Persuasion!

I can’t remember where I found this article… Its also persuasive. I found myself want to try the learning the technique of persuasion

Persuasion

I was in a store last week and a man came to me trying to advertise a new Green Tea. He said excuse, i turned
and he said “do you live around here”?
The next on my mind was who is this Man and why the question. I had to respond politely giving him a different description *just for safety* then guffed and moved to the other end of the store in avoidance of futher question.

Now i came across an article of Carolyn O’Hara and i noticed that
If you want to convince someone to support your project, or explain to an employee how he might improve, or inspire a team that’s struggling, you need to tell a persuasive, compelling story.

This made me believe that persuation is beyond just giving exact detail.
Have somebody ever looked at you for a steady time and you start feeling uncomfortable? If your answer is yes then it means the person was trying to study your outward response.
You see that’s a way to achieving passuation from what i discovered

To persuade this question must be asked
Who is My audience and what is the message i want to share
2
In the part two series of this read we will go further to ask and possibly answer a few questions about persuation.

But before then what do you think- Is persuasion Art or Science?.

Make-up and the woman

The Mystery Behind Make-up and the Indian woman
An Indian woman is turn heads even without make –up but when i dug into the mystery bag of an Indian writer i found out 
“Make-Up and the Indian woman”
Make-up is an  art practiced by the Indian artists. But there’s something about the Indian make-up i came across. I decided to share.

image

My Complicated Relationship With Makeup As An Indian Woman

ONE IN VERMILION

image

BY DIPSIKHA THAKUR

When I was young, the top of the fridge was a place of grownup mysteries. It functioned as the keeper of bills, receipts, and—most fascinating to me—my mother’s makeup tray, which held talcum powder, a small bottle of Lacto Calamine, and an even smaller silver box. Every morning, my mum would apply a few dabs of Lacto Calamine to her face and smooth it out with her fingers; she did the same for me right after. But I did not get the careful speck of pure, glistening blood-red powder from the silver box that she smeared on the parting of her hair. That powder—known as sindoor, kumkum, or vermilion—was as mysterious and inviting to me as the cotton pads that occasionally peeked out of the “forbidden” box beside our family’s shared bed.

It wasn’t the sindoor itself that captivated me. Once, when my mother was napping, I pinched some between my fingers and found it to be dry and sticky and hard to get off. I promptly lost interest in the substance itself. But oh, the matter-of-fact regularity of it. Every day of the year, if she showered, the speck was there. Even on days when her bad health and worse marriage broke her, she would stagger out of bed after my father went to work, and then there it would be: the little streak that marked her.

A cursory Google search will tell you that sindoor is made out of herbal ingredients, although the cheaper kinds may contain toxic mercury oxide, and that “Hindu women” wear it “to reveal their marital state.” But it won’t express what sindoor meant to me, and to my mother: a tradition, an inevitability, a ritual, an oppressive “privilege” that women weren’t really allowed to reject. Inside that little box on the makeup tray was the essence of femininity.

“Inside that little box on the makeup tray was the essence of femininity.”_

The daily ritual of Lacto Calamine, Pond’s powder, and sindoor was my introduction to makeup—makeup as obeisance, as conjugal duty, and as habit. Google is correct: Traditionally only married women were allowed to wear sindoor, though it would be more accurate to say that married women weren’t really allowed notto wear it. By the time I was growing up—late nineties and early ‘00s—things were getting slightly better for women in the cities; they were increasingly taking up jobs and wearing things other than the saree after marriage. Some even had non-arranged love marriages that were still deemed respectable. But there was still an expectation that a dutiful wife would wear sindoor—even if, like my mother, she started to experience hair loss from the mercury oxide. After a medical checkup, my mother briefly stopped using sindoor for the sake of her health, but she couldn’t abide the nasty remarks from her in-laws. Eventually she upgraded to more expensive herbal sindoor.

By this point, I was about 15, and had decided I would never wear sindoor or use the dreaded Lacto Calamine. In fact, I didn’t want to wear anything I thought of as “makeup.” Makeup, as in eyeliners, lipstick, and foundation, was to my mind loud and gaudy. I refused to be gaudy. I wore white, cream, and pastels, and instead of makeup I only cleaned and softened my skin (obsessively, in hindsight). I went for the big guns: the smooth, clean bottle of Nivea body lotion, the Dove shampoo-conditioner set, the Palmolive bodywash. Around this time, I was also increasingly seeing myself as desexualized being: one capable of romantic love but very detached from the body. I would never be married, never wear sindoor, never paint my face or hairline the way a woman “should.” I felt superior and righteous. (That I was using mass-produced, imported brands with dodgy body politics to do so was an irony that would not bite me for many years.)

But if I had bothered to look into the tradition a little further, I would have realized it wasn’t that simple. Sindoor was both makeup and not. My teenage skincare regimen was not makeup, but it also was. And more importantly, makeup—and femininity, and beauty—weren’t inextricably connected with marriage, obedience, or oppression. Makeup doesn’t need to focus on a romantic or social other. It can be, above all, about reveling in one’s own attractiveness.

“Makeup can be above all about reveling in one’s own attractiveness.”_

Classical texts in India often mention a concept called ‘śṛṅgāra’ (pronounced shringaar). It has endured in contemporary language as a concept that embodies the spectrum between self-care and elaborate, physical preparation for love. Whatever else it may be, shringaar is not duty, and so I imagine the way my mother (and many others) wear their sindoor does not belong anywhere in this particular tradition. But then, essence and ritualized practice are not the same. Some traditional Indian weddings will have a “solah shringaar” routine (“solah” means “sixteen”), which prescribes everything from the pre-wedding bath and turmeric-sandalwood scrub to the last piece of jewelry that the bride should be wearing. With the help of Prof. Arjun Chaudhari, a scholar of classical South Asian texts, I managed to trace the word back to the 2ndcentury Sanskrit treatise of dramatic arts called Natyashastra, where shringaar is seen as an alchemy that morphs desire/erotic love into a visually presentable state of pleasure (in this context, for the stage).

And its manifestations? Well, here is one: “Whatever in this world is white, pure, bright and beautiful is appreciated in terms of [shringaar].” For the author of Natyashastra, shringaar can be about “the pleasures of the season, the enjoyment of garlands, unguents, ornaments, company of) beloved persons, objects [of senses], splendid mansions, going to a garden, and enjoying [oneself] there, seeing the [beloved one], hearing [his or her words], playing and dallying [with him or her].” That is no doubt a far cry about the idea of “makeup” as we know it today. But even makeup as we practice it—palettes of colors and lines; shaping of brows, eyes and lips—is seldom a simple affair. And if we begin to define it less by what we use and more by the motives and intents, certain themes emerge: not only the (real or imaginary) beloved, but also self-care, taking ownership over one’s appearance, reveling in the physical. In other words, empowerment.

Of course, it would be too easy to say “makeup is self-care, makeup is empowerment” and leave it there. For one thing, using makeup may make me feel good, but it involves consuming from a heavily capitalist industry with frequently horrifying laborpractices. For another, embracing makeup uncritically is as oversimplified and selfish as rejecting it uncritically. I suffer from chronic depression, and on some days, buying a mascara or putting kohl under my eyes will make me feel well enough to step out of the house. It almost always helps me feel more confident, happier about my appearance and secure. But the happiness I get from this is as insulated and self-enclosed as the happiness I used to get from wearing light colors and no makeup as a teenager. The sense of being superior to others is less pronounced now, but it is there. And I am not okay with it—especially because most of the changes I instinctively make upon myself involve looking paler, younger, and more feminine. As a young, brown woman, I am forced to ask myself if this is resistance to an illness that tells me I don’t deserve self-care, or if this is a feel-good mimicry of an oppressive aesthetic that I am prepared to put up with for the sake of my mental health.

“As a young, brown woman, I am forced to ask myself if I am mimicking an oppressive aesthetic.”_

The idea of makeup as empowerment bothers me even more, for related but slightly different reasons. Unless one uses makeup in radical, often decidedly unpopular ways—like FKA Twigs, Amanda Palmer (oh those punk tattooed eyebrows and bright blocks of eyeshadow!),or makeup artist Sapna Moti Bhavnani—the empowerment of cosmetics involves reinforcing existing beauty standards. It also means ignoring the fact that those beauty standards tend to lift women up only at one another’s expense—a desire to be “fairest of them all,” which often means hostility and judgment towards the less-fair. And given how the word “empowerment” itself is being stripped of all meaning, I feel wary using it as a shelter to feel better about my choices.

So I am still wary of makeup, especially when women like my mother (and many others across South Asia and the South Asian diaspora) are still forced to wear cosmetics like sindoor as markers of marriage. Today it is easier to see wearing sindoor as a feminist choice, because its signification has become more fluid. People are less likely to assume I’m married because of a red dot on my hair parting, and if I do choose to marry, my privileged position ensures that whether I wear sindoor or not will almost certainly be a choice. But much of traditional makeup, including the finger and toe reddener called “alta” (rose bengal)—and its North Indian equivalent, mehendi—come with a history of frequently violent subjugation of women. Even today, they point towards a coding of normative feminine representation that I don’t want to participate in.

But I do wear kajal, or kohl. I am still trying to figure out why kohl feels like less of a problematic choice to me than most other makeup. Part of it involves the fact that I use kohl-sticks from local brands, avoiding some of the capitalist baggage. Kohl is mostly charcoal-based, and uses little that cannot be sourced from a garden and made at home with a bit of oil. It is also an aesthetic preference: The way I use it (very dark, smudged lining) makes me look older and slightly more assertive than I normally do. In a world where erotic capital is firmly oriented towards the appearance of youth and floaty delicacy, the harsh “panda eyes” feel more like a willful complication than a capitulation.

“My kohl, my mother’s sindoor, and Amanda Palmer’s eyebrows are part of one complicated whole.”_

And finally, having one go-to cosmetic is easier on my brain. If wearing makeup is going to be part of my self-care, it has to be sustainable even when I am besieged with mental health troubles, money concerns, and the exhaustion of being (partially) woke. I don’t always have the energy to negotiate the tightrope of balance between affordability, feeling happy with my own appearance, and not accidentally benefitting from the oppression of others that would be necessary for me to evaluate every aspect of a made-up face. It helps to cling to something I can wear as a brown feminist woman without constantly questioning myself.

I hope we can eventually move beyond the shallow duality of “feminists don’t wear makeup!” vs. “makeup is empowerment!”—past the simplified caricatures of my white-clad teen self and the imaginary painted lady I rejected. If we could, I would find a lot easier to understand my kajal, and my mother’s sindoor, and Amanda Palmer’s eyebrows, as part of one complicated whole: sometimes as tools for making oneself palatable to others, but ultimately as attempts to revel in the self. As shringaar.

***

Lead image: flickr/Prati Photography

 

Looking for the comments section? We don’t have one.
Continue the conversation on Facebook and Twitter.

DIPSIKHA THAKUR

Dipsikha Thakur is a journalist based in Delhi. She spends most of her time being horrified by politics and the rest of it ignoring it with the help of feminist theory, stray animals, and black coffee.

How To Look Like Professor Willow From Pokemon Go!

JENNIFER CULP

Put on a respectable coat of foundation, this guy CLEARLY has flawless skin.

MAKE YOUR FACE

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LISA MARTINOVIC

Neuroscience offers a complementary approach to 12-step programs.

FEATURE

My Three Days In A Relapse

CHRISTOPHER M. JONES

Falling off the wagon is more mundane and absurd than many people realize.

Pls Share your views
     …Will share more soon
Thanks

MCFS

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The Mystery Behind Make-up and the Indian woman

Because i dug into the mystery bag of an Indian writer i found
“Make-Up and the Indian woman”
Make-up is an  art practiced by the Indian artists. But there’s something about the Indian make-up i came across. I decided to share.

image

My Complicated Relationship With Makeup As An Indian Woman

ONE IN VERMILION

image

BY DIPSIKHA THAKUR

When I was young, the top of the fridge was a place of grownup mysteries. It functioned as the keeper of bills, receipts, and—most fascinating to me—my mother’s makeup tray, which held talcum powder, a small bottle of Lacto Calamine, and an even smaller silver box. Every morning, my mum would apply a few dabs of Lacto Calamine to her face and smooth it out with her fingers; she did the same for me right after. But I did not get the careful speck of pure, glistening blood-red powder from the silver box that she smeared on the parting of her hair. That powder—known as sindoor, kumkum, or vermilion—was as mysterious and inviting to me as the cotton pads that occasionally peeked out of the “forbidden” box beside our family’s shared bed.

It wasn’t the sindoor itself that captivated me. Once, when my mother was napping, I pinched some between my fingers and found it to be dry and sticky and hard to get off. I promptly lost interest in the substance itself. But oh, the matter-of-fact regularity of it. Every day of the year, if she showered, the speck was there. Even on days when her bad health and worse marriage broke her, she would stagger out of bed after my father went to work, and then there it would be: the little streak that marked her.

A cursory Google search will tell you that sindoor is made out of herbal ingredients, although the cheaper kinds may contain toxic mercury oxide, and that “Hindu women” wear it “to reveal their marital state.” But it won’t express what sindoor meant to me, and to my mother: a tradition, an inevitability, a ritual, an oppressive “privilege” that women weren’t really allowed to reject. Inside that little box on the makeup tray was the essence of femininity.

“Inside that little box on the makeup tray was the essence of femininity.”_

The daily ritual of Lacto Calamine, Pond’s powder, and sindoor was my introduction to makeup—makeup as obeisance, as conjugal duty, and as habit. Google is correct: Traditionally only married women were allowed to wear sindoor, though it would be more accurate to say that married women weren’t really allowed notto wear it. By the time I was growing up—late nineties and early ‘00s—things were getting slightly better for women in the cities; they were increasingly taking up jobs and wearing things other than the saree after marriage. Some even had non-arranged love marriages that were still deemed respectable. But there was still an expectation that a dutiful wife would wear sindoor—even if, like my mother, she started to experience hair loss from the mercury oxide. After a medical checkup, my mother briefly stopped using sindoor for the sake of her health, but she couldn’t abide the nasty remarks from her in-laws. Eventually she upgraded to more expensive herbal sindoor.

By this point, I was about 15, and had decided I would never wear sindoor or use the dreaded Lacto Calamine. In fact, I didn’t want to wear anything I thought of as “makeup.” Makeup, as in eyeliners, lipstick, and foundation, was to my mind loud and gaudy. I refused to be gaudy. I wore white, cream, and pastels, and instead of makeup I only cleaned and softened my skin (obsessively, in hindsight). I went for the big guns: the smooth, clean bottle of Nivea body lotion, the Dove shampoo-conditioner set, the Palmolive bodywash. Around this time, I was also increasingly seeing myself as desexualized being: one capable of romantic love but very detached from the body. I would never be married, never wear sindoor, never paint my face or hairline the way a woman “should.” I felt superior and righteous. (That I was using mass-produced, imported brands with dodgy body politics to do so was an irony that would not bite me for many years.)

But if I had bothered to look into the tradition a little further, I would have realized it wasn’t that simple. Sindoor was both makeup and not. My teenage skincare regimen was not makeup, but it also was. And more importantly, makeup—and femininity, and beauty—weren’t inextricably connected with marriage, obedience, or oppression. Makeup doesn’t need to focus on a romantic or social other. It can be, above all, about reveling in one’s own attractiveness.

“Makeup can be above all about reveling in one’s own attractiveness.”_

Classical texts in India often mention a concept called ‘śṛṅgāra’ (pronounced shringaar). It has endured in contemporary language as a concept that embodies the spectrum between self-care and elaborate, physical preparation for love. Whatever else it may be, shringaar is not duty, and so I imagine the way my mother (and many others) wear their sindoor does not belong anywhere in this particular tradition. But then, essence and ritualized practice are not the same. Some traditional Indian weddings will have a “solah shringaar” routine (“solah” means “sixteen”), which prescribes everything from the pre-wedding bath and turmeric-sandalwood scrub to the last piece of jewelry that the bride should be wearing. With the help of Prof. Arjun Chaudhari, a scholar of classical South Asian texts, I managed to trace the word back to the 2ndcentury Sanskrit treatise of dramatic arts called Natyashastra, where shringaar is seen as an alchemy that morphs desire/erotic love into a visually presentable state of pleasure (in this context, for the stage).

And its manifestations? Well, here is one: “Whatever in this world is white, pure, bright and beautiful is appreciated in terms of [shringaar].” For the author of Natyashastra, shringaar can be about “the pleasures of the season, the enjoyment of garlands, unguents, ornaments, company of) beloved persons, objects [of senses], splendid mansions, going to a garden, and enjoying [oneself] there, seeing the [beloved one], hearing [his or her words], playing and dallying [with him or her].” That is no doubt a far cry about the idea of “makeup” as we know it today. But even makeup as we practice it—palettes of colors and lines; shaping of brows, eyes and lips—is seldom a simple affair. And if we begin to define it less by what we use and more by the motives and intents, certain themes emerge: not only the (real or imaginary) beloved, but also self-care, taking ownership over one’s appearance, reveling in the physical. In other words, empowerment.

Of course, it would be too easy to say “makeup is self-care, makeup is empowerment” and leave it there. For one thing, using makeup may make me feel good, but it involves consuming from a heavily capitalist industry with frequently horrifying laborpractices. For another, embracing makeup uncritically is as oversimplified and selfish as rejecting it uncritically. I suffer from chronic depression, and on some days, buying a mascara or putting kohl under my eyes will make me feel well enough to step out of the house. It almost always helps me feel more confident, happier about my appearance and secure. But the happiness I get from this is as insulated and self-enclosed as the happiness I used to get from wearing light colors and no makeup as a teenager. The sense of being superior to others is less pronounced now, but it is there. And I am not okay with it—especially because most of the changes I instinctively make upon myself involve looking paler, younger, and more feminine. As a young, brown woman, I am forced to ask myself if this is resistance to an illness that tells me I don’t deserve self-care, or if this is a feel-good mimicry of an oppressive aesthetic that I am prepared to put up with for the sake of my mental health.

“As a young, brown woman, I am forced to ask myself if I am mimicking an oppressive aesthetic.”_

The idea of makeup as empowerment bothers me even more, for related but slightly different reasons. Unless one uses makeup in radical, often decidedly unpopular ways—like FKA Twigs, Amanda Palmer (oh those punk tattooed eyebrows and bright blocks of eyeshadow!),or makeup artist Sapna Moti Bhavnani—the empowerment of cosmetics involves reinforcing existing beauty standards. It also means ignoring the fact that those beauty standards tend to lift women up only at one another’s expense—a desire to be “fairest of them all,” which often means hostility and judgment towards the less-fair. And given how the word “empowerment” itself is being stripped of all meaning, I feel wary using it as a shelter to feel better about my choices.

So I am still wary of makeup, especially when women like my mother (and many others across South Asia and the South Asian diaspora) are still forced to wear cosmetics like sindoor as markers of marriage. Today it is easier to see wearing sindoor as a feminist choice, because its signification has become more fluid. People are less likely to assume I’m married because of a red dot on my hair parting, and if I do choose to marry, my privileged position ensures that whether I wear sindoor or not will almost certainly be a choice. But much of traditional makeup, including the finger and toe reddener called “alta” (rose bengal)—and its North Indian equivalent, mehendi—come with a history of frequently violent subjugation of women. Even today, they point towards a coding of normative feminine representation that I don’t want to participate in.

But I do wear kajal, or kohl. I am still trying to figure out why kohl feels like less of a problematic choice to me than most other makeup. Part of it involves the fact that I use kohl-sticks from local brands, avoiding some of the capitalist baggage. Kohl is mostly charcoal-based, and uses little that cannot be sourced from a garden and made at home with a bit of oil. It is also an aesthetic preference: The way I use it (very dark, smudged lining) makes me look older and slightly more assertive than I normally do. In a world where erotic capital is firmly oriented towards the appearance of youth and floaty delicacy, the harsh “panda eyes” feel more like a willful complication than a capitulation.

“My kohl, my mother’s sindoor, and Amanda Palmer’s eyebrows are part of one complicated whole.”_

And finally, having one go-to cosmetic is easier on my brain. If wearing makeup is going to be part of my self-care, it has to be sustainable even when I am besieged with mental health troubles, money concerns, and the exhaustion of being (partially) woke. I don’t always have the energy to negotiate the tightrope of balance between affordability, feeling happy with my own appearance, and not accidentally benefitting from the oppression of others that would be necessary for me to evaluate every aspect of a made-up face. It helps to cling to something I can wear as a brown feminist woman without constantly questioning myself.

I hope we can eventually move beyond the shallow duality of “feminists don’t wear makeup!” vs. “makeup is empowerment!”—past the simplified caricatures of my white-clad teen self and the imaginary painted lady I rejected. If we could, I would find a lot easier to understand my kajal, and my mother’s sindoor, and Amanda Palmer’s eyebrows, as part of one complicated whole: sometimes as tools for making oneself palatable to others, but ultimately as attempts to revel in the self. As shringaar.

***

Lead image: flickr/Prati Photography

 

Looking for the comments section? We don’t have one.
Continue the conversation on Facebook and Twitter.

DIPSIKHA THAKUR

Dipsikha Thakur is a journalist based in Delhi. She spends most of her time being horrified by politics and the rest of it ignoring it with the help of feminist theory, stray animals, and black coffee.

How To Look Like Professor Willow From Pokemon Go!

JENNIFER CULP

Put on a respectable coat of foundation, this guy CLEARLY has flawless skin.

MAKE YOUR FACE

What Gets You Sober—God Or Your Neurons?

LISA MARTINOVIC

Neuroscience offers a complementary approach to 12-step programs.

FEATURE

My Three Days In A Relapse

CHRISTOPHER M. JONES

Falling off the wagon is more mundane and absurd than many people realize.

Pls Share your views
     …Will share more soon
Thanks

MCFS

3 AMAZING THINGS KIDS DREW ABOUT NATURE

3 FUNNY PICTURES OF NATURE

Nature is what everyone is closest to yet its myth make everyone seem so detached from it. Lets see how these Kids  own way of perceiving nature in their drawing.

Jessica Mikels-Carrasco, who recently completed her Ph.D. in sociology at the University of Notre Dame, asked a group of kindergarten and elementary-aged children in South Bend, Indiana, to weigh in on the puzzle. “Draw me a picture of nature,” she told them, and this is what they did.

💁💁💁

image

Nature is fun: Marissa, an elementary- school student, drew a picture of a” bird flying,wind, grass, tree with sticks coming out with tire swing and me in it and a sun
       Hahahaha…. Can Nature be this friendly and simple?

image

Nature is a Game:This fourth-grade girl, see’s nature as a hipscotch game on the sidewalk.
            Mhhhn, Come to think of it, is nature not a game, where we have different players in one big field called the “World”? 😂 May be kids aren’t kids afterall. *(smiles)

image

Nature is at the Beach, with Monsters: Mary, a preschool, drew a picture of herself and her family on their usual vacation to the beach. She drew herself playing ball with a friendly monster.
       Hmmmm… Ok Mary.

Gallery images courtesy of Jessica Mikels-Carrasco, who collected and analyzed them as part of her dissertation on the environmental sociology of children
   

Intriguing!

Beyond the surface men divulge in an undercover writing kinda style but its mostly all about women. 💁  Here are the LIST OF THINGS IN LITERATURE, MUSIC AND ARTS THAT ARE METAPHORS FOR WOMEN

Anything maritime me, Really

Pretty much all things ocean-related are metaphors for women. Scavenging seagulls are women. Hidden rocks that ships wreck themselves on are women. Icebergs are women. Sea monsters can be women, but only in specific circumstances. For example, if a sea monster has long tentacles that it uses to clasp ships to its slimy bosom, then it’s definitely a metaphor for women. But if a sea monster resembles a triassic era dinosaur or some kind of shark, it’s probably about men’s potent sexuality or some bullshit.

Speaking of sharks, sharks pretty much always represent men, unless it’s a story about a shark eating its young. Then the shark represents Mommy Issues.

4. The Moon

You might think the moon makes men think of women because of menstruation cycles or whatever, but you’d be wrong. Men use the moon as a metaphor for women because it changes shape and is “inconstant” and always wants the last word in an argument, am I right?

5. Cats

Look, I don’t know who decided that cats are feminine and dogs are masculine, but someone did and that idea has stuck and now we all just have to live with it. Cats are moody and unaffectionate and enjoy hunting small prey, which franklydescribes more men that I know than it does women, but whatever. Cats are metaphors for ladies.

6. Birds

Birds that are metaphors for women:
– swans
– humming birds
– sparrows
– starlings
– anything sleek or pretty or shrill
– owls (but only if the author is describing the owls as spooky or weird)

Birds that are metaphors for men:
– birds of prey
– albatrosses, probably
– pelicans
– owls (but only if the author is describing their intelligence or hunting prowess)

7. Storms

I mean, they used to only ever named hurricanes after women. Because, again, women only exist to destroy everything you love.

8. Mines (Especially Diamond Mines)

Mines are dark and dangerous and liable to fill up with deadly gases at any moment – just like women. The further you go, the more likely they are to suffocate you – just like women. They take the best years of your life and leave you broken and penniless – just like women. Need I say more?

9. Soil

Any time a dude is waxing lyrical about soil or earth, you’d better believe he’s actually talking about a woman. Especially if he describes the soil as either “fertile” or “barren.” “Tilling” and “ploughing” are both euphemisms for sex, obviously. A “bad harvest” is when a woman friendzones or otherwise rejects a man. You’re welcome!

10. Sports Trophies

I don’t know, these probably represent women somehow.

11. Cars and Trucks

Vehicles are tricky, becausesometimes they are stand-ins for a man’s sense of masculinity. But if a guy has a lot of gushy feelings about his pickup, he’s probably actually talking about a woman.

12. Plants

Flowering plants are women. Plants that happen to be deadly in some way are women. Anything with tendrils is a woman. Sorry, I don’t make the rules, that’s just how it is.

13. Food

Fruit is feminine. Any kind of baked good is feminine. Seafood is feminine. Chocolate is feminine.

   By  Anne Thériault for The Belle Jar
       What do you think?

MCFS

Children’s day… Childhood memories

FOR ALL THE LONELY CHILDREN WITH IMAGINARY FRIENDS.
I’m glad to share …this post reveals that Our realities are hatched from the egg of our childhood memories.Remember?

image

I remember being so shy in primary school, right from class one to class eight, being unable to say ‘present sir’ in class and being too intimidated to play with my classmates who ran themselves thin on Mindililwo primary school’s wide fields. I naturally developed affection for our farm livestock as a result, and spent many sunny days stroking and hugging our cows. Still I felt something was amiss. I needed a friend I could talk to and laugh with (I have to confess that the kids at the Mindililwo were so kind and did their best to draw me out of my shell but to no avail).

One day (I think I was in class two or three), I dreamt that a man with purple skin, a long tail, with an egg balancing on his head, came to my room, held my hand and walked me outside, where we played all night long. I named him Promet and he became one of my closest imaginary friends.

I would stand by the school gate at games time every evening, with my bag, as others children frolicked silly all around, waiting for the school bell to ring so that I could go home and be with Promet. Promet always smiled at me as soon as I reached home, making me forget about school and I would run with him to our fruit farm (full of loquat, lemon, lime, orange, peach and plum trees) to pluck fruits. Promet taught me how to climb trees and showed me a secret magic with which we transformed ants to be as large as horses so that we could ride them. With Promet I would run around grass paddocks with a paper bag, catching grasshoppers, butterflies and locusts. Promet taught me not to be afraid of millipedes.

One afternoon, I walked to the fruit farm and called out for Promet (for that is where he lived, next to a lemon tree) and he answered very weakly. I found him lying beside his hole and he told me that he had been bitten by a lizard and was slowly dying. I asked if there was anything I could do and he told me that it was too late, that all I should do was bury him in our millet farm and mark his grave with egg shells. I lifted him and walked to the millet field, scooped the earth with my feet and lay him in the hole, and covered him with earth. Then walked home to get egg shells. I could not find any so I decided to look for some the next day.
That night Promet called me out in a dream, telling me that he was still alive and I should come and dig him out. Like all other children, I was afraid of the dark and promised him to do so the next morning, for that would be a Saturday and I would not go to school.

I walked to the millet field early the next morning but could not trace where I buried Promet. I called out to him but he was silent.

     Kiprop Kimutai

‪#‎ForAllTheLonelyChildrenWithImaginaryFriends‬

MCFS

Intriguing

WELCOME TO THE OVAL OFFICE,    PRESIDENT TRUMP

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Donald O’Keefe muses on Irish Children foreseeing the apocalypse in a Trump presidency 😂😂
“””I had a sandwich and a coffee in the Amber service station in Fermoy a few weeks ago. At the table next to me was a group of children, eating chips and enjoying the lack of adult supervision. Four boys and two girls. I’d say the oldest of them was ten. I paid no heed till I realised that they were discussing politics.”

“Guys!” said a boy who had until this point been throwing ketchup sachets at one of the girls, “Imagine if Donald Trump actually won!”

“Oh my God, Donald Trump is such a racist!” replied the girl.

“If Donald Trump wins it will be The End Of The World,” said the other girl with grim certainty.

“Um,” said a boy who was stacking his chips one on top of the other in a lattice formation, “You know Donald Trump won’t be the actual president of Ireland, ‘cause that’s like President Higgins’ job?”

(From the murmur of approval which greeted this remark, I suspect Michael D would get a warm reception from Fermoy’s under-ten community, should ever he stop into Amber for a feed of chips.)

“If Donald Trump gets to be The President Of America,” said the little girl, keen to return to the apocalypse, “That’s like he’s The President Of The World!”

“Oh my God that would be SO horrible!” said the boy stacking chips. “Donald Trump is like the Worst Person Ever!”

Beside them, I thought, given we have such clued-in children, then at the least the future of this country is in safe hands.

Mind you, they wrapped up their discussion by having a competition to see who could eat the most sugar, so perhaps their political insight should be judged accordingly.

Personally, I don’t know if President Donald Trump will be The End Of The World but I do think there’s a terrifying possibility that not alone will he be the Republican candidate, I think (and the bookies say I’m wrong) there’s a good chance he might well become US president.

I get rocks thrown at me every time I say this, but I think Hillary Rodham Clinton is a godawful candidate. Every time she points at an imaginary person in the audience, I hear a voice saying “Welcome to the Oval Office, President Trump”.

Clinton is the very epitome of the political establishment against which Trump has built his seemingly-unstoppable insurgency campaign. It’s hard to avoid the suspicion —
    Posted BY Danald O Keefe on Discovery Politics

MCFS

Poemspeak!

Eye to Eye

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Look into my eyes
And tell me what you see
You don’t see a damn thing
‘Cause you can’t possibly relate to me

You’re blinded by our differences
My life makes no sense to you
I’m the persecuted Palestinian
You are the American red, white and blue

Each day you wake in tranquility
No fears to cross your eyes
Each day I wake in gratitude
Thanking God He let me rise

You worry about your education
And the bills you have to pay
I worry about my vulnerable life
And if I’ll survive another day

Your biggest fear is getting ticketed
As you cruise your Cadillac
My fear is that the tank that just left
Will turn around and come back

America, do you realize
That the taxes that you pay
Feed the forces that traumatize
My every living day?

The bulldozers and the tanks
The gases and the guns
The bombs that fall outside my door
All due to American funds

Yet do you know the truth
Of where your money goes?
Do you let your media deceive your mind?
Is this a truth that no one knows?

You blame me for defending myself
Against the ways of Zionists
I’m terrorized in my own land
And I’m the terrorist?

You think that you know all about terrorism
But you don’t know it the way I do
So let me define the term for you
And teach you what you thought you knew

I’ve known terrorism for quite some time
Fifty- four years and more
It’s the fruitless garden uprooted in my yard
It’s the bulldozer in front of my door

Terrorism breathes the air I breathe
It’s the checkpoint on my way to school
It’s the curfew that jails me in my own home
And the penalties of breaking that curfew rule

Terrorism is the robbery of my land
And the torture of my mother
The imprisonment of my innocent father
The bullet in my baby brother

So America, don’t tell me you know
About the things I feel and see
I’m terrorized in my own land
And the blame is put on me

But I will not rest, I shall never settle
For the injustice my people endure
Palestine is OUR land and there we’ll remain
Until the day OUR homeland is secure

And if that time shall never come
Then they will never see a day of peace
I will not be thrown from my own home
Nor will fight for justice cease

And if I am killed, it will be for Falasteen
It’s written on my breath
So in your own patriotic words
give me liberty or give me death
                                  

    Poem by a Palestinian Youth              Hassan Mawji

MCFS