#Oxford Men

[spiritusloci]

Two Men Kissing 22 (2024)

#midjourney 6 #the two men kissing series #the oxford series

[oxfords---notbrogues]

#menswear #men's style #men's fashion #style #fashion #street style #street fashion #men’s shoes #brogues #oxfords

[loveshetlands]

#shetland sweater #sweater #crewneck shetland #wool #shetland #shetlandsweater #shetland crewneck #menswear #black vest #puffer vest #preppy #orange sweater #orange shetland sweater #corduroy pants #sweater and corduroy #wool and corduroy #checked shirt #checked oxford shirt #bearded men in sweaters #bearded men #bearded men in wool sweaters

[lungthief]

tiktok is such a cesspool man after receiving thousands of hate comments over 5 years i FINALLY responded to a random one VERY REASONABLY being like “hey maybe don’t do this because it’s mean” people are like “wowww silly woman on the internet doesn’t know how to take a joke” and im just like. so tired lol

#literally stopped making my oxford series last year bc i kept getting inundated by British men CONSTANTLY calling me an idiot #and usually i don’t respond to comments like that and just let people fight it out #bc i dont like getting involved and comments boost my engagement anyway regardless of substance #but after 5 Whole Years #it is Insufferable #shut up riley

[meikuree]

previous reblog made me look up my compilation of quotes/passages that struck me when I read The God of Small Things, which I’d previously posted only on dreamwidth. below the cut, for enjoyment and curiosity (cn for mentions of gore and sexual harassment):

The nights are clear, but suffused with sloth and sullen expectation.      But by early June the southwest monsoon breaks and there are three months of wind and water with short spells of sharp, glittering sunshine that thrilled children snatch to play with. The countryside turns an immodest green. Boundaries blur as tapioca fences take root and bloom. Brick walls turn moss green. Pepper vines snake up electric poles. Wild creepers burst through laterite banks and spill across flooded roads. Boats ply in the bazaars. And small fish appear in the puddles that fill the PWD potholes on the highways.

--

Yet Estha’s silence was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy. It wasn’t an accusing, protesting silence as much as a sort of estivation, a dormancy, the psychological equivalent of what lungfish do to get themselves through the dry season.

Once the quietness arrived, it stayed and spread in Estha. It reached out of his head and enfolded him in its swampy arms. It rocked him to the rhythm of an ancient, fetal heartbeat. It sent its stealthy, suckered tentacles inching along the insides of his skull, hoovering the knolls and dells of his memory; dislodging old sentences, whisking them off the tip of his tongue.

---

Other days he walked down the road. Past the new, freshly baked, iced, Gulf-money houses built by nurses, masons, wire-benders and bank clerks, who worked hard and unhappily in faraway places. Past the resentful older houses [...] Each a tottering fiefdom with an epic of its own.

---- It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined. Over the years, as the memory of Sophie Mol (the seeker of small wisdoms: Where do old birds go to die? Why don’t dead ones fall like stones from the sky? The harbinger of harsh reality: You’re both whole wogs and I’m a half one. The guru of gore: I’ve seen a man in an accident with his eyeball twinging on the end of a nerve, like a yo-yo) slowly faded, the Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive. It was always there. Like a fruit in season.

--- She waged war on the weather. She tried to grow edelweiss and Chinese guava.

--- Perhaps it’s true that things can change in a day. That a few dozen hours can affect the outcome of whole lifetimes. And that when they do, those few dozen hours, like the salvaged remains of a burned house-the charred clock, the singed photograph, the scorched furniture- must be resurrected from the ruins and examined. Preserved. Accounted for.

--- His cremation was attended by all the boxers in Bengal. A congregation of mourners with lantern jaws and broken noses.

----

Ammu loved her children (of course), but their wide-eyed vulnerability and their willingness to love people who didn’t really love them exasperated her and sometimes made her want to hurt them-just as an education, a protection.

---

When she looked at herself in her wedding photographs, Ammu felt the woman that looked back at her was someone else. A foolish jeweled bride. Her silk sunset-colored sari shot with gold. Rings on every finger. White dots of sandalwood paste over her arched eyebrows. Looking at herself like this, Ammu’s soft mouth would twist into a small, bitter smile at the memory-not of the wedding itself so much as the fact that she had permitted herself to be so painstakingly decorated before being led to the gallows. It seemed so absurd. So futile. 

other shorter lines I put in admittedly for much more superficial reasons like “hey! a pretty sentence!” (too short on time to put borders between different passages, sorry)

Pappachi’s Moth was held responsible for his black moods and sudden bouts of temper. Its pernicious ghost-gray, furry and with unusually dense dorsal tufts-haunted every house that he ever lived in. It tormented him and his children and his children’s children. They were a family of Anglophiles. Pointed in the wrong direction, trapped outside their own history and unable to retrace their steps-because their footprints had been swept away. When he was in this sort of mood, Chacko used his Reading Aloud voice. His room had a church-feeling. He didn’t care whether anyone was listening to him or not. And if they were, he didn’t care whether or not they had understood what he was saying. Ammu called them his Oxford Moods. Ammu said it was all hogwash. Just a case of a spoiled princeling playing Comrade. Comrade! An Oxford avatar of the old zamindar mentality-a landlord forcing his attentions on women who depended on him for their livelihood. Memory was that woman on the train. Insane in the way she sifted through dark things in a closet and emerged with the most unlikely ones-a fleeting look, a feeling. The smell of smoke. A windscreen wiper. A mother’s marble eyes. Quite sane in the way she left huge tracts of darkness veiled. Unremembered. She had wanted a smooth performance. A prize for her children in the Indo-British Behavior Competition. Shadows followed them. Silver jets in a blue church sky, like moths in a beam of light. They were presents for a seven-year-old; Rahel was nearly eleven. It was as though Ammu believed that if she refused to acknowledge the passage of time, if she willed it to stand still in the lives of her twins, it would. As though sheer willpower was enough to suspend her children’s childhoods until she could afford to have them living with her. Centuries telescoped into one evanescent moment. History was wrong-footed, caught off guard. Sloughed off like an old snakeskin. In its absence it left an aura, a palpable shimmering that was as plain to see as the water in a river or the sun in the sky. As plain to feel as the heat on a hot day, or the rug of a fish on a taut line. So obvious that no one noticed. A pair of actors trapped in a recondite play with no hint of plot or narrative. Stumbling through their parts, nursing someone else’s sorrow. Grieving someone else’s grief. [...] inside, map-breath’d ancestors with tough toe-nails whispered to the lizards on the wall. That History used the back verandah to negotiate its terms and collect its dues. […] on the day History picked to square its books, Estha would keep the receipt for the dues that Velutha paid. The glint of Ammu’s needle. The color of a ribbon. The weave of the cross-stitch counterpane. A door slowly breaking. Isolated things that didn’t mean anything. As though the intelligence that decodes life’s hidden patterns-that connects reflections to images, glints to light, weaves to fabrics, needles to thread, walls to rooms, love to fear to anger to remorse-was suddenly lost. He tells stories of the gods, but his yarn is spun from the ungodly, human heart. [...] Something to do with Death’s authority. Its terrible stillness. They were both men whom childhood had abandoned without a trace. Men without curiosity. Without doubt. Both in their own way truly, terrifyingly adult. They looked out at the world and never wondered how it worked, because they knew. They worked it. They were mechanics who serviced different parts of the same machine.

#personally? i liked the shade thrown at the oxford graduate uncle and the rhodes scholarship #and the last bit about men who had been abandoned by childhood #but also everything else #the god of small things #books #arundhati roy #meikuree talks

[shewhoworshipscarlin]

Men's oxfords, 1940s.

#oxfords #1940s #antique #men's fashion #accessories

[soldier-poet-king]

Also a bunch of places I'd like to work are hiring full time permanent and I'm just....in this contract til at least August. And it would be real bad for me to dip. But ofc these places won't STILL be hiring then, and idk if I'd be hired with only one official year of experience and the rest part time and practicum work

#franposting #yall im really sad today for no damn reason #and i have sm shit to dk #i wanna go home and drink and play sdv #also my oxford shoes from modcloth are falling apart after only 1 yr #which fine. theyre fake leather #but its SO hard to find cute womens oxford style brown shoes #and i would buy mens but even a mens 7 is too big for me #i need mens 6 or 6.5 which is youth which is again hard to find #and i dont trust rando internet sellers like aliexpress and shit #its unethical and probably terrible quality product #But i CANNOT FIND THESE SHOES ONLINE ANYWHERE #i would happily go to a store to get them if i knew they fuckin sold them #but no everything is flats and heels ans clogs #i WANT MEN STYLE SHOES. WINGTIP. MAYBE LACE DETAILING. CUTE

[serialreblogger]

Spelling was not standardized in Shakespeare's England

yes this is my point. william "sex jokes" "historical RPF" shakespeare is broadly upheld as the pinnacle of english literature, and zero percent of his works conform to any standardized spelling/grammar system

"shakespeare couldn't spell his own name" is shorthand for "the snobbery of ~english literature & canon~ is both self-contradictory and arbitrary in the extreme." & to me this means that anyone can create whatever they want and be just as good as any shakespearean sonnet. bc the only real qualifier for "good writing" is that somebody cared about the story they were telling, and the only real qualifier for "good reading material" is that someone, somewhere, wants to read it

no gods no kings no earl of oxford only a bunch of plays written in a drama club's groupchat and the people who keep investing them with meaning. there is no magic formula or golden standard. the only thing that gives any art any value is the people who choose to value it

#ask linden #this is about the title of my blog #shakespeare couldn't spell his own name and NOBODY CARES! #this is my point! #nobody *should* care! it doesn't matter!! #also that last line abt earls of oxford is in reference to the ''oxfordian theory of shakespeare authorship'' as the wiki page calls it #u can check that on wikipedia if ur interested but what it boils down to is that a bunch of academics have been up in arms since ~the 1920s #over the idea that The Venerable Shakespeare could have been some rube born to commoners #obviously plays so Erudite (& so uniquely appealing to the ''commoner'' demographic) could not have been authored by some paltry lowborn! #why that boy billy probably couldn't even write! #- which like. cmon man. u have about as much evidence as chemtrails here. and also like - #yeah there's a solid chance shakespeare wasn't super up on his penmanship! but that doesn't mean he wasn't capable of eloquence?? #like in all probability a lot of shakespeare's work might not have been penned by him #& in fact it's not unlikely that at least some of it was quasi-crowdsourced as actors & collaborating playwrights weighed in #Richard Burbage probably had a lot to do with Hamlet's character work & writing!! we know this!! #we do not create in a vacuum!!! art written in a groupchat is not less valuable or artistic for having peer review built into it!! #shakespeare was just some guy. & he's also a symbol #arbitrary as that designation may be. but the old white men who chose their canon chose him as a patron saint #so i will go on insisting that if we're to know shakespeare we had better know him properly. foul mouth gallows humour bisexuality & all #shakespeare #literature #linden's originals #linden in the tags

[lovefrenchisbetter]

Arket Oxford Shirt

#arket #oxford shirt #chemise #shirt #essential homme #parisian style #parisian vibe #parisian homme #essentials #poplin shirt #clean #menswear #mens fashion

[denim-bias]

#astro mj #kpop idols #blue jeans #rolled cuffs #sweater #oxford shoes #marina #nautical #astro #men's fashion

[oxfords---notbrogues]

Why Oxfords and not Brogues? Is it the fit or the look? Just learning stuff

The name, “Oxfords—not brogues” stems from this idea of dressing fashionably and appropriately, but in a way that is timeless and not overly ostentatious. I chose the name after seeing the original Kingsman movie in 2014 as I felt it captured the spirit of my style advice.

The Oxford shoe is a classic gentleman’s shoe, originally popularized by students at Oxford University around 1800. The closed vamp style is timeless, and continues to be a staple in today’s menswear. Brogues are a similar style of shoe with added decorative perforations, originally designed to suit the wet country terrain of Scotland and Ireland. They give off a more casual and ostentatious feeling.

“Oxfords—not brogues,” is not advice to avoid brogues altogether. One of my favorite pairs of shoes are my Allen Edmonds Fifth Avenues that I wear almost every day, and those have some brogue detailing on the toe. Trendy and decorative menswear items have a time and place in a gentleman’s wardrobe. If you have to own just one shoe or the other, though, plain oxfords are a classic shoe that will keep you looking great in a wide variety of settings. By comparison, brogues have gone in and out of style over the last few decades. They are a little more limited on what you can wear them with, as well. The goal of my blog is to provide content inspired by that theme: stylish, but versatile and timeless.

The Kavalier has a great video discussing the origin of the phrase, “Oxfords—not brogues,” and the difference between the shoes:

#ask #ask me anything #askmeanything #style advice #oxfords #brogues #oxfordsnotbrogues #kingsman #the kingsman #menswear #men's style #style #men's fashion #fashion

[achromic-red-dreams-doze-angrily]

The lesbians at lesbian trivia complimented my shoes 💞

#highest honor i could ever receive #they're my blacl oxfords i got from the mens section at nordstrom

[zero-zoxx-international]

Stan Oxford is Hederer Milky (photo and digital work by Diego de Monte)

#Diego de Monte #Stan Oxford #Hederer Milky #photo #digital art #suit and tie #men's fashion #slapstick

[eddywoww]

I fear I have gone too far with the loafers. I just bought dr marten loafers. This is affecting my bank account now! Ffs. (Doesn’t help I have a shoe obsession in general and this is feeding it nicely)

No we love loafers! And I love those, they’re so cute!!

I used to have a thing about oxfords !! Like I had so many pairs, I was obsessed

#still have a pair of men’s oxfords that are all black I just don’t know what the fuck I did with them #asks

[universitycams]

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#university #college #girls who like girls #athletic guys #fraternity #campus #sorority #athletic men / teen / boy #chat #private school #dubaiinstagram #dubai #harvard #stanford #mit #oxford #ucla #nyu #yale #yaletown #london #russia #video #israel #turkey #lebanon #ukraine

[sleepynerds]

lately, hockey games (bought a cap to cheer up my town's team, they are so bad), aftersun, red velvet and ramen (<3)

#lately #been surviving on hockey games solely and its tiring #i am eating like shit and feeling like shit and it seems wrong to feel this way because I AM FUCKING ACCEPTED IN OXFORD UNIVERSITY #imposter syndrome really be hitting hard #anyway #because my depressed coping mechanism is to make cake #i tried to make a red velvet today #will my lactose intolerant belly tolerate all the butter in this cake ? no idea but i hope so #my life's a mess since i've been crushing on a moustache man too #men bring no good in life istg #moodboard #mine