Doris Lessing reading from her 1971 article, "An Ancient Way to New Freedom".
To Nobel-winner writer Doris Lessing, Sufi philosophy is a path which opens the individual to a new way of looking at things... "For her, the Sufi evolutionary methods provide the means that could help people transcend their limited cognitive capacity as a key to a fuller understanding of reality..." (http://www.p-papers.com/25293.html)
Hanna Rosin argues that the revolution feminists have been waiting for is happening now, before our very eyes.
And to whom do we owe this astonishing revolution? If there is a hero in Rosin’s story, it is not women or men or progressive politics: it is the new service economy, which doesn’t care about physical strength but instead apparently favors “social intelligence, open communication, the ability to sit still and focus” — things that “are, at a minimum, not predominantly the province of men” and “seem to come easily to women.” And so, “for the first time in history, the global economy is becoming a place where women are finding more success than men.”...
Cheryl Strayed is the author of one of the most amazing advice columns you can find in the internet.
No kidding. She writes some serious shit.
In fact, her motto couldn't be more specific about writing one's guts down fearlessly: "write like a motherfucker"...
This is what the Blogger of "The Awl" wrote about her column a few months ago:
"Last year, an anonymous writer took over the advice column Dear Sugar at The Rumpus. Soon, she’ll go public with her identity. Like many others, I’ve become obsessed with her advice. Her column isn’t about etiquette. Sugar writes about being jealous of other writers. She advises people to leave secure relationships because they just know they’re not happy. She tells about how she made it through the “thicket of shit” in her twenties. She writes about the absolute horror of grief. And it’s not about sex, either. Sugar is soooo over the idea that sex is the only way to connect emotionally or be fulfilled."
I wish I could... write like a motherfucker.
Possibly, one day I'll take all my fragilie courage together and follow her advice.
Meanwhile I just keep reading her on, and on, and on...
"Is it okay if I totally trash your office?" It's a question Elyn Saks once asked her doctor, and it wasn't a joke. A legal scholar, in 2007 Saks came forward with her own story of schizophrenia, controlled by drugs and therapy but ever-present.
Meryl Streep speaks at Barnard College, Columbia University Commencement 2010. Running transcript of speech included.
An American actress who has worked in theater, television, and film, Streep has received 16 Academy Award nominations and 15 Golden Globe nominations. She won two Oscars and seven Golden Globes. She made her first appearance in a play called The Playboy of Seville in 1971, and since then, she has been known for her roles in The Devil Wears Prada (2006), Mamma Mia (2007), Doubt (2008) and more recently Julie & Julia and Its Complicated in 2009.
rise up against me like the sea of troubles Shakespeare mixed with metaphors; like Vikings in their boats singing Wagner, like witches burning at the stake-- I submit to my fate.
I know beginnings their sweetnesses, and endings, their bitternesses-- but I do not know continuance-- I do not know the sweet demi-boredom of life as it lingers, of man and wife regarding each other across a table of shared witnesses, of the hand-in-hand dreams of those who have slept a half-century together in a bed so used and familiar it is rutted with love.
I would know that before this life closes, a soulmate to share my roses-- I would make a spell with long grey beard hairs and powdered rosemary and rue, with the jacket of a tux for a tall man with broad shoulders, who loves to dance; with one blue contact lens for his bluest eyes; with honey in a jar for his love of me; with salt in a dish for his love of sex and skin; with crused rose petals for our bed; with tubes of cerulean blue and vermilion and rose madder for his artist's-eye; with a dented Land-Rover fender for his love of travel; with a poem by Blake for his love of innocence revealed by experience; with soft rain and a bare head; with hand-in-hand dreams on Mondays and the land of fuck on Sundays; with mangoes, papayas and limes, and a house towering above the sea.
Muse, I surrender to thee. Thy will be done, not mine.
If this love spell pleases you, send me this lover, this husband, this dancing partner for my empty bed and let him fill me from now until I die.
I offer my bones, my poems, my luck with roses, and the secret garden I have found walled in my center, and the sunflower who raises her head despite her heavy seeds.
I am ready now, Muse, to serve you faithfully even with a graceful dancing partner-- for I have learned to stand alone.
Give me your blessing. Let the next epithalamion I write be my own. And let it last more than the years of my life-- and without the least strain-- two lovers bareheaded in a summer rain.