jerrykatt

[jerrykatt]

look! the moonlight shows us for what we really are. we are not among the living, and so we cannot die — but neither are we dead.

[jerrykatt]

whenever I see archeological remains of a human who suffered from a terrible disease that couldn’t be treated in their lifetime but could be fixed now, this wave of sorrow and mourning washes over me. a woman in the 14th century who spent her 35 years of life bent at the waist because of congenital scoliosis. a man from the 18th century who died because of a non cancerous mass on his jaw that made eating progressively more difficult. remains of a woman from the Neolithic who died in childbirth having evidence of peri-mortem trepanation on her skull.

and yet she survived to 35. and yet the physicians in his time tried to strengthen his jaw. and yet someone 4,000 years ago tried to save someone they loved from dying of preeclampsia/increased cranial pressure. we tried. we tried and we tried and we tried. we failed and we learned but we tried. that’s what makes humans so beautiful.

[jerrykatt]

Such language!! Much crow!!

We aren't shipping the poster right away because I want to integrate all social media feedback prior to printing.

Tell me how to say "crow" in your language!!

My stuff :

✧Read Namesake✧ ✧Read Crow Time✧ ✧Store✧ ✧Patreon✧

Here is the poster!

[jerrykatt]

This made me so fucking angry I have to inflict it on all of you.

[jerrykatt]

This is Money Snake. She only appears every 312 years. 

If you reblog her picture within the next twenty-five seconds you will have good luck and fortune for the rest of your life. 

[jerrykatt]

donald trump will die on july 20th 2025 at 1pm pacific standard time

[jerrykatt]

Um.

[jerrykatt]

It's really fucked up when you treat characters like people and people like characters.

[jerrykatt]

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and it was the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.

[jerrykatt]

this is who youre asking to work 40hrs per week btw

[jerrykatt]

God can you imagine if Donald Trump became president? There’d be like a new bubonic plague and he’d be like “idk drink bleach about it”

[jerrykatt]

Employer: “Where do you see yourself 10 years from now?”

Me:

[jerrykatt]

character who is doomed by the narrative but essentially responds to it by going "nuh uh"

[jerrykatt]

Yang Yanmin, Travellers ride camels on Mingsha mountain after heavy snowfall, Dunhuang, China, 2018.

[jerrykatt]

An early 20th century postcard against the coercion of motherhood and promoting the usage of contraception.

[jerrykatt]

[jerrykatt]

Michelle Cliff died in 2016 at the age of 69. Much of her legacy is still fresh within the global consciousness, so to look at her, there is a unique opportunity to gain help from her posthumously. As a writer, she left behind a lot of work, much of which is described as semi-autobiographical. When discussing her work, she often pointed out how many of the stories she told, while different in specific details, were mirror images of her life. One of the characters she relied most heavily on to work through her life story was Clare Savage, a character who appeared in two of Cliff’s novels, Abeng and No Telephone to Heaven.

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