Christopher Williams - Tenebrionidae, Asbolus Verrucosus, Death-Feigning Beetle - Silverlake, California (1996)
une femme est une femme
for those not in the know, night witches were russian lady bombers who bombed the shit out of german lines in WW2. Thing is though, they had the oldest, noisiest, crappest planes in the entire world. The engines used to conk out halfway through their missions, so they had to climb out on the wings mid flight to restart the props. the planes were also so noisy that to stop germans from hearing them combing and starting up their anti aircraft guns, they’d climb up to a certain height, coast down to german positions, drop their bombs, restart their engines in midair, and get the fuck out of dodge.
their leader flew over 200 missions and was never captured.
how the fuck is this not taught in every single history class ever
girl pilots (◕‿◕✿)
girl pilots killing nazis ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* \(◕ヮ◕✿)/ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
But, remember, women never did anything in history.
This is laughably incorrect.
Fact 1: Although technologically obsolete as of WWII, the Polikarpov Po-2 “Kukuruznik” biplanes flown by the 588th Night Bomber Regiment were in no way ” the oldest, noisiest, crappest planes in the entire world.” The Po-2 was first flown in 1929 and remained in production until 1953 due to its low cost and extreme reliability. It is, in fact, the second most produced aircraft in history, and the most produced biplane in history. The night bombers flew brand new, specially modified Po-2s fitted with bomb racks and machine guns.
Fact 2: The Po-2 was extremely quiet; Germans nicknamed it the Nähmaschine (“sewing machine”) due to the muted rattling sound its tiny little 99-horsepower radial engine made. The night bombers would fly these quiet little planes just a few meters off the ground, then climb to higher altitude, cut the engine, and glide to the attack point so that the Germans would have no warning of an incoming attack other than wind whistling through the wing bracing-wires. It wasn’t because the engines were unreliable, it was a planned attack pattern.
Fact 3: Saying “their leader flew over 200 missions” is both inaccurate and damning with faint praise. Whereas most combat pilots fly only one or two sorties per day, all of the 588th Night Bomber Regiment pilots flew multiple missions every night, with the record being eighteen missions flown back-to-back-to-back-to-back in a single night. By the end of the war, most of the “Night Witches” had around a thousand combat sorties under their belts.
The Night Witches were THAT fucking badass, and it pisses me off when people get it all wrong because they’re too damn lazy to do their homework.
And this is one of the rare times the correction makes things more badass.
The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh
of bone and sinew
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned
Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel,
her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed
in the dark red lipstick of desire.
She visited in ‘68 still wearing skirts
tight to the knees, dark red lipstick,
while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt,
lipstick pale as apricot milk,
hair loose as a horse’s mane. Oh dear,
I thought in my superiority of the moment,
whatever has happened to poor Cecile?
She was out of fashion, out of the game,
disqualified, disdained, dis-
membered from the club of desire.
Look at pictures in French fashion
magazines of the 18th century:
century of the ultimate lady
fantasy wrought of silk and corseting.
Paniers bring her hips out three feet
each way, while the waist is pinched
and the belly flattened under wood.
The breasts are stuffed up and out
offered like apples in a bowl.
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper
never meant for walking.
On top is a grandiose headache:
hair like a museum piece, daily
ornamented with ribbons, vases,
grottoes, mountains, frigates in full
sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy
of a hairdresser turned loose.
The hats were rococo wedding cakes
that would dim the Las Vegas strip.
Here is a woman forced into shape
rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh:
a woman made of pain.
How superior we are now: see the modern woman
thin as a blade of scissors.
She runs on a treadmill every morning,
fits herself into machines of weights
and pulleys to heave and grunt,
an image in her mind she can never
approximate, a body of rosy
glass that never wrinkles,
never grows, never fades. She
sits at the table closing her eyes to food
hungry, always hungry:
a woman made of pain.
A cat or dog approaches another,
they sniff noses. They sniff asses.
They bristle or lick. They fall
in love as often as we do,
as passionately. But they fall
in love or lust with furry flesh,
not hoop skirts or push up bras
rib removal or liposuction.
It is not for male or female dogs
that poodles are clipped
to topiary hedges.
If only we could like each other raw.
If only we could love ourselves
like healthy babies burbling in our arms.
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed
to need what is sold us.
Why should we want to live inside ads?
Why should we want to scourge our softness
to straight lines like a Mondrian painting?
Why should we punish each other with scorn
as if to have a large ass
were worse than being greedy or mean?
When will women not be compelled
to view their bodies as science projects,
gardens to be weeded,
dogs to be trained?
When will a woman cease
to be made of pain?
What Are Big Girls Made Of? by Marge Piercy
I met this photograpger today at an art show and she told me how all of her pieces in this collection were based off of intimacy and how you see it. When you lay next to the one you love and look closely into their eyes it is not clear their features, but instead a blur and this blur is the love which accompanies such beautiful intimacy.
(Source: , via azeoa)