ROLLING STONES UNRELEASED: 'GET YOUR HANDS OFF' (1993)
Rolling Stones unreleased: Get Your Hands Off*Click for MORE STONES UNRELEASED TRACKSWritten by: Jagger/RichardsRecorded: Blue Wave Studios, St. Philip, Barbados, Apr-May 1993
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Being the princess betrothed to barbarian!Bakugo.
You don't mind so much as you've always known this was to be your destiny, born merely to smooth over tensions between the kingdom and the country.
But your first meeting is hardly from ideal. The man shoves himself into your dressing room in trying to avoid the grooming his own mother is trying to give him, desperate to get away from the egregious, stifling rules the castle enforces regarding presentation, mainly putting on a shirt.
(He was born of his own parent's desire, but volunteered himself to save the country from annihilation via. industrialization, NOT realizing it would involve marriage. He's much less thrilled than anyone.)
And there you are, being (forcibly) sewed up into a corset that you're absolutely spilling over, your face matted from a layer of unnatural-colored powder, your lips stained the color of fruit that doesn't blossom for months as you turn to look at him in surprise (and then fear, and then confusion and question, your maids squealing before running off to get a guard)...
And Bakugo is suddenly made aware of this itching desire to save you, too.
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(You're standing there, both breathless and bare; him voluntarily, you because of timing. And it's so oddly intimate for separate reasons; Bakugo's never associated nudity with sexuality and you've never been naked in front of a man before.
And despite the betrothal, neither of you know what to say, stuck in the midst of an "is this it?" moment, at least until Bakugo is grabbing your hand to whisk you away and marry you where he was born rather than in between castle walls.)
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There’ve been a few responses to/reblogs with tags on my post about DIY clothing embellishments that basically boil down to ‘I’d love to do this but I’m scared it’ll turn out bad/I’m not a good enough artist’. And I get it, I really do! I also want my art things to turn out nicely. But also...making it badly is sort of the point of punk DIY.
Listen. We live in a world that would dearly love to charge you a subscription fee for breathing. The bastards are doing everything they possibly can to figure out how to turn art - stories, visual art, music, textile/fibre art, sculpture, crafts and creations of every kind - into a neat, discrete, packageable commodity, a product they can chop up into little pieces and stick behind a paywall so they can charge you for every drop of it you want to have in your life.
The whole sneering idea that ‘everybody wants to be some kind of creator now’ and anything less than absolute mastery right out the gate is somehow shameful and embarrassing is a tool those bastards are using. It’s a way to reinforce the idea that only a set group of people can create and control art, and everybody else has to buy it.
But art isn’t a product. Art is a fundamental human impulse. Nobody is entitled to a specific piece of art (which is where this message gets skewed into pitting people who love art against the artists who make it, while the bastards screw us all and run away with the money). But making art belongs to everybody. We make up songs and dances and stories, and paint things, and make clothes, and embellish them, and carve flowers into our furniture and our lintels and our doorframes, and make windows out of tiny pieces of coloured glass, and decorate our homes and our bodies and our lives with things we make and make up, simply for the love of beauty and of the act of creation. Grave goods from tens of thousands of years ago show that ancient hominids gave their dead wreaths of ceramic flowers, tattooed their bodies, beaded their shoes. Making things for the sake of beauty and enjoyment is one of the most ancient and human things we can do.
The idea that we can’t, that we have to buy shit instead, because art is a product and you have to have the bestest prettiest most perfect product, is the enemy of joy. It’s the death of culture. And it means that, instead of whatever it is that you cherish and enjoy and value, you get whatever inoffensive (and to whom is it inoffensive?) bland meaningless samey-samey crap that the bastards want you to be allowed to have. What are you missing and what are you missing out on, if you don’t make or modify or decorate anything for yourself, if you don’t think you can because the product at the end won’t be polished or perfect or marketable enough? What do you lose? What do we lose?
It is a desperately vital and necessary thing for you to make shit. For you to know that you can make shit, that you don’t have to just lie back and take whatever pablum the bastards want to force-feed you (and charge you through the nose for). That the bastards need you more than you need them.
Become ungovernable. Be your own weirdly-endearing punk little freak. Paint on a t-shirt. Sing off-key in the shower or at karaoke night or at open mic night. Make up a story where you get to meet your favourite fictional character and you guys hug or fuck or punch each other in the face. Make art. Do it badly. Do it frequently. Do it enthusiastically. Do it for love and joy and creativity and fun and the spiteful joy of thumbing your nose at some smug motherfucker with a Swiss bank account who wants to track your heartbeat and location for the rest of your life in order to automatically pump AI-generated beats matched to your mood into your earbuds for a small monthly subscription fee of $24.99/month. It is literally the only way we are ever going to have even a chance to save art and our own lives from the bastards.
So. Paint that t-shirt.
(Also support artists where you can, and buy your music from Bandcamp.)
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