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@adelinejclose

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It looks like the Library of Congress is finally wrapping up the processing of the Sondheim papers! According to the link below, the music and lyrics will be available to researchers by July 1, with the rest of the papers and a full finding aid available later in the summer. (I assume they’re saying “acquires” because that’s a more interesting headline than “finishes documenting”—we‘ve known for decades that Sondheim had promised his papers to the LOC.)

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SPRING AWAKENING dir. michael arden | 2015

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a concept: heavy rainfall when you’re tucked up in bed. like if u agree.

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to quote my bestie and pulitzer prize winner tony kushner “hope isn’t a choice, it’s a moral obligation, an obligation to the cells in your body” and “it is an ethical obligation to look for hope; it is an obligation not to despair.” like god. it is so fucking hard it is harder than anything in the world to wake up and have faith that things will be better and we can change things but it is the only thing we tangibly have and can pass on to other people. idrk where i was going with this but yea

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so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

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daily affirmations:

i am kind

i am in control of my emotions

it does not bother me when someone is in the kitchen while i was planning to be in there alone

everyone in the house has the right to be in the kitchen

i am kind and in control of my emotions even when someone is in the kitchen while i was planning to be in there alone

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I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.

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it will pass ..

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Bruce Springsteen visiting his childhood home in New Jersey. 1980s | 2025.

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*clang* *CLANGG* *clang clang KLINK* *CLANNNNNNNNG* oh sorry i didn't see you there i was just hitting my sword against things

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i must not take it personal. taking it personal is the mind killer. taking it personal is the little death that brings total oblivion. i will face taking it personal. i will permit it to pass over and through me. and when it has gone past i will turn the inner eye to see its path. when the taking it personal has gone there will be nothing. only i will remain

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Moonstruck (1987) dir. Norman Jewison

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