#Broadside Press

[uwmspeccoll]

International Women's Day

In celebration of Women’s History Month and International Women’s Day (March 8), we’re showcasing one of writer, educator, intersectional feminist, poet, civil rights activist, and former New York public school librarian Audre Lorde’s (1934–1992) early collections of poetry. From a Land Where Other People Live was published in 1973 by Detroit’s groundbreaking Broadside Press. This independent press was founded in 1965 by poet, University of Detroit librarian, and Detroit’s first poet laureate Dudley Randall (1914-2000) with the mission to publish the leading African American poetry of the time in a well-designed format that was also "accessible to the widest possible audience." A comprehensive catalog of Broadside Press’s impressive roster of artists (including Gwendolyn Brooks, Nikki Giovanni, and Alice Walker, to name a few), titled Broadside Authors and Artists: An Illustrated Biographical Directory, was published in 1974 by educator and fellow University of Detroit librarian Leaonead Pack Drain-Bailey (1906-1983).  

Lorde described herself in an interview with Callaloo Literary Journal in 1990 as “a Black, Lesbian, Feminist, warrior, poet, mother doing [her] work”. She dedicated her life to “confronting and addressing injustices of racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia.” From a Land Where Other People Live is a powerfully intimate expression of her personal struggles with identity and her deeply rooted critiques of social injustice. The work was nominated for the National Book Award for poetry in 1974, the same year that Broadside Press published New York Head Shop and Museum, another volume of Lorde’s poetry featured in our collection. You can find more information on her writings and on the organization inspired by her life and work by visiting The Audre Lorde Project.     

More posts on Broadside Press publications  

More Women’s History Month posts  

More International Women’s Day posts  

-- Ana, Special Collections Graduate Fieldworker 

[garadinervi]

Margaret Walker, The Ballad of the Free [from Prophets for a New Day, Broadside Press, 1970], in This is My Century. New and Collected Poems, (1942, 1970, 1973), The University of Georgia Press, Athens, GA, and London, 1989, pp. 60-61

[lisamarie-vee]

[agirlnamedbone]

(broadside available at Factory Hollow Press)

[historical-fashion-polls]

Hello there! Someone asked for some middle- and lower-class fashions, and I think I have an ok resource? This website (https://www.soundsurvey.org.uk/index.php/history/street_cries) has digitised a lot of books that were popular in the 19th century of "old street cries," which documented (idk how accurately) different street sellers and their jingles they would use to attract customers. They have wonderfully lively illustrations of working-class garb, mostly in the 19th century. Some of the books on this website were produced much later than the period they illustrate (i.e. published in the 1860s but about street cries of the 1700s) while others were produced more at the same time. There's a lot of material but the search thingy on the left hand side is pretty handy!

Hope this helps! I'm a big fan of both your blogs and look forward to seeing what variety happens with the fashion polls 💖💐

hello my darling!

thank you for reaching out! and thank you so much for your sweet words 🥰🥰 I'm really glad you're enjoying my blogs!! ☺️☺️

and omg thank you for this fantastic resource! "street cries" were a genre I was aware of, but I hadn't thought of using them to source fashion images, so this is brilliant! 💕💕

the school where I got my masters degree had a really amazing special collections library, and they had a great collection of street cries, chapbooks, broadsides, and other ephemera documenting the popular culture of london throughout the 19th century. and while I was there, they had put on a little exhibition of some of that material, which led me to a chapbook about a sensationalized murder with some really wild images in it. anyway, that led me to develop my final research project for my art history theory class where I focused on depictions of criminals - specifically murderers - in the late victorian london press and the ways in which they constructed the visuality of "criminality." I didn't actually end up using any street cries in that final paper, but I still thought it was a cool connection!

but thank you so much again! I'm very excited to put some of these into a poll!! ☺️☺️

have a fantastic day! 💕💖💕💖

[aaknopf]

In the prologue to Spectral Evidence, Pulitzer winner Gregory Pardlo’s new collection, he writes, “This book is about the legal means by which fear is used to rationalize the persecution of people imagined to be in league with the possessed of supernatural forces. This book argues that the logic used to rationalize the prosecution of witches is the same logic that rationalizes vigilantism and police street justice.” He goes on to consider that both Black men and white women are “similarly pressed into service as both muse and monster in the Western cultural imagination,” while, at their ghostly intersection, the patriarchy is haunted by “the omnipresent but rarely named” Black woman. 

One iconic example, brought forth in these shimmering poems of the self as shaped by (and shaping) American history, is Tituba, the only woman of color to be accused in the Salem witch trials.

Occult

Zero your scales to the burden of a lash, Dear Justice, but let Tituba clumsy the Magistrates’ minds with a wag of her wizened index. A flight risk near forests of the Wampanoag where Christians savaged Queen Weetamoo’s corpse, what else might Tituba, nonwhite and woman, haunt but a margin of error? She’s a catbird’s song trapped in the chimney. She’s egg whites in water, she is the tumescence of smoke. Dear Mami Wata, let Tituba prove to be the stone that splits the stream of their vision. Let her renounce sight and be unseen. Let her cough ground coral in the shedding of a pewter moon, that she, of all the innocents, should live. Dear Three-headed Hecate, replace her, the unthought thought, with wax, twigs, horse hair and straw. Let her not appear as a witness. Nor as evidence. As with the talking dog, let her be the hoodoo that speaks through their mirrors. Let a hang-thread skein of yarn ghost the floorboards tempting a red cat—his familiars, the devil and his counsel, the canary. Let her conjure the man in black they fear who charms pilgrims on the road to paradise, disguised as a harmless birdwatcher. Dear Nemesis, let her feed the court a few names from his register—a taste of her truth, her mise en abyme, her one hell that calls forth another. With no standing on her own behalf, let her sit in judgment. Let this power invested of gavel and oath help her give birth through her mouth like a god.

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Spectral Evidence by Gregory Pardlo.

Browse other books by Gregory Pardlo and follow him on Twitter @pardlo.

Click here for a special NYPL recording of Imani Perry and Gregory Pardlo in conversation about Spectral Evidence. 

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[razzledazzleemmet]

During the process of making the blot cartoons, I incidentally made a small broadside beach OC along with them! Tracey Lauren, the 'archiver' behind the project. Some more info about them and Laurel under the cut.

Tracey has always been a broadside fan since she was little, in fact their father worked as an animator there for a long time. I imagine they probably got some sort of benefit that allowed them to visit broadside beach/studiogrounds, so they were there a lot. At some point in the future, they discovered a whole bunch of old tapes which held, albeit corrupted, clips of supposedly lost blot cartoons! Thus, he began to upload whatever snippets he could recover onto the internet to share. However the further they got into the tapes, the less there was of the cartoons- but more footage of things broadside wanted to keep under wraps. As you could imagine, the stuff within the tapes was rather gruesome and scarring for Tracey, but out of some sort of morbid curiosity, they continued to press on. It got to a point where he barely took care of herself in order to get them all uploaded. I don't know exactly what happened after that, but I do know Tracey basically disappeared off the face of the earth (online) after every tape was properly archived.

As for Laurel- I feel like she's debately 'canon' to Tracey's story, but I thought it'd be fun to make him. Laurel somewhat represents Tracey, but more her subconscious want to stop what she's doing and forget everything they unintentionally dug up. I don't think Laurel's very fond of Tracey for this reason... Laurel lives on Nulla Terra and she keeps a sort of record of the history n such on the island. For her minigame, he asks Bucky to help sort through the files in a relatively easy timed matching game. Each time you fail, Laurel becomes notably more uneasy with Bucky's presence (In reference to Tracey becoming aware that the 'Bucky' they knew was actually a murderous corpse in a suit). Things do happen during each failure like in the actual SW64 game, but I think I'll save what happens in them for later :] .

[gay-dorito-dust]

Literally took the comment made by @wacky-nerdchick and made it into a lil fic.

A/n: I also took some inspiration from this prompt list which you can use for requests/asks you may have for me for whatever you want me to write for next. 🦦

Tw: lil gore things, decapitation and some blood.

‘The first transformation was always the worst.’ Jack would always says the day after, voice all groggy and desperate to have five more minutes of ‘comfort cuddles’ as you’d call them. Yet every transformation afterwards never ceased to look and sound like personal torture to you. For nothing hurt you more deeply then being unable to help Jack whenever he cried out in blood curdling pain.

His body and bones forced to contort uncomfortably into angles no human bone should ever take without breaking. You wished to look away each and every time but your promise to Jack in never taking your eyes off of him no matter what always won out every time. You were prohibited from physically reaching out to him without him demanding that you’d stay put and that he was fine. Your heart only broke into even smaller fractures when a couple of minutes after the transformation Jack would stare at you with the eyes of a stranger; He’d soon remembered your scent but it never ceased the sting you felt each time.

The first time Jack transformed within your presence, his claws accidentally nicked the skin of your arm. Upon smelling your blood the werewolf proceeded to licking your wound in hopes you’d feel the sincerity of his apology through his attempts in nursing your injury. The second time Jack transformed within your presence was when someone posed a genuine threat to your life.

Ted had gone and gotten himself captured so it was once again up to you and Jack to go in and save him. One thing lead to another and a hunter by the name of Michael had you held by knifepoint while Jack was attempting to talk him down. “Let them go.” He pleaded. “Let them go,” Michael mocked, looking him up and down before scoffing, “or what? Your going to kick my ass? Please, you don’t seem to be the fighting type.” The broadside of the knife seemed to press closer against the skin of your neck, you feared that when you swallowed it’ll only press the same weapon even closer.

“I will break every bone in your body,” Jack’s tone of voice changed drastically, “I won’t repeat myself again. Let. Them. Go.” His threat, however, went unheard as Michael only laughed it off like he was just told an extremely bad joke. “I’d listen to him if I were you.” You told Michael who’s response was to sneer and tightened his hold on you as he turned his focus on to you this time. “Didn’t I tell you that the next you open your mouth I’d slit your throat, monster sympathiser?” You flinched when the knife bit into your skin, breaking it and causing it to bleed lightly. Due to his heightened sense of smell, Jack could smell your blood from where he stood and something within him snapped. All that mattered to him in that moment was that you had gotten hurt and that it was Michael’s fault.

In what felt like a fraction of actual time, you had been knocked to the floor as Michael’s cries and pleads for mercy fell unheard by Jack as he tore Michael’s arms from their sockets; To then slashing his face with his long claws with such ferocity that all remains was the lower half of his mouth where his bottom row of teeth and tongue were visible. Not once throughout the one sided fight did you look away from Jack so that when he looked back to find you clutching your neck, he was quick to rush to your aid. He whimpered solemnly when he got a good look at your wound before looking you in the eyes once more with regret.

“Jack I’m fine,” you said, “it’s only a small cut I promise.” Jack seemed to whine in response as though to tell you that even so, you still gotten hurt because of your affiliation to him. You sighed, silently blessing this man and his big heart as you reached out to cup his cheek, cooing over how easily he was to start burying his face against it. “You protected me, that’s all that matters right? I’m still alive and we freed Ted, that’s a double win in our case.” You said trying to get him to see the positives that came out of tonight but still he wouldn’t let up on letting know how upset he was with himself through whines. Somewhere nearby Jack heard encroaching footsteps moving in on you two and assumed it was more hunters bound to cause either of you harm; So without any warning he lifted you into his arms before taking off into a sprint deep within the nearby forest where Ted was most likely setting up camp and making you both some tea.

Tea sounded nice right about now.

[mim526]

How Do You Solve the Problem of Harry

From Daily Mail:

‘Our country is judged globally by the state of our Press and our Government — both of which I believe are at rock bottom. Democracy fails when your Press fails to scrutinise and hold the Government accountable, and instead choose to get into bed with them so that they can ensure the status quo.’ ~~ Testimony given in court June 7, 2023 by Harry Mountbatten-Windsor, 5th in line to British throne

Now he's done it. Harold has truly set the fox among the chickens.

Excerpts from one of the best summaries I've read of the situation with Harry and what needs to be done to address it:

"...what he wrote about [the Government] being at ‘rock bottom’ amounts to an unprecedented attack by a senior member of the Royal Family (Harry is fifth in line to the throne). No such royal broadside against elected politicians has ever before been delivered during the history of our constitutional monarchy. It is deplorable — and dangerous.

"...Yet here is the highly privileged Harry, who wrongly accuses the Press as a whole of not holding the ‘rock bottom’ Government to account, doing his utmost to curb newspapers — so that they won’t be free to hold rich and powerful people like him to account. It’s mind-boggling. "This spoilt and entitled man can say whatever he likes, however self-serving. I don’t even mind too much his ignorant attacks on the Press since the Fourth Estate can look after itself, and has survived more formidable foes than Harry

"What I do object to is his assault on the Government — not because I like this crew very much or esteem their competence, but because they are our elected representatives, and shouldn’t be publicly excoriated by an unelected, and foolish, senior member of the Royal Family. "Our constitutional arrangements are a delicate organism, the product of past divisions and compromise. We tolerate — some of us may revere — an unelected head of state, and a Royal Family with all the trimmings, on the firm understanding that they stand apart from politics. "It has worked well enough for the past 200 years because, with a few exceptions, we have had monarchs who have understood the limits of their powers, and respected the right of elected politicians to govern, albeit with the benefit of royal advice. "Of course, no one better understood the importance of safeguarding this precious relationship between Crown and Parliament than our late Queen, Elizabeth II. How Harry’s coarse political invective would have grieved her. "He’s like an unguided missile, sighting enemies here and there, emitting a good deal of smoke and making lots of noise, before finally crashing to earth with an inevitable explosion — and then mysteriously taking off again, seeking some new target. "In short, he’s potentially lethal. If he describes the Government today as ‘rock bottom’, next month or next year he will unearth another disobliging adjective in defiance of our constitutional traditions....  "Or he may direct his rage once more against the royal institution that nurtured him and endowed him with such significance as he will ever have in this world. His father the King hasn’t been immune to his criticisms in the past, and won’t be in the future. "Harry is a divisive figure. He sets people against each other on issues ranging from the Press to the Royal Family to racism and now, his latest bugbear, the Tory Government. "We can work on the assumption this tumultuous character isn’t suddenly going to learn how to behave. That’s never going to happen, with him 6,000 miles away in California, and Meghan by his side. Their future income depends on fomenting controversy. "Harry is the King’s number one problem. And it is not, as Charles should know and his mother certainly realised, primarily a family problem, though it’s partly that. Harry is chiefly dangerous because he is a constitutional liability. "The King loves his errant younger son, despite the lack of respect he has shown to him. I’m sure he hopes Harry will one day return to the fold. But think of the damage he could do before that happens. And of course he might never return. "If the two of them were still close, and spoke to each other, a way might still be found of persuading Harry to stop stirring. But he is alienated from his father, and the rift inevitably widens with every inept public intervention. "There’s only one way. It may be hard for the King as a father, but it should be easy for him as a monarch and head of state. Prince Harry must be told that if he wishes to remain a member of the Royal Family, he will have to behave as members of the Royal Family are expected to. "If he can’t accept this ultimatum — and I don’t imagine he could — Prince Harry must become a private citizen, in which role his facile declamations will soon be barely noticed, and cause no more damage to the country he once served."

What this journalist did not say is

Even if he agrees with Harry about the government -- King Charles needs to initiate action as monarch/head of state to a) give Harry the ultimatum to behave as a royal then b) work with Parliament to divest Harry of his royal status if he refuses to comply.

The Prime Minister as head of the government needs to view Harry's comments re: the government given in court as the constitutional crisis they are and accordingly, advise the King to take this action

What could/should happen to Charles as monarch if he does not deal with the legitimate and serious constitutional crisis a senior member of the monarchy has created.

Interesting discussion of monarch/prime minister roles: What role should the monarch have in a constitutional crisis? | The Constitution Unit Blog (constitution-unit.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We are way past W&C vs. C&C fandoms now. This journalist is absolutely correct that Harry is Charles' number one problem for which there is but one solution. We can debate whether Charles was a good father; he certainly was and is a loving one.

Being a good monarch is more than charitable works and long hours on the job. I would argue that more consequences for bad behavior as a child could have addressed the uber entitlement/arrogance underlying Harry's foolhardy, but dangerous activities as an adult. There weren't consequences, however, so here we are. Harry's responsible for Harry now, period, full stop.

I hope Charles can be persuaded to firm his resolve and do what he won't want to but needs to do to preserve the monarchy. It cannot survive if Harry is allowed to continue pitting it against the government. That is not an exaggeration: Harry made very clear he was acting as an HRH and senior member of the royal family when suing the British press and speaking against the British government. Word to the wise, Harry will not stop with the British government....

#Harry #MirrorGroupTestimony #ConstitutionalCrisis #It'sCrunchTime

[gingerfale]

Fuck it, I haven't posted anything in too long, have a snippet of my Destiel camping fic coming out this summer!

Castiel is a little miffed that he's learning the proper way to steer from the front of the canoe on his third day on the water, but he's mollified by the fact that Dean has decided the best way to teach him is by correcting his form manually.

He's not interested, Castiel chants internally as Dean stands beside him and positions his hands on the paddle. The rest of the group is down on the rocky shore, readying the canoes to go so they can catch the morning release at the dam.

"Alright, you're not going to change hands while you paddle in the rapids. Cuts down on the chance of you losing your paddle. If you do, just grab the spare from the bottom of the canoe."

Dean smiles as he gets Castiel to hold the paddle out to his side. Right hand on the top to direct the motion, and left hand on the shaft (don't think about shafts) to do the heavy pulling. Dean continues as he guides Castiel's hands as he paddles the air.

"Alright, so to turn left you're going to want to lean out over the left side, but keep your center of gravity in the canoe, and you're going to turn the flat of the paddle broadside with the canoe and pull in as hard as you can. Like you want to slap the side of the canoe with the flat of the paddle, but don't actually do that."

Castiel mimes the motion. Pull in to his side with the flat of the paddle. Easy enough. Dean nods approvingly, continuing. "To turn right you're going to reach over to the other side. It's going to feel weird."

It doesn't feel right, crossing his left arm across with the paddle. It's not possible to paddle properly this way, and he jerks his sore shoulder as he tries.

"Easy sunshine. You're not trying to propel the canoe forward, the current'll do that for you. You're just going to guide the bow." Dean moves to stand behind Castiel, his arms sliding around him. They're warm, with sun browned skin dotted with freckles. Castiel tightens his grip on the shaft (goddammit) of the paddle to keep him from pulling Dean's arms closer, getting him flush against him, and investigating his skin with a closer eye. Dean doesn't notice this, placing his hands over Castiel's and guiding him gently, fanning the paddle in towards where the front of the canoe will be.

"Think of it as pulling the water towards the bow." Dean says, low into his ear. Castiel copies the motion. "There you go." Dean's breath is warm on his neck and Castiel forgets how to paddle again, his hands floundering. He chances a glance at the other campers getting ready on the other side of camp. Sam is demonstrating for Rowena, Eileen, Donna, and a perpetually distracted Gabriel with his own paddle, while Jody and Bobby chat casually with their backs to them. Rufus reclines in the back of his canoe with his arms crossed and cap pulled low over his eyes.

Only Castiel is getting the hands on treatment. He'd appreciate it more if he knew if this is the best way to learn or if it was reserved only for the most hopeless cases.

He focuses on the motion, trying to make sure he understands enough of the mechanics of what Dean is teaching him that they won't get swamped in the rapids. They move together. Warm skin on warm skin. A mosquito lands on his wrist and he ignores it, too determined to keep Dean's hands on his. Dean notices though, and he makes a soft grunt of disapproval, and slides his thumb down across Castiel's skin to dislodge it. Doesn't swat it flat and smear it, just nudges it away. He rubs the spot it had bitten down, presses the pad of his thumb down just hard enough that when he adjusts the grip back to focus on paddling that the white imprint of his finger ghosts Castiel's skin for a moment before blood rushes back in and it fades away.

Castiel carefully steels his expression before looking up to meet Dean's gaze. Up close he can see where Dean's long lashes have been clumped together by a sleepy hand. There are even smaller freckles on the soft skin under Dean's eyes and hidden in the stubble around his lips, which are a very pleasing color this close up.

"How dangerous is this exactly?" Castiel asks.

Dean's tongue quickly wets those lips and he clears his throat, Adam apple bobbing slightly before answering. "Every couple of years we have somebody dump in the rapids, it's possible to get hurt bad but just remember to point your feet downriver if you fall in, and don't fight the current."

"Don't fight the current?" Castiel asks, eyes still on Dean's mouth.

"Nah, you're gonna end up where the river wants you. Getting swept away is scary, but you have more control than you think," Dean shifted on his feet, "you know, uh, swimming and all that."

Castiel looks up to meet Dean's eyes, unsurprised to find he's being watched. He wonders if Dean minds how close they're standing, with Dean's arms still around him.

"I'm an excellent swimmer." Castiel says in a low but steady voice. Dean huffs out a laugh that may just be a deep breath, finally pulling away. He shakes his hands out like they've gone numb.

"I bet you are, Rainman."

[acatalystrising]

Okay, so there’s been SO MUCH lovely Boba content lately, and it has been giving me SO many thots! So many, in fact, I simply must share some of them here. And by some, I mean specifically dom, brat tamer!Boba thots. So you’ve been warned. Hehe.

@daimyosprincess @thirsty-boba-fett-posts and @marierg - ALL of you are responsible (in all the best ways I love you guys bunchesss) so feel free to jump in here if you wish hehe, as well as anyone else who is interested!

NSFW below the cut, minors DNI.

• I just KNOW Daimyo Boba could handle a brat. Yes, he’s a bit older (like that’s really going to stop him) and more scarred. But, but…that man is not built like the broadside of a barn with a voice like liquid sin for no reason. Boba likes a good challenge, always has, and that definitely would still be the case for the bedroom.

• He would secretly love the fact that you feel safe enough with him to push your luck. He knows of his reputation - hell, he forged it that way on purpose. You are safe with him, and he with you, something that has been built over time. And because if this, you absolutely would test his patience and push every button you could to get a rise out of him. And oh boy, do you get a rise.

• Boba likes you feisty. He likes it when you fight back. Boba is equal parts gentle and rough - a duality that can swing either direction depending on the moment. But when he gets rough…you’d better expect there to be marks. Small bruises, hickeys, you name it. But only if you want. In this case, you do. You love carrying his marks, little reminders to you and everyone else that you are his alone.

• And you better bet that Boba knows how to tame a brat. You think you’ve got the upper hand? Wrong. The man was a bounty hunter for years. There is no way you get in and out of that profession without a few kinks. (Or a lot.) Binders? Pressure points? Restraint? Bingo. But his greatest weapon in this sort of situation is something you initially underestimated and are now dearly paying for…his voice.

• Boba is a KING at dirty talk. The man loves making you squirm, and he knows you have a thing for his voice (how could you not?) and shamelessly uses that to his full advantage.

• So how could this all play out? I’m glad you asked. Here’s a little snippet below, feel free to add your thots!

-

“Think you’re so clever now, princess?”

A sharp whine bubbled from your lips even as you struggled underneath him, panting breaths fogging his visor. His grip on your arms tightened as he pulled them further over your head, big hands not giving you an ounce of wiggle room to escape.

“Oh, come on, I was just teasing.” You swallowed, but it felt like your heart was working it’s way up your throat. “You don’t seriously think I’m just going to give up without a-”

Boba shifted both of your wrists to one hand, the other removing his helmet with a hiss, then slipping around your throat. You were caged beneath him, underwear already soaked, his weight pressing you into the bed. And his hand at your throat? You could barely string a sentence together.

“Keep talking and your punishment will only be worse.” His breath was hot on your ear, lips mere centimeters from your skin. He caressed your throat with a lone finger, and you shivered. “You want kisses? Want me to fuck you senseless?”

You nodded, sweat beading on your forehead, a moan ripping from your throat when he licked your ear, nibbling on it with a growl.

“Mesh’la,” his eyes found yours - they were sinfully dark, commanding. A cunning smirk curved on his lips like a knife. “Use your words.”

“Oh gods, just fuck me,” you wriggled beneath him, purposefully shifting so your thighs rubbed against his swelling erection. Two could play this game, after all. “You win. Fuck me.”

But Boba Fett, damn him, only shook his head with a cluck of his tongue, lowering his face to the crook of your neck. He pinned you with ease, stopping even the slightest of squirms, yet again reminding you exactly how kriffing strong he was, and who you were dealing with.

As if you could ever forget.

“Use your manners. Only good girls get what they want,” his tone was teasing, dripping with mirth, victory, and something altogether deadly. He pressed a kiss to your pulse point. “What’ll it be? Can my little brat say please?”

You whined - maker, kriffing, whined. A war waged in your flustered brain between the urge to push back and the desire for him to fill you. Boba chuckled, licking a stripe up your neck.

“Aww, can’t use your words, hmm?” He shifted to pull away with an indifferent shrug. “Well that’s too bad.”

Oh maker no. He wouldn’t.

He would.

“No, wait!” You leaned forward, cheek pressing against his chest armor with a whimper. “Please, I…I’ll be good. I won’t cause any more trouble. Just…fuck me. Please please fuck me. I can’t, can’t…”

Boba smirked down at you, absolutely relishing his effect on you, and moved his hand at your throat to your cheek.

“Oh, poor thing,” his tone was absolutely dripping with pseudo mockery as he gave your cheek a pinch. “So flustered you can’t think? And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

“Boba, please…” you squeezed your eyes shut, breaths nearly a sob. “Please, please, I need you. Need you so bad.”

“Hmm, well,” Boba’s eyes flashed predatory in the dark, lips curving in a victorious grin. “If you insist.”

His hand on your cheek slid down your body and between your legs, and he chuckled when he felt the evidence of your arousal at his fingertips.

“Poor little princess,” he kissed you, keeping you pinned down, fingers circling your clit. “So needy. So desperate. All for me.”

“Y-yes, all for you,” you tried to nod, words choking to moans when he slipped one of his thick digits inside you. “Only you.”

You were so wet you could hear the slick of his fingers against your flesh, Boba’s heartbeat thundering in your ears, his breaths ragged - hot and needy and desperate. You once again found yourself marveling at his restraint. How he could hold himself back at all was a…

He slipped a second finger inside you, curling them to your stomach, striking that devastating spot inside you with such accuracy it had you wriggling beneath him with a loud cry. Pleasure grew like a furnace, steadily growing hotter and hotter, until it overflowed in a spray of fiery sparks and phthalo phosphorescence - all captured in your guttural cry as you careened over the edge.

When you finally came back to your senses, Boba was holding you close to his chest, his beskar blissfully cool against your burning skin. He ran a gentle hand through your hair, chuckling when you leaned into his touch.

“Ahh,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek, tone low, teasing. “So she can be a good girl after all.”

You halfheartedly grumbled, cheeks heating in a wild blush, and curled against him with a sigh. A rumbling chuckle reverberated through his chest as he cupped your chin, directing your gaze at his.

“Catch a breath, little one,” he kissed you once, then twice, then again, mouth searingly hot like a branding iron. “Because I’m not through with you, yet.”

[uwmspeccoll]

It’s Fine Press Friday!  

Today we’re taking a closer look at some of Indianapolis-based artist Carl Pope’s (b. 1961 ) work—a portfolio of broadsides produced for the installation series The Bad Air Smelled of Roses. The edition in our collection consists of 71 letterpress prints of varying dimensions (all around 56 x 36 cm) produced with wood type at York Show Prints in York, Alabama (formerly run by Amos Paul Kennedy, whose works are also represented in our collection) and Tribune Showprint in Earl Park, Indiana (“the oldest continuously operating letterpress shop in the country”) on poster and chip board between 2004-2005, nearly all of which are signed by the artist.  

Pope characterizes the work, which has grown since its original iteration to include 108 posters, as “an ongoing essay about the presence and function of Blackness in society” and an exploration of the "various psychological and emotional states like forgetfulness, insanity, alienation" associated with "the poetics of Blackness." He chose to present a selection of texts drawn from a variety of sources including “modern Black literature, René Descartes, jazz and rap music, Sigmund Freud, Malcolm X, Dolly Parton, movie dialogue from Casablanca and The Matrix...” in letterpress print form because of the medium’s historical associations with marketing and political activism.   

When installed in the rarified context of an art gallery or museum, as this series has now been exhibited on numerous occasions, the commercial qualities of Pope’s posters incite a productive slippage in our assumptions around high and low culture. As he puts it in a 2018 interview with Hyperallergic, “I don’t see culture as the production of beautiful paintings and works of art, you know, although culture includes that. For me the production of progressive culture is the collaborative practice with myself and other people in the world of ideals, to create and to advance human evolution... I’m not interested in using art as a tool for cultural imperialism.”     

View more Fine Press Friday posts.  

View Amos Paul Kennedy posts. 

View more letterpress posts.

View more wood type posts.

– Ana, Special Collections Graduate Fieldworker 

[garadinervi]

Margaret Walker, Girl Held Without Bail [from Prophets for a New Day, Broadside Press, 1970], in This is My Century. New and Collected Poems, (1942, 1970, 1973), The University of Georgia Press, Athens, GA, and London, 1989, p. 56

[usnatarchives]

Preservation Technician cleans a record while wearing a battery powered air-purifying respirator for protection. Decontamination Lab, National Archives at St. Louis, MO.

Conservators: Magicians of the Archives! November 4 is #AskAConservator Day! Our conservators will take over Twitter Nov. 4 to answer your burning questions about how we deal with mold, water and insect damage in order to preserve these records for generations to come! Ask questions & follow the hashtag to see who else is participating worldwide. 

See related National Archives News story: Fulbright Scholar Joins Heritage Science Lab and Tumblr post: We Welcome Cancy Chu - Our 1st Heritage Science Fulbright Scholar!

Check out our state-of-the-art labs! Lab at the National Archives, St. Louis, MO See this lab’s continuing work to save and reconstruct the records damaged in the 1973 fire. 

Magna Carta Conservation Treatment See NARA conservators use UV photography to reveal previously illegible writing on a 1297 Magna Carta (on loan from David M. Rubenstein).

Ultraviolet fluorescence photo of the 1297 Magna Carta parchment (before treatment) revealed obliterated text in damaged areas. Photo by Sarah Raithel. Related press release: National Archives Conservators Reveal Previously Illegible Text in Magna Carta

Saving the Iraqi Jewish Archive Days after the Coalition forces took over Baghdad in 2003, American soldiers entered Saddam Hussein’s flooded intelligence building and found, under four feet of water, books and documents relating to the Jewish community of Iraq. Learn how these records were vacuum freeze-dried, preserved and digitized under the direction of the National Archives. View these records here.

Peek “behind the scenes” to see treatment of these records in the National Archives state-of-the-art Conservation Lab.

Due to mold, conservation staff wore gloves and masks, and worked under ventilation hoods whole working with records from the Iraqi Jewish Archive. 

Preserving Family Histories Paper conservator Annie Wilker repairs an 18th-century fraktur and demonstrates techniques used to preserve damaged documents.

More secrets revealed online!

What's a Conservator?

NARA Conservators Meet the Challenge Every Day, Prologue Magazine

Repairing Existing Damage to Family Papers and Photographs

Declaration of Independence - learn about the conservation treatment and re-encasement of the document.

Preserving the Dunlap Broadside 

[atherix]

As promised the Etho story. It. It is way longer than I expected it to be. Also wow I made him so pathetic I love him.

--

The building is dark, darker than he ever expected; the walls groan as he presses against them, hiding in the shadows and behind old discarded boxes and, hopefully, away from the eyes of passing Vampires.

None of them seem to notice him, though whether that’s because he’s a master of stealth or because they’re all rushing around he isn’t quite sure. He likes to think it’s the former, at least.

(Cleo would scoff at that, saying it’s easier to miss the broadside of a barn than to not notice him with his shock of white hair.)

He crouches when someone walks too close to his hiding spot, peering out between the gaps of the long-abandoned shipping containers. He closes his right eye, letting red bleed across his vision; through the walls he can just barely make out movement and figures, flashing in various shades of blue against the reds of the world around him. It sends pain spiking through his head, down his spine, but he counts the figures in that room, satisfied to find there are only three of them.

Three. He can deal with three. He glances either way of the crates, watching as the figure passes down the hall and behind a new wall.

He blinks the red away from his vision, reality setting back into place, and scurries out of his hiding place. The door is a little to the right of where he thought it was- when everything is red it’s hard to know for certain where one object ends and the next begins- but only a small change to his trajectory is needed to send him vaulting through the door.

To his surprise the figures are crowded around something else. One looks up and he dives for a pile of wooden slats. Destroyed crates, if he had to wager a guess. One particularly tall pair of slats offers him a convenient corner to kneel out of sight in, and he closes his good eye once more, letting red overtake his vision once more.

He ignores the throbbing pain settling into the back of his head. This is important. He knows it is.

This could be the answer to everything.

“She’s coming!” someone calls, their voice echoing, and the three figures crowded in the corner disperse, and he thinks they turn to look at the door though like this he can only make out that they’ve moved.

Etho glances towards the door, secure in the knowledge that the slats block him from its sights, and follows a small group as they stalk up the hallways. There are five of them, three of them walking bent at the waist as if stuck in a perpetual bow; one walks with confidence and the remaining trails behind them.

The Lord, Etho knows; he remembers easily how so many of Cleo’s rescues act towards them when they first come to her. He remembers how they kneel, cowering at their feet. What he doesn’t know is if they’re Vampires or Thralls, or just Humans who have given up.

“My Lord,” one of the figures says- they sound young, no more than a teenager, and Etho grits his teeth, “I swear I can do this. You can count on me! I will deliver them to you!”

“No,” the Lord says, voice sharp, and Etho recognizes that voice. Maria. “You will not deliver them to me. I have another task for you.”

Etho follows them with his eye, watching how the three bowing figures stop at the door and sink down to their knees- definitely Thralls, he thinks with a shudder. The other two step into the room and the three figures already there bow in greeting, standing up straight once the tall figure- Maria- waves them off.

“What do you need me to do, my Lord?” the young voice asks, eager.

“I need you to lead the traitor’s allies astray,” Maria says, and Etho frowns. Traitors. It isn’t hard to guess who she’s talking about.

(She’s still bitter, it seems.)

“Take them to the warehouse, where the Strays are,” Maria continues, and Etho thinks he can hear a smile in her voice. “Let them hear what they have to say, and let them report to Cleo and her lot.”

“You want me to lead them to the Strays?” the young Vampire repeats, slowly- hesitantly. “But what if they wipe them out?”

“I don’t care what happens to them,” Maria says flippantly. “They’ve started taking Turned as mates. You were an exception, dear niece; my sister loved you greatly, enough to want to keep you with her forever, as her... daughter. You are special.” It sounds as if the words pain her to say, disgust warring with the meaning of her words. The young Vampire doesn’t seem to notice, standing up straighter as if proud at the apparent acceptance. Etho bites his tongue. “You were chosen for this gift. But to take a Turned as a mate- it’s despicable. Disgusting. A mistake of the highest order, one your mother suffered from. The Strays have lost their way. If they die, why should we care? All they need to do is deliver the message, and then Cleo will come right to us, on our terms.”

“Of course, my Lord,” says the younger Vampire, voice full of awe. “You truly are the best Lord this Coven could have. Your plans-”

“Quiet,” Maria sharply cuts through, silencing her ‘niece.’ “Please, niece... call me Auntie.”

It’s sickening, the sugary sweet tone she takes. Etho can hear the lies coating the words, the disgust. Whoever this child is, or was... Etho wonders if Cleo would be able to help them, the way they had helped so many others.

“Yes, Auntie,” the young Vampire says reverently, and Etho tries not to judge them; this life is all they’ve ever known. He watches the shorter figure bow to Maria before turning and leaving. He follows it down the hall, thinking for a moment to intercept them; if he can stop them, then whoever they’re talking about won’t fall prey to their trap.

Cleo and BDubs won’t walk right into their trap.

“Brutes,” Maria says, a little loud, and the three figures behind her straighten up. “Get the rat.”

It takes Etho two and a half seconds too long to register her words, and by the time he realizes it’s too late; a pair of arms circle around his chest.

He thrashes, yelling to let go as he wriggles away. Colors flood his vision, temporarily blinding him as he opens his eye too soon, and pain flares up, burning in his skull.

He throws himself towards the open door but the Thralls sit there, husks of their former selves, and he stumbles when he recognizes one.

Barely, but he does. One of Cleo’s humans, now drained of everything that had made them human.

(He thinks of all the times he’s passed this human in the manor halls. They always greeted him brightly, happily, and was one of Cleo’s favorites. He never spoke to them, but he knew Cleo and BDubs would talk for hours with them; they had been Cleo’s most trusted human, the one who would go to the village in their stead and go to the markets, fetching everything the Coven could ever want. He didn’t even know how many times that person had brought him redstone at his request, even when he wasn’t home. They went missing months before, when Joe disappeared.

He doesn’t even know their name.)

His hesitation costs him; two bodies slam into him, shoving him to the ground. Etho yells and struggles, and when he looks up the Thrall stares at him blankly- empty, a smile stretched across their face. Skin grey and eyes dull and flat, nothing more than a skeleton with flesh pulled taut over the bones-

Now, he thinks he knows where Joe is.

“You know,” Maria says, walking towards him with a steady click click of the heels of her boots, “when most people sneak into a Vampire’s territory to spy, they at least try to disguise their scent.”

His scent. Etho could hit himself. How did he not think of his scent? Every single one of those Vampires knew he was there. He glares up at Maria, her platinum hair almost glowing in the dull moonlight filtering in through the dirty warehouse windows.

“Why drag this out, Maria?” he asks, grinning up at her from where he’s held against the floor. She kneels down, chin up even as she smirks down at him.

“I prefer Myrani these days,” she says, tilting her head, and Etho’s brow furrows. Myrani? That’s a Fae word, he knows- and not a very nice one. “It sounds so much better than Maria, doesn’t it?” She laughs, and Etho scowls; she knows.

“Why didn’t your lackeys attack me when I first got in here?” he demands, patience running out. He struggles against the Vampires holding him down.

Maria laughs. “Well, where would be the fun in that?” she asks, waving a hand. The Vampires- brutes, as Maria called them- pull him up to his knees, yanking his arms behind his back. He hisses in pain and snarls at them, his teeth sharpening under his gaiter, and Maria tsks at him. She grabs his chin, forcing him to look up at her.

She grins, showing off her fangs. There’s still a dull red tint to them and he grimaces. “No, you’re right where we want you, demon.”

“I’m not a demon,” he snaps, irritated. “You’ve made a big mistake, you know. Now I know where your Coven is-”

She laughs, not even a single moment for the words to sink in; she laughs, and the brutes behind him laugh with her. It’s verging on hysteria, tears pricking her eyes as she throws her head back and laughs, and Etho’s teeth clack painfully as his mouth slams shut.

He is clearly very, very wrong.

“You think this is where my Coven is?” Maria laughs, leaning closer to him with a twisted grin. “Oh, my dear, silly demon. This is just a safehouse. Besides, you won’t be bringing anyone here,” she adds, shoving his face back as she stands up again. He glares. “No, you’re going to do what I tell you, or you’re not leaving at all.”

“Wanna bet?” Etho scoffs, and he tugs at himself as hard as he can- like a thread unraveling he feels himself unravel, like a ball of yarn down a steep flight of stairs or an old raggedy dress coming undone at the seams, and he feels himself fall apart, the solid bones of his arms liquefying for just a moment before turning to mist. He pulls away from them, weightless and eternal, unsolid and uncatchable, as he fades into nothing more than mist.

He’s free. He’s free, he feels it in every fiber of his incorporeal being, sees it in the red and heat and chill that floods his vision, in the everything he can see around him, in the painless numbness that falls over his senseless form. He’s free.

And then he’s not.

He presses at the confines and struggles against it; he can’t see what is holding him, not like this. He’s surrounded and the world is dimming, dulling into a purple color- cooler, cooling, as if he’s surrounded by something cool, and it’s hard to see the moving figures on the other side as their cooler blues mix with the purple filling all angles of his vision.

He struggles. He pulls himself together again, enough to press semi-solid hands against glass, and he realizes-

He’s in a glass bottle.

They caught me in a glass bottle.

(He has never been so insulted before in his life.)

His world narrows, the room tilting as he blinks his eyes back into existence. When he can only see from those eyes once more he looks around wildly, looking for a way out. Everything presses in on his center core, his entire mass pressed into a form farm denser than any human form he has ever taken before, because he’s caught in an old wine bottle that glows dimly with magic.

The feeling of the enchanted glass sends a shiver down his arms. It isn’t right. It’s cold.

Magic isn’t meant to be cold.

“Like it?” Maria asks, grinning down at him, and Etho glowers up at her. He’s small- small enough to fit in this bottle, his entire being forced into it somehow. “I know a mage,” Maria adds, turning around with him still clutched in her hand. “Little demon in a bottle.”

Not a demon, he thinks again, pushing as much of his density against the glass as he can. It doesn’t even crack.

“Not even hard to do,” she giggles, the sound like ice down his back. He pulls his gaiter up higher, as if trying to hide in it. She throws herself down on a chair, as if it were a throne, and crosses one leg over the other, propping the bottle up on her knee. He steadies himself on his feet, feeling too heavy; all his weight, all his mass concentrated into one three-inch-tall form... 

It’s not pleasant.

Maria leans on her hand, gazing down at him with a lazy grin. “Wasn’t too hard to bait you into it, either,” she says, spinning the bottle around. He stumbles, falling into the glass and bracing himself as she just keeps spinning him. “So, misty guy- may I call you Misty?”

“No!” he yells.

“Well, Misty,” she goes on, as if he didn’t answer at all, “I’m going to give you a choice.”

He glares at her.

She smirks back. “One, you work for me. You do what I tell you to do, you report to me, and I’ll spare your plucky little halfbreed.”

Anger flares up through his chest. “Don’t call him-”

She shakes the bottle, throwing him off of his feet. He lands heavily on the bottom and groans. “I wasn’t done. Do everything I tell you and I’ll spare the half Elf Vampire,” she continues, grinning as she watches him stagger back to his feet. “I’ll know if you don’t do it.”

He narrows his eyes at her, studying her expression. Confidence oozes off of her, as if she isn’t at all worried about him exposing her. Of course, if this isn’t even her Coven house, he supposes she doesn’t have to worry. 

But how would she know? Actually- how does she even know about BDubs? He came around long after Maria was locked away. She never met him.

She never should have even known about him.

“I have eyes everywhere,” she says, chuckling lowly, and he silently curses her. “And ears.”

“... You planted a mole,” he mutters, cold realization settling in. There’s a traitor somewhere.

“I didn’t have to,” she says, picking the bottle up again and lightly shaking it. He braces himself, sliding down so he can’t fall again. It’s dizzying to be shaken like this, but if he becomes mist again he won’t be able to see her. To see her face. “There are Vampires everywhere who believe the truth, even amongst your Covens out there. They came to me.”

He doesn’t want to believe it. He lifts his chin. “No.”

“Here’s the deal,” she says, as if he hasn’t already refused. “You work for me, and report everything your snooping little Lord and her allies learn to me. You will feed them false information, you will deliver them to me when the time is right, and if you don’t I will find out. If you don’t, I will wipe out all of you.” She grins widely, showing off her fangs. They’re longer than they should be and Etho glares at her, refusing to back down. “And if you outright refuse, you’ll be stuck in this bottle and you’ll watch me rip your dear little mossy Elf apart bit. By. Bit.”

He swallows, trying to push away the images that force their way into his mind. “You can’t even drink Vampires’ blood,” he says.

“So? Doesn’t mean I won’t kill him,” she says, shrugging. “It’s your choice. Either save the Elf or watch them all die.”

He clenches his teeth. “You realize I’m one of Cleo’s mates, right?” he hisses. “I won’t betray them-”

The bottle slams into the arm of the chair, throwing him to the side roughly. “Don’t remind me!” she snarls, face twisting- and in that moment he sees her for the monster she really is, for just a fraction of a second her Human facade falling away. He takes it as a small victory. 

She takes a deep breath, calming herself, and the shimmering scaly, amphibian-like skin fades back into tan. She holds the bottle up and leans back casually, smirking. “Let’s not lie to ourselves here, Misty,” she says, tone smooth as her truth is tucked away again. “Everyone has their favorites. Look me in the eyes and tell me, honestly, that you would choose Cleo over your Elf.” 

He glares and says nothing.

“Oh, come on,” she cackles, bringing him closer to her face. “Would you choose to save her over him? Would she save you over that Human she keeps by her side? Don’t be ashamed to admit it. We all play favorites. It’s what it means to be alive- to love and love unequally.”

“No,” he denies. “Only people like you would look at it like that. I’m not like that.”

“You are,” she says sharply. “No matter what anyone says, we all are. We all have a child we would save over another, a mate we’ll go to over another, a parent we would confide in over the other. It’s just nature. We can’t help it.” She grins. “And I know you, Misty. They’ve told me all about you, how you come running every time he calls. How no one else can call on you the way he can. Even your Lord can’t keep tabs on you, but him? Oh, he calls your name and you’re there like a loyal dog. It’s disgusting, but... convenient.”

“You can’t even kill them,” Etho says stubbornly, not wanting to dwell on her words. The thought of BDubs in danger- him, bleeding out and turning to ashes or light- no, it’s just too much. He can’t stand it. “Cleo would never allow it. They’re stronger than you.”

She smirks. “And yet she didn’t kill me when she had the chance, did she,” Maria states more than asks. “And now here we are. Her Coven is thinning out. I have so many of her Humans that she let out of her sight, and I have you here now.” She turns the bottle around, forcing him to look at the doorway and the Thralls that sit there. “I have them. Loyal servants, eager to please. I have people everywhere. And I know their weaknesses.”

Etho slams a hand against the glass, frustrated. He can’t break through. He glances up at the cork. Maybe he can slip through its cracks...

“Cleo will be easy enough, once she’s out of her mind with anger. Not hard to do when she’s been betrayed and lost all her friends,” Maria says with a careless shrug. “And the Elf, well... there’s a few ways to deal with him.”

Etho narrows his eyes. “No,” he repeats, confident. “I refuse.”

“So you would rather watch them all die, than to save even just one of them?” She laughs. “Got it. It’s fine, I have other servants in Cleo’s Coven. They’re very good. It would just be easier with someone in the inner ring...” She shrugs. “You’ll just have to stay in this bottle, and I’ll be sure to let you watch the life fade from his eyes. Will he turn to light or ash? I’ve always wondered how it works,” she giggles, leaning closer to the bottle. “Haven’t you? Will you have anything left to bury or will he disappear like they all do, forever out of your reach? Not even anything to remember him by? Oh, I wonder, is his blood black or red? Does it glow green? I wonder if I can drink it when it’s glowing green. All that Fae magic over top the Vampire’s magic- I wonder if-”

“Shut up,” Etho barely whispers, trying not to imagine it- trying not to imagine BDubs in Maria’s grasp, glowing green blood running freely as she ripped into his skin. BDubs’ big rust-colored eyes staring at him, begging him to help- light splitting across his skin as his flesh turns grey, as he calls for help and-

He can’t stand it.

Maria smirks, and he bares his teeth at her- though she can’t see it. “There we go,” she says quietly, leaning back again. She holds the bottle by the neck, leaning on her arm as she gazes up at him. “Cleo will turn to ash as all Vampires do, but the Elf... who knows what’s waiting for him? And I’m giving you a chance to guarantee his safety, his life. All it will cost is your loyalty.”

His loyalty.

He’s known Cleo for so long, he was there when Maria was causing problems. He was there when things were different. He was there through it all, by Cleo’s side, supporting every change she made after taking over as Lord. He was there when she brought BDubs home.

How could he ever be loyal to someone else?

Especially Maria?

He grits his teeth. He can still see BDubs in his mind’s eye.

He can see BDubs looking at him, asking for help.

(He can see BDubs looking at him, blaming him.)

“You can save him or watch them all die. It’s your choice. You can have your freedom or be trapped forever.” Maria grins at him, dangerous, and he knows she has a plan either way.

Maybe if he agrees, he can find a way to warn them instead, without alerting Maria or her servants. Maybe he could save them all.

Or maybe he would doom them.

“It’s your choice.”

[focsle]

Please say more about bi/gay herman melville? 👀

Yeah, okay! I'm putting this under a readmore cos there's book excerpts and letters and he's…a Verbose man. It's so long lol. Enjoy.

The lowest hanging fruit is of course the homoeroticism in Moby-Dick, such as in his various descriptions of Ishmael and Queequeg's relationship early on in the book. It's that relationship in which Ishmael's character is built and developed, and it's at the culmination of that relationship when Ishmael as a character slips into the background and becomes more of an abstract narrator, because his growth arc is completed. A relationship characterized with such entries as:

“Upon waking next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost thought I had been his wife."

and

"He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; and when our smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country’s phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be."

and

"How it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg—a cosy, loving pair."

There's also the cheeky jerk off pun that Melville makes for an entire chapter about sticking his hands in spermaceti to squeeze the solids out (a thing that….Wasn't Actually Done as a process on whaleships)

“Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say,—Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.”

Among his other works, there's the novella Billy Budd, that was left unfinished when he died and was published a few decades after his death. A common interpretation is that the central conflict between Billy and Claggart (along with the counterpoint of Captain Vere) is an exploration of homosexuality, particularly in being trapped between the heterosexual binds of society and the male-centric space of a ship (and thus the torment of it in 19th c society). Unlike the fondness of Ishmael and Queequeg, this is one of hostile conflict, with entries like:

"When Claggart's unobserved glance happened to light on belted Billy rolling along the upper gun deck in the leisure of the second dog-watch, exchanging passing broadsides of fun with other young promenaders in the crowd; that glance would follow the cheerful sea-Hyperion with a settled meditative and melancholy expression, his eyes strangely suffused with incipient feverish tears. Then would Claggart look like the man of sorrows. Yes, and sometimes the melancholy expression would have in it a touch of soft yearning, as if Claggart could even have loved Billy but for fate and ban. But this was an evanescence, and quickly repented of, as it were, by an immitigable look, pinching and shrivelling the visage into the momentary semblance of a wrinkled walnut."

But like many who point to evidence of mlmelville, I find Melville’s letters to Hawthorne the most telling about the depth of feeling he had towards another man (that I also think have a very sexual energy too).

I’ve often called Moby-Dick ‘hundreds of pages of a man unraveling his soul in front of you’. It's a book about railing against the things that bind a person's life, be it mortality, or god, or society, and Melville really seemed to be a pretty tormented fellow in this respect (and seems like he made it everyone else's problem too, looking at his own family life). And he dedicated Moby-Dick to Hawthorne.

In the summer of 1850 Melville meets Nathaniel Hawthorne while on vacation in Pittsfield. He was already somewhat taken by his writings, having read Mosses from an Old Manse and written an anonymous review (where he also assumes the alias of a reader from Virginia) that already had such eroticisms as ‘But already I feel that this Hawthorne has dropped germinous seeds into my soul. He expands and deepens down, the more I contemplate him; and further, and further, shoots his strong New-England roots into the hot soil of my Southern soul’. He forms an immediate friendship with Hawthorne, to the point that Melville impulsively buys property in the area within a month, and packs up his family's life to live there instead of New York (with his family having little agency in the decision).

Upon acquiring this home he sends a playful letter asking Hawthorne to visit him, the italics his own:

That side-blow thro' Mrs Hawthorne will not do. I am not to be charmed out of my promised pleasure by any of that lady's syrenisms. You, Sir, I hold accountable, & the visit (in all its original integrity) must be made. -- What! spend the day, only with us? -- A Greenlander might as well talk of spending the day with a friend, when the day is only half an inch long. As I said before, my best travelling chariot on runners, will be at your door, & provision made not only for the accomodation of all your family, but also for any quantity of baggage. Fear not that you will cause the slightest trouble to us. Your bed is already made, & the wood marked for your fire. But a moment ago, I looked into the eyes of two fowls, whose tail feathers have been notched, as destined victims for the table. I keep the word "Welcome" all the time in my mouth, so as to be ready on the instant when you cross the threshold. (By the way the old Romans you know had a Salve carved in their thresholds) Another thing, Mr Hawthorne -- Do not think you are coming to any prim nonsensical house -- that is nonsensical in the ordinary way. You must be much bored with punctilios. You may do what you please -- say or say not what you please. And if you feel any inclination for that sort of thing -- you may spend the period of your visit in bed, if you like -- every hour of your visit. Mark -- There is some excellent Montado Sherry awaiting you & some most potent port. We will have mulled wine with wisdom, & buttered toast with story-telling & crack jokes & bottles from morning till night. Come -- no nonsence. If you dont -- I will send Constables after you. On Wednesday then -- weather & sleighing permitting I will be down for you about eleven o'clock A.M. By the way -- should Mrs Hawthorne for any reason conclude that she, for one, can not stay overnight with us -- then you must -- & the children, if you please. H. Melville

He also writes emotional meditative ones. When he was troubled with writing his Whale, he discussed his writing woes to Hawthorne, along with his hopes of an afterlife picnic between just the two of them to shrug it all off:

“What I feel most moved to write, that is banned, -- it will not pay. Yet, altogether, write the other way I cannot. So the product is a final hash, and all my books are botches. I'm rather sore, perhaps, in this letter, but see my hand! -- four blisters on this palm, made by hoes and hammers within the last few days. It is a rainy morning; so I am indoors, and all work suspended. I feel cheerfully disposed, and therefore I write a little bluely. Would the Gin were here! If ever, my dear Hawthorne, in the eternal times that are to come, you and I shall sit down in Paradise, in some little shady corner by ourselves; and if we shall by any means be able to smuggle a basket of champagne there (I won't believe in a Temperance Heaven), and if we shall then cross our celestial legs in the celestial grass that is forever tropical, and strike our glasses and our heads together, till both musically ring in concert, -- then, O my dear fellow-mortal, how shall we pleasantly discourse of all the things manifold which now so distress us, -- when all the earth shall be but a reminiscence, yea, its final dissolution an antiquity. Then shall songs be composed as when wars are over; humorous, comic songs, -- "Oh, when I lived in that queer little hole called the world," or, "Oh, when I toiled and sweated below," or, "Oh, when I knocked and was knocked in the fight" -- yes, let us look forward to such things. Let us swear that, though now we sweat, yet it is because of the dry heat which is indispensable to the nourishment of the vine which is to bear the grapes that are to give us the champagne hereafter.”

When Hawthorne read Moby Dick and wrote a favorable letter about it to Melville, Melville replied in a way that is…undeniably emotionally and physically intense, and I think speaks of much more than just admiration of a fellow writer’s work.

“My Dear Hawthorne, -- People think that if a man has undergone any hardship, he should have a reward; but for my part, if I have done the hardest possible day's work, and then come to sit down in a corner and eat my supper comfortably -- why, then I don't think I deserve any reward for my hard day's work -- for am I not now at peace? Is not my supper good? My peace and my supper are my reward, my dear Hawthorne. So your joy-giving and exultation-breeding letter is not my reward for my ditcher's work with that book, but is the good goddess's bonus over and above what was stipulated -- for not one man in five cycles, who is wise, will expect appreciative recognition from his fellows, or any one of them. Appreciation! Recognition! Is love appreciated? Why, ever since Adam, who has got to the meaning of this great allegory -- the world? Then we pygmies must be content to have our paper allegories but ill comprehended. I say your appreciation is my glorious gratuity. In my proud, humble way, -- a shepherd-king, -- I was lord of a little vale in the solitary Crimea; but you have now given me the crown of India. But on trying it on my head, I found it fell down on my ears, notwithstanding their asinine length -- for it's only such ears that sustain such crowns.

Your letter was handed me last night on the road going to Mr. Morewood's, and I read it there. Had I been at home, I would have sat down at once and answered it. In me divine maganimities are spontaneous and instantaneous -- catch them while you can. The world goes round, and the other side comes up. So now I can't write what I felt. But I felt pantheistic then -- your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both in God's. A sense of unspeakable security is in me this moment, on account of your having understood the book. I have written a wicked book, and feel spotless as the lamb. Ineffable socialities are in me. I would sit down and dine with you and all the gods in old Rome's Pantheon. It is a strange feeling -- no hopefulness is in it, no despair. Content -- that is it; and irresponsibility; but without licentious inclination. I speak now of my profoundest sense of being, not of an incidental feeling.

Whence come you, Hawthorne? By what right do you drink from my flagon of life? And when I put it to my lips -- lo, they are yours and not mine. I feel that the Godhead is broken up like the bread at the Supper, and that we are the pieces. Hence this infinite fraternity of feeling. Now, sympathizing with the paper, my angel turns over another page. you did not care a penny for the book. But, now and then as you read, you understood the pervading thought that impelled the book -- and that you praised. Was it not so? You were archangel enough to despise the imperfect body, and embrace the soul. Once you hugged the ugly Socrates because you saw the flame in the mouth, and heard the rushing of the demon, -- the familiar, -- and recognized the sound; for you have heard it in your own solitudes.

My dear Hawthorne, the atmospheric skepticisms steal into me now, and make me doubtful of my sanity in writing you thus. But, believe me, I am not mad, most noble Festus! But truth is ever incoherent, and when the big hearts strike together, the concussion is a little stunning. Farewell. Don't write a word about the book. That would be robbing me of my miserly delight. I am heartily sorry I ever wrote anything about you -- it was paltry. Lord, when shall we be done growing? As long as we have anything more to do, we have done nothing. So,now, let us add Moby Dick to our blessing, and step from that. Leviathan is not the biggest fish; -- I have heard of Krakens.

This is a long letter, but you are not at all bound to answer it. Possibly, if you do answer it, and direct it to Herman Melville, you will missend it -- for the very fingers that now guide this pen are not precisely the same that just took it up and put it on this paper. Lord, when shall we be done changing? Ah! it's a long stage, and no inn in sight, and night coming, and the body cold. But with you for a passenger, I am content and can be happy. I shall leave the world, I feel, with more satisfaction for having come to know you. Knowing you persuades me more than the Bible of our immortality.

What a pity, that, for your plain, bluff letter, you should get such gibberish! Mention me to Mrs. Hawthorne and to the children, and so, good-by to you, with my blessing. Herman.

P.S. I can't stop yet. If the world was entirely made up of Magians, I'll tell you what I should do. I should have a paper-mill established at one end of the house, and so have an endless riband of foolscap rolling in upon my desk; and upon that endless riband I should write a thousand -- a million -- billion thoughts, all under the form of a letter to you. The divine magnet is on you, and my magnet responds. Which is the biggest? A foolish question -- they are One. H.

P.P.S. Don't think that by writing me a letter, you shall always be bored with an immediate reply to it -- and so keep both of us delving over a writing-desk eternally. No such thing! I sh'n't always answer your letters, and you may do just as you please."

At some point, for reasons unknown, Melville and Hawthorne’s communications with each other cool and drop off. Hawthorne abruptly moves away from Pittsfield by autumn of 1851, though in the years that follow their paths occasionally cross. It’s also unknown what Hawthorne’s letters said to Melville over that year, as they’ve been either lost or destroyed (which I think is a very telling story in itself).

At an unknown date, Melville wrote a poem mourning the death of a man whose identity isn’t known. While there is debate, many connect it to Hawthorne due to the motifs he uses and the nature of the relatioship expressed here, and as such some believe it may have been written after Melville visited Hawthorne’s grave in 1864. It wouldn’t be published until the last year of Melville's life however, in 1891 (which again….I think can be a telling story)

‘To have known him, to have loved him After loneness long; And then to be estranged in life, And neither in the wrong; And now for death to set his seal —Ease me, a little ease, my song!

By wintry hills his hermit-mound The sheeted snow-drifts drape, And houseless there the snow-bird flits Beneath the fir-tree’s crape: lazed now with ice the cloistral vine That hid the shyest grape.’

Anyway, anyone who tries to say that Herman Melville didn't have a strong emotional/physical attraction to men is reaching way more than those who say otherwise. It's all there.

Also if you're interested in a fictional exploration of Melville and Hawthorne's relationship (though one that is grounded in the evidence of these letters), I recommend Mark Beauregard's book, The Whale. It's fun. It's melodramatic but in a way that feels very.....Melville.