STORIES AND IMAGES (NSFW)

JOE "BONDI" BEACH
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Gwendoline Christie attends the Elle Style Awards in February 2014 in London.
(Anthony Harvey / Getty Images)

Gwendoline Christie attends the Elle Style Awards in February 2014 in London.

(Anthony Harvey / Getty Images)

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jilliantamaki:

My friend Christine Zounek died last week. I drew Christine for my Trash the Block essay for PRINT magazine, where I included a bit about the Soup Kitchen where we both volunteered. (Christine was there at the Soup Kitchen’s inception about 6 years ago and was Head Chef.) She loved this picture I’d drawn of her, especially the patch of light on her butt, which I had done for no significant reason but she thought looked like she’d wiped flour on her pants. Our friend Emily Gould wrote the following tribute to Christine which encapsulates who she was: a larger-than-life personality and one of the truly good people in this world. 
__
After my friend Christine’s dad died, she gave everyone who worked with her at the soup kitchen a plastic bag filled with birdseed. The bags had a little tag on them with a picture of cardinals and a note about how her dad loved feeding birds, so we should feed them in his memory. I had never met her dad and I only knew Christine from the hours we spent together every Wednesday afternoon cooking alongside a lot of other volunteers, but it was also impossible to be anywhere near her and not know her. She let everyone in to her world, which was fascinating, larger than life. She had been so many places and known so many interesting people. All the New York things I’d read novels about, Christine had experienced, and she also knew the people who wrote those novels. Now she worked as an art restorer and spent a lot of time cooking and dishing out food in a soup kitchen in Greenpoint.
I didn’t have a backyard or birdfeeder, so I just put the seed out on my windowsill. Birds came and ate it, which seemed slightly miraculous. How did they know to come? After the bag ran out, I bought more. More than a year later, I still put some out every morning. Mostly mourning doves come, but occasionally also juncos and finches.
Christine took her own life last Friday — I’m now hearing she had a bad chemical reaction to newly prescribed antidepressants, which makes the senselessness of her death extra horrible. It seems impossible. She was so much more alive than most people.
This morning I heard the unmistakable metallic chirp of a cardinal and went to watch him eat the seed. He sang as he ate, loud and full of life, with his majestic crest flaring in the early sunlight. Christine, I thought.
I know the idea that someone who has died comes and visits you in some reassuring form is silly, childish wishful thinking. I believe that at the same time that I believe that Christine’s spirit is in the world still, in birds and cats and people, in everything that sings loudly and proudly and is absolutely always purely itself.

jilliantamaki:

My friend Christine Zounek died last week. I drew Christine for my Trash the Block essay for PRINT magazine, where I included a bit about the Soup Kitchen where we both volunteered. (Christine was there at the Soup Kitchen’s inception about 6 years ago and was Head Chef.) She loved this picture I’d drawn of her, especially the patch of light on her butt, which I had done for no significant reason but she thought looked like she’d wiped flour on her pants. Our friend Emily Gould wrote the following tribute to Christine which encapsulates who she was: a larger-than-life personality and one of the truly good people in this world.

__

After my friend Christine’s dad died, she gave everyone who worked with her at the soup kitchen a plastic bag filled with birdseed. The bags had a little tag on them with a picture of cardinals and a note about how her dad loved feeding birds, so we should feed them in his memory. I had never met her dad and I only knew Christine from the hours we spent together every Wednesday afternoon cooking alongside a lot of other volunteers, but it was also impossible to be anywhere near her and not know her. She let everyone in to her world, which was fascinating, larger than life. She had been so many places and known so many interesting people. All the New York things I’d read novels about, Christine had experienced, and she also knew the people who wrote those novels. Now she worked as an art restorer and spent a lot of time cooking and dishing out food in a soup kitchen in Greenpoint.

I didn’t have a backyard or birdfeeder, so I just put the seed out on my windowsill. Birds came and ate it, which seemed slightly miraculous. How did they know to come? After the bag ran out, I bought more. More than a year later, I still put some out every morning. Mostly mourning doves come, but occasionally also juncos and finches.

Christine took her own life last Friday — I’m now hearing she had a bad chemical reaction to newly prescribed antidepressants, which makes the senselessness of her death extra horrible. It seems impossible. She was so much more alive than most people.

This morning I heard the unmistakable metallic chirp of a cardinal and went to watch him eat the seed. He sang as he ate, loud and full of life, with his majestic crest flaring in the early sunlight. Christine, I thought.

I know the idea that someone who has died comes and visits you in some reassuring form is silly, childish wishful thinking. I believe that at the same time that I believe that Christine’s spirit is in the world still, in birds and cats and people, in everything that sings loudly and proudly and is absolutely always purely itself.

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Stoya doing what she does best. And one more Stoya here, by Jillian Tamaki for the New York Times. On a sadder note, see Jillian Tamaki’s note, above.

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HOLLY RENNICK: MISS ELSIE'S HOUSECOAT

MISS ELSIE’S HOUSECOAT

by Holly Rennick, adapted from “1942” by Jenny Wanshel

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Jenny Wanshel’s writings were my introduction to erotica. My entry into
the genre was a re-writing of her BOY MAGNETS into my WRITER’S NOTEBOOK for
which she was kind enough to offer encouragement.

Now some years later, I’m trying my hand at expanding a portion of
Jenny’s “1942,” written to welcome the new millennium. The epilogue I’ve
left in Jenny’s words. I could fiddle with some verbs, but I’m a sucker
for romance. Thank you, Jenny.

~ Holly Rennick


MISS ELSIE’S HOUSECOAT

Micronesia, November 26, 1942, Thanksgiving

Lieutenant O’Connor disappeared trying to cross the reef. Perhaps it
was his boots that pulled him under when the surf upended the launch, but in any case he vanished.

Miss Elsie held back the boys who wanted to swim to the officer’s
rescue. She grabbed them by the shoulders, the arms, the hair, but
ultimately it was her shrieking that dissuaded them from likewise
perishing.

There were ten on the sand, nine boys from Palua Secondary School and
Miss Elsie, their teacher.

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There are five English translations here.

There are five English translations here.

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