opalsoracle - Tumblr blog

[opalsoracle]

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry written c. September 1918 featured in The Diary of Virginia Woolf: vol. I (1915-1919)

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love is a religious experience, just like going to church as a child i crawl on hands and knees as i beg a benevolent god to love me, mirroring the fervent prayers of a believer.

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i like that nobody rlly knows anything about me . i rlly am just a ghost girl on the internet

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i need to stand ankle deep in a creek about this

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not flirting with anyone anymore pull me toward you by my red string of fate or fuck off

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― Joan Didion, Blue Nights

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Élisa Drojat (France, born 1828), Woman with Bouquet of Flowers

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Ferdinand von Reznicek - Polterabend (1908)

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LITERATURE STUDENT MOODBOARD

“We were always surrounded by books and words and poetry, all the fierce passions of the world bound in leather and vellum.”

- M. L. Rio, “If We Were Villains”

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‘Sappho Comes!’ Jazz : a Flippant Magazine, January 15,1925

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"Yes, it's true: I was the type of young femme who managed the girls basketball team in high school, just to be able to take in the sight of all those butches parading their muscles up and down the court. I found Girl Scout camp to be femme heaven and reveled in being able to explore my athletic self and still maintain my femmeness. And, to my horror, I have to admit pushing Tina away from my breasts in the back seat of a Buick while attending Mount Saint Mary Seminary. And then there was feminism... Although I came out as a "gay" woman before reading The Feminine Mystique, the seventies brand of white feminism had me trimming my nails and cutting off my hair. Soon I was outfitted in farmer jeans and high tops. And still I was told by my "sisters" that I didn't "look like a dyke" (read: I didn't look butch). I began to lead two lives- one as an outrageous, skirted, lipsticked femme while I worked in and traveled with carnivals, and another as an imitation butch back home in the women's community. Eventually, I pulled the pieces of my being back together and proclaimed boldly, "I am a working-class lesbian femme." So I had maybe six years reveling in unleashing my seductive femme self when, as lives go, mine changed: slowly at first and then more dramatically. Recurring back pain and limited range of mobility were finally diagnosed. Soon after came decreased mobility. No more mountain climbing. No long mall walks in search of the perfect piece of sleaze. No more standing against kitchen walls being gloriously fucked by some handsome butch. I stopped using alcohol and drugs, became ill with what is now known as CFIDS (Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome), and began to use a three-wheeled power chair. The more disabled I became, the more I mourned the ways my sexual femme self had manifested through the nondisabled me: cruising at the local lezzie bar, picking up a dyke whose eyes refuse to stray from mine, dancing seductively, moving all of me for all of her. Cooking: love and suggestion neatly tucked into the folds of a broccoli quiche. Serving my date in varying, sleazy clothing, removing layers as the meal and our passion progressed. And making love... feeling only pleasure as my hips rose and fell under the weight of her. Accomplishment and pride smirked across my face as her wrists finally submitted to the pressure of strong persistent hands. There are the ways I knew to be femme, to be the essence of me.

It's been five years now since I began using my wheelchair. I am just awakening to a new reclamation of femme. Yes. I still grieve the way I was, am still often unsure how this femme with disabilities will act out her seduction scenes. I still marvel when women find passion amidst the chrome and rubber that is now a part of me.

There have been numerous dates, lovers, relationships, sexual partners, and fliterations along the way. Cindy, Jenny, Ellie, Emma, Diane, Dorothy, Gail, June, Clove, Lenny, Cherry, Diana, Sarah I, and Sarah II. You have all reminded me in your own subtle or overt, quit or wild ways that I am desirable, passionate, exciting, wanted.

Yes I am an incredibly sexual being. An outrageous, loud mouthed femme who's learning to dress, dance, cook, and seduce on wheels; finding new ways to be gloriously fucked by handsome butches and aggressive femmes. I hang out with more sexual outlaws now- you know, the motorcycle lesbians who see wheels and chrome between your legs as something exciting, the leather women whose vision of passion and sexuality doesn't exclude fat, disabled me.

Ableism tells us that lesbians with disability are asexual. (When was the last time you dated a dyke who uses a wheelchair?) Fat oppression insists that thin is in and round is repulsive. At times, these voices become very loud, and my femme, she hid quietly amidts the lists.

Now my femme is rising again. The time of doubt, fear, and retreat has passed. I have found my way out of the lies and oppression and have moved into a space of loving and honoring the new femme who has emerged. This lesbian femme with disabilities is wise, wild, wet, and wanting. Watch out.

-"Reclaiming femme... Yet again" Mary Francis Platt, The Persistent Desire (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

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cottagecore kitchens <3

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'Dancing Fairies' By: August Malmström (1866)

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Leslie Feinberg, Stone Butch Blues

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This could be us.

But you only look at him.

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things i would like to do with my girlfriend (if I ever find one)

-falling asleep together while cuddling

-pressing our foreheads together

-waking up while my gf is still asleep and surprising her with pancakes

-lying on the grass together and looking into each other's eyes or at the clouds

-having picnics together

-reading together in bed before sleep

-my gf doing my makeup (bc I suck at it)

-watching She-Ra together under a shared blanket

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aquietwild & thesongoftheswan