes
I will lie down in the middle of the street
like a bedouin sheikh
and will not get up
until all the prison bars and suspects’ files of the world
are gathered and placed before me
so I can chew on them
like a camel on the open road
Until all the batons of the police and protesters
escape from grips
and go back (once again)
budding branches in their forests
In the dark I laugh
I no longer distinguish my pen from my fingers
Whenever someone knocks or a curtain moves
I hide my papers
like a prostitute during a police raid
From whom did I inherit this fear
and this blood
scared like a mountain leopard?
As soon as I see an official paper on the threshold
or a hat through the door
my bones and tears tremble
my blood runs away in all directions
as if an eternal patrol of ancestral police
is chasing it from one vein to another
In vain I try to reclaim my courage and strength
The tragedy is not here
in the whip, the office, or in sirens
It is there
In the cradle. . .
In the womb
Surely I was not tied to the womb with an umbilical cord
It was a hangman’s noose