#nina coomes

[misterjt]

Joy Ride brings subtle wisdom to an otherwise bawdy comedy. Audrey’s core need is for belonging and acceptance. Instead of having her find it abroad, the film directs her to look to her friends who stood up for her on the playground or buoyed her through college. The idea of a pilgrimage leading you back to the loved ones who have been there all along is also a common plotline in a girl’s- or guy’s-trip narrative. But given Joy Ride’s cultural context, it is a clever undoing of the motherland trope. Audrey’s friends are her redemption because they’re part of the same complicated diaspora and know what it’s like to struggle to belong in specific ways.

—Nina Li Coomes on how Joy Ride subverts the motherland trope

#entertainment #movies #joy ride #race in america #asian diaspora #comedy #motherland #the motherland trope #cultural identity

[herbaklava]

“I want to think carefully about these women, meditate on their lives, to focus on their agency, choices, the material reality of their existence. I am asking you, begging you, challenging you to think of these women as actual fully realized people. And then, to wonder to yourself: What changes when you do?”

- Nina Coomes, On Mary’s Virginity and the How the Purity Myth Harms Women

#Nina’s writing is everything to me at the moment

[444names]

chinese cities + indian forenames + middle quenya dictionary

Acianitel Adjestore Afty Aide Aiked Aild Airuvang Aiveriel Aiweb Aiyueed Alingan Alle Alli Allusca Alqe Amaleth Amalta Ampeny Andosse Angilya Angsh Anni Annoth Apangche Ards Aroiwuan Arotul Arvaikalte Aterile Atich Augay Baliniqiay Baziblimne Beizhotone Bert Berving Blasty Bletchit Boltall Boodi Boumbe Bousiveme Brea Brige Broe Brosere Buie Butlepit Cala Cansem Cater Caure Chuisse Ciaoyasse Cleana Clong Clowerma Cobete Colluhta Colul Comei Comen Comileat Comomard Condu Cong Cooming Cord Dargao Deatter Dentene Dety Dild Dimer Domsmorka Drasta Drinar Dward Eaked Eamy Earko Eicie Ekka Elashilma Elfirus Elka Ellank Eqele Ered Ertai Espaikan Exinging Exte Extereave Ezhotudge Faing Falwa Fand Fanturek Farperibo Fearakary Fice Fientall Filwa Fing Fiou Fixing Flepa Fliang Flowd Foido Folingzhan Folopoider Fookendema Forow Forthewett Foun Foushan Froga Fulusha Fuste Fuyualapan Fánar Fárame Gallit Gick Golduyakka Grentined Guer Gule Gureaw Haha Haibh Hailav Hairm Halli Hama Handatice Hannorry Hanyul Happe Haravest Harteme Haruira Heed Heme Henhough Herenda Hicast Hilu Hitaoqi Hite Hong Hose Huanzhol Huis Humbrun Hyam Húne Iaoa Iburumarya Ilmermeig Imen Ingunde Inhot Irapoer Isize Issandie Itteuma Jalpar Jiang Jianguan Jiao Jine Jusideve Kalto Kamangwa Kaspika Kaster Kath Kembaozuo Kingga Kingget Kingliste Kitattele Knorma Knousuf Kuijure Kumb Kumman Labitece Lail Lalle Lang Lare Lastrin Lastry Lataip Lavalda Leate Leche Lhang Lianne Lijingle Likainnaht Limarak Lingannal Lingtor Littivou Lolo Lont Looke Lorech Losui Luma Lumn Lumnanbi Luzhon Lóked Lúkamon Lúmearmed Lúnea Lúpendes Lúrat Lúving Maick Manta Maróne Maywarnai Mearat Mence Menestar Merónea Messendeat Mianticle Minar Monea Muive Multer Móralliul Narross Nartir Nege Nemna Neship Nimells Nina Nocion Nuaradhair Nuli Null Numaly Nyandi Nérendor Nírengnar Níten Nókot Nútelpa Ohearmara Oled Olesda Olot Ornan Overya Pante Parnel Pastown Pelkoil Pilinor Ping Pire Pitwingwat Pollartita Porepingko Pragerter Preal Prockita Prors Qenter Qeqian Quant Qéna Ragget Rathend Reeliulush Reng Renyen Restative Ridujian Ringwing Rook Rotuage Rountule Ruiherima Rundo Ráme Rómash Saikirea Sama Samphyang Sandrakess Sankara Sate Saut Scatting Shahangsh Shain Shanilich Sharkoure Sharne Shirothe Shot Shua Sichar Sicure Silluff Singzhe Sinkingzhu Sinqe Siorge Sipillecon Slyathred Smenya Smes Spele Spende Stare Stuta Suffire Sujiand Sukorta Sumaisi Sumpea Sunta Suppuffixi Surmeqell Swisinds Súlaqualy Tabhalm Tack Tait Tambel Tandly Telood Ternarn Thenciong Thosing Tianirins Tice Tince Tinshamba Tinyanwa Tion Tiong Tong Tonguan Torthrina Townshi Townsive Treal Treshna Trin Tukum Tuld Tulked Ture Turularin Táresk Tópacton Ultingata Umar Umna Unde Ushwarrule Vahámiqite Valikalken Vandu Vang Vano Vanyap Varyare Vealu Veer Velkelk Vellst Vigh Vilúmeshro Ving Viont Vishre Vituant Voilais Vord Vénang Víreat Wanu Wearalle Weista Werkappo Wheriu Whikil Whinchit Whinve Whirlpar Whizhoth Will Winda Windeepar Wini Witanty Woodike Worr Wride Wrinsram Xianga Xinchai Xing Xiniujiand Yanked Yeline Yesong Ying Yint Yintima Yize Yonclange Yongko Yuainaik Yuananaray Yuaning Yáreashave Zhee Zher Zholemo Zhou Éver Írin Ómassell Ómes Ómild Úlaime Úlashe Úlept Úlou

#444 names #444names

[nyomkitten]

Marriage Isn’t Hard Work; It’s Serious Play Nina Li Coomes for the Atlantic / 24 March 2023

https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2023/03/happy-marriage-communication-love-work/673504/

sharing this for no reason other than that “serious play” is the most romantic phrase i’ve ever heard

#rbcomm

[enchanted-moura]

The Bible, after all, is a book obsessed with money, mentioning it over eight hundred times. Women, when connected biblically to money, usually feature in the negative. Proverbs 31 scolds that men shouldn’t spend all their money on women. When widows appear to various prophets, they are destitute. Women are penniless, impoverished, without means of their own.

 If they do hold some sort of monetary power, it is to further their husband’s estate, to be admirably frugal, costing as little as possible. An expensive woman is a Bathsheba, a Jezebel, a Delilah. She is a temptress, taking money from the hands of men via cunning and betrayal - https://catapult.co/stories/on-delilah-and-the-villains-we-make-of-women-who-seek-power-nina-coomes

#millionaire #money goddess #femme fatale #delilah #nina coomes

[cielotrozodecosmos]

Nina Coomes, On Eve’s Temptation and the Monsters We Make of Hungry Women

“I wanted love, devotion, lust. I was hungry for eyes on me, hungry to be approved of, hungry to be powerful, exceptional, beautiful, all the while fearing that these hungers made me unnatural and beastly, exactly what should not be loved or desired. I felt feverish in how much I wanted, and feverish in how much I feared these wants would doom me in the same way it did Eve”.

#nina coomes

[maybuds]

Hope (in 8 select parts)

1. Faint Music, Robert Hass

Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, and the heroine has studied her face and its defects remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves has lost its novelty and not released them, and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, watching the others go about their days— likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming, and understood, therefore, why they had been, all their lives, in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. As in the story a friend told once about the time he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up on the girder like a child—the sun was going down and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing carefully, and drove home to an empty house. There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick with rage and grief. He knew more or less where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. “You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” “Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, “I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, and go to sleep. And he, he would play that scene once only, once and a half, and tell himself that he was going to carry it for a very long time and that there was nothing he could do but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark cracking and curling as the cold came up. It’s not the story though, not the friend leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” which is the part of stories one never quite believes. I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing.

2. No Choir, Florence + The Machine

3. from The Naomi Letters, Rachel Mennies

4. from On Jellyfish, Nina Li Coomes

5. When We Were Orphans, Kazuo Ishiguro

…oh, I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve wasted all these years looking for something, a sort of trophy I’d get only if I really, really did enough to deserve it. But I don’t want it any more, I want something else now, something warm and sheltering, something I can turn to, regardless of what I do, regardless of who I become. Something that will just be there, always, like tomorrow’s sky.

6. To the young who want to die, Gwendolyn Brooks

7. In Blackwater Woods, Mary Oliver

Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

8. Untitled Project 01 - ISSAC LAM

#Spotify #only just coming out of a season of rotting and ruin #these are so few but i have like at least a dozen other things that give me hope #faint music #robert hass #no choir #florence + the machine #rachel mennies #the naomi letters #nina li coomes #on jellyfish #when we were orphans #kazuo ishiguro #to the young who want to die #gwendolyn brooks #in blackwater woods #mary oliver #isaac lam photography #prose #poem #music #tw suicide #tw suicide mention

[caliphascheherazade]

“God says to Eve upon her departure, “Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you,” but when I read this, I see instead the curse in abbreviation: Your desire will rule over you. (Genesis 2:16) Eve is cursed with desire bound together with her hunger, as if to say the punishment for wanting is to keep wanting. In this way, ideas of desire and hunger, propriety and sin become tied together.

I find myself reflecting on other women depicted as monstrous for their hunger; Pandora and her box, Snow White and her apple. The appearance of lacking desire goes beyond the bounds of etiquette or being ‘ladylike’ and instead crosses into the realm of a moral imperative. Which is to say, a just, good, decent woman is a woman who is free of any type of hunger, be it physical hunger for food, hunger as desire, or hunger as ambition. Conversely, a woman sickened with sin is one who is riddled with said hungers, reduced to a gaping mouth never satisfied.”

— Nina Li Coomes, On Eve’s Temptation and the Monsters We Make of Hungry Women

#nina li coomes #female hunger #female rage #feminism #book of genesis #literature #word recs

[bermudianabroad]

Simply put, 温もり or nukumori means warmth...Certainly, a person’s nukumori can be the warmth of their body, but frequently it is more than that. Nukumori, when applied to people, references a sort of existence-hood. In the same way that nukumori allows us to think of warmth as its own entity, nukumori also defines a person’s presence—the signature of their physical existence—as something that stands on its own. It is not invoked, but just suddenly is, as if you’ve walked into a room where someone was just baking a loaf of bread and it is no longer there, but you can smell, feel, almost taste that the bread existed.   You will be walking to the train, or home from work, or just to the corner store, when suddenly you will feel as if you have walked into the escaped shell of warmth that a person you love has left behind. It will cause you to pause, perhaps to stutter. I hope you are able to hold that someone in your mind: Allow yourself to pore over all of their traits, the flight pattern of their gestures, the slope of their walk, the jut or frizz of their hairline. Consider their scent, the many visages they’ve inhabited over the years, the bellow of their laughter. Imagine the sound of their feet, the swish of their clothes, whether they barrel along or tiptoe. Consider them loosed from the realities of time and space; think of them at their youngest, imagine them at their oldest. Layer the many ways they’ve touched you, the particular slant of their hand in yours, the warmth of their body under a shared sheet. As you move on down the street, will you feel as if they’re coming along with you? Won’t that metaphysical imprint of existence amount to something warm and glowing and real?      Nukumori is permissive, a caveat under which love can exist despite the strain of distance. Perhaps if you think of it next time you are missing someone, it will give you reprieve—some room to wallow and breathe in the joy of another’s existence, even if they aren’t within your reach.

Nina Li Coomes, Catapult

#温もり #quotes #nina coomes #language #distance #friendship

[orrphelia]

#nina li coomes #on jellyfish

[milfsamwinchester]

FAMINE: consume, consume. [...] and yet, you're all still starving because hunger doesn't just come from the body, it also comes from the soul.

DEAN: it's funny, it doesn't seem to be coming from mine.

FAMINE: yes. i noticed that. have you wondered why that is? how you could even walk in my presence? [...] that's one deep, dark nothing you got there, dean. can't fill it, can you? 

5x14 /  emma rebholz “no good bloodsuckers” /  nina coomes “on eve’s temptation and the monsters we make of hungry women” /  julia kristeva tr. leon s. roudiez “powers of horror: an essay on abjection” / anne sexton “cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild women” / richard siken “war of the foxes”

#he can't fill it bc he only wants sam :) #the ONLY desire he displays throughout the entire episode is asking sam to be his valentine #i didnt intend this as wincest but feel free to interpret it how u wish #my post #i carry your heart. i carry it in my heart.

[misterjt]

Here’s what we know about Mr. Johnson: He’s probably in his 70s. He’s worked at Abbott forever, his institutional knowledge rivaling that of the longest-tenured teachers. He has alluded to past lives as an Olympic athlete, a nude model, a champion rib eater, and Dorothy Hamill’s paramour. He thinks that lizard people live under the Denver Airport and that the Illuminati run the world. He does not believe in the moon (not the moon landing—the actual moon). All this is to say that Mr. Johnson’s origin story is mostly a patchwork of jokes: We don’t know anything substantial about the guy, not even his first name.

—Nina Li Coomes on Abbott Elementary's secret weapon

#television #entertainment #abbott elementary #mr. johnson #william stanford davis

[electraheart2012]

"Slowly but surely, I built a community. I had people I could go home to. People who expected me at certain times for dinner. People who also had two tongues, and who knew the bilingual bind of articulation in one language and frustration in the other. People who were my found family, and precious to me. When I left them, I wondered if I would feel that familiar ache again, on a different train in a different city."

— Nina Coomes, from "切ない (Setsunai): When You Need a Word to Hold Both Sorrow and Joy"

#words #what lies under the city #quote #heart is a bird #n #trains tag

[1vintage]

stuff i’ve read this week [9.9.2019]

Things You Might Not Know About Miscarriage by Julia Wertz

What Love Means After My Brother’s Suicide by Cindy Brzostowski (suicide tw)

The Ideological Turing Test: How to Be Less Wrong by Charles Chu

Why Is It So Hard To Ask For What We Want? by Thomas P. Seager

Why meaning is more sunken into words than we realize by Alexander Stern

Let us now stop praising famous men (and women) by David V. Johnson

Let’s Meet Again in Five Years by Karen B. Kaplan

愛してる (Aishiteru): How to Say “I Love You” When the Language Doesn’t Exist by Nina Coomes

Learning How to Be Gentle in the Face of Trauma—Others’ and My Own by Christine H. Lee

How It Feels by Jenny Zhang (suicide tw)

Let’s Be Science Fiction: Imagining New Stories for Our Futures by Bryan Kamaoli Kuwada

#u #personal #reading list

[enchanted-moura]

Succubus, siren, gold-digger, temptress: there are so many words for a woman with money in her hands

Nina Coomes

#femme fatale #bad girl

[gorgonapologist]

[...] Beauty is pain. It is also power. It is both, shifting between pain and power, as if something acrid threading its unblemished surface. Vashti was beautiful, and she wielded that beauty to humiliate a King, no matter the pain. You were beautiful, so beautiful you thought you could suffer the pain of watching your own people die while you hid behind your loveliness. Instead, that beauty and pain transmuted itself into an unspeakable, terrible power. Your wrath, a thunderous, murderous finale, rendering you dangerous, fearsome to behold, and achingly lovely. A queen not because of your physical perfection, but because the horror and rage you transformed it into.

Esther, today while I wrote this, reflecting on your rage, a storm broke suddenly and ferociously over the pavement outside. Through the windows, I watched the blue sky turn dark without warning. Rain thrust itself onto the sidewalk, falling in thick, ropey tumult. Unsuspecting pedestrians thrust their arms over their head to no avail; there was no space between the pelting water for reprieve or air. A pretty day turned murderous and seething, power roiling in the ether.

And oh, Esther, how beautiful and terrible it was.

Nina Coomes, On Esther’s Vengeance and the Beauty of Women’s Rage

#esther #female rage #beauty is terror