#been sitting a long time

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

the fact that shakespeare was a playwright is sometimes so funny to me. just the concept of the "greatest writer of the English language" being a random 450-year-old entertainer, a 16th cent pop cultural sensation (thanks in large part to puns & dirty jokes & verbiage & a long-running appeal to commoners). and his work was made to be watched not read, but in the classroom teachers just hand us his scripts and say "that's literature"

just...imagine it's 2450 A.D. and English Lit students are regularly going into 100k debt writing postdoc theses on The Simpsons screenplays. the original animation hasn't even been preserved, it's literally just scripts and the occasional SDH subtitles.txt. they've been republished more times than the Bible

[motownfiction]

no ghost in the graveyard

Colleen O’Connor has a thing about cemeteries. On every road trip, she makes her whole family – all six children – visit at least one. This summer, on a road trip to visit some semi-distant relatives in Rochester, New York, she makes them stop at a cemetery to see Susan B. Anthony.

Will, who is sixteen now, has had just about enough.

“Mom, no!” he shouts from the backseat.

“What’s the matter?” Colleen asks. “I didn’t think you hated the cemetery that much.”

“I hate them,” Molly, who’s ten, says. “You don’t even let us play ‘There’s no ghost in the graveyard.’”

“Because it’s disrespectful. Will, honey, what’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t want to see Susan B. Anthony’s grave like this!” he says. “Bad enough I have to be away from Lucy for five days … now I’m gonna go see Susan B. Anthony’s grave without her, too? She’s gonna kill me!”

“If she does, then you’ll get to meet Susan B. Anthony,” Sarah, recent high school graduate, snarks.

“Shut up, Sarah,” Will says. “You didn’t even have to go on this trip.”

“And pay for my own food? For almost an entire week? I’ll pass, man.”

In spite of Will’s protests, they end up at the cemetery to see Susan B. Anthony. Will is resolved not to get anywhere near the headstone – not without Lucy. Molly grabs Claire and Sophie and tries to force them into playing there’s no ghost in the graveyard. Will and Sarah hang behind, staying as far away from the rest of the O’Connors as possible.

They walk in lockstep. Will keeps his eyes on the dirt beneath him, trying not to think about everything there. He takes a beat before asking Sarah the first thing that comes to mind.

“You think anyone’s ever died here?”

Sarah snorts.

“It’s a fucking cemetery, man,” she says. “We’re the weird ones for being alive.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean … do you think anybody ever dropped dead during a burial? Like they couldn’t take it and died of a broken heart or something.”

Sarah shakes her head.

“Broken heart, no,” she says. “Heat exhaustion, sure.”

Will nods, but he’s not really sure why. He’s just thinking about Lucy. Before he got in the car for this stupid trip, he kissed her on her porch and told her he wished she could go with him. If only she knew how much he meant it now. If only he knew how much he’d mean it then. He thinks about the night before they left … how pretty Lucy looked, lit up by the moon coming in through the blinds. They weren’t listening to “There’s a Moon out Tonight,” but with how beautiful she was, they should have been.

The next few words fly out of Will’s mouth a little too quickly.

“Sarah?”

“What now?”

“You know I … I had sex with Lucy last month.”

Sarah inhales like she just bashed her knee against that stupid too-big coffee table Mom and Dad just installed in the living room. Will knows that exact sound because they’ve all made it at least five times apiece.

“Hmm,” she says. “First time?”

“Yeah.”

“You OK?”

Will nods.

“OK,” Sarah says. “Is she?”

“Yeah,” Will says. “We’re … I dunno, I guess we really are OK.”

Sarah nods. She looks like she’s far away … like maybe she’s about to become the next ghost in the graveyard.

“I’m sorry,” Will says. “I didn’t mean … I just felt like I needed to tell somebody who wasn’t Sam or Daniel. You were the only other person who made sense.”

“It’s OK,” Sarah says, and Will thinks he mostly believes her. “Just don’t die. Or get her pregnant. But mostly don’t die.”

“OK,” Will says. “But if I die, I’ll make sure it happens in a cemetery. That way, you won’t have to waste any time in burying me.”

“I think it’s cute you think I wouldn’t throw you right in the furnace.”

“Yeah.”

They walk in silence a little while longer. Thank goodness.

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[madamemiz]

sad: falling out of a hyperfixation

tragic: watching your beloved friends and mutuals fall out of the hyperfixation while you're still in it

[spielzeugkaiser]

How it started-

How it's going!! They are a family and I am!!! also draw the hug you want to see in the show but they are forgiven because them meeting in brokilon was still soooo tender my HEART-

[ventresses]

Star Wars: The Clone Wars (6/?) - Blue & Green

Star Wars + Text Posts & Headlines

Note from OP:

In looking back, I have mixed feelings about that last Mace Windu one, because while it's somewhat relevant to his character in the sense that he IS extremely powerful fighter, I also feel like it also veers too much into the "Angry Black Person" stereotype/trope, &/or that it is pulling too much from other memorable characters of Samuel L. Jackson's, not from the personality of Mace Windu himself.

I'm on the fence whether I should remove it from the post or just leave it there, so I'm just going to leave these remarks, and also drop the link to a really good post I saw a few days ago, discussing Mace Windu’s character in the fandom, I highly recommend checking it out:

[runs-red]

I hate how people talk about testosterone and transmascs. Even if someone slightly hints they don't really want one of the changes (like hair loss or something) someone's gotta bring up "You can't pick and choose the changes! A real transmasc wouldn't be saying this. You know T isn't going to turn you into an UWU anime boy, right?"

[suiheisen]

you think YOU had a bad day at work?

bonus: sid shrieking "no!!!! NO!!!!!" loud enough to be heard in the stands and on camera

[futuristichedge]

The most well adjusted apocalypse survivor

[cayliecoltrane]

i love when you talk weird inflections to me baby. here’s a teeny tiny redraw

[tubbytarchia]

gg buddy am I right (ethubs doodle that I don't know what to do with)

[northstarscowboyhat]

Could we possibly see Ceroba showing some overprotective behavior towards Clover?

POV; You just picked the wrong kid to mess with

[motownfiction]

pumpkin spice latte

Other than loving each other, the only thing Rosemary and Michael can agree on is loving their coffee.

Growing up, the two of them were never particularly close. Being brother and sister was hard enough as it was, but a four-year age gap made it nearly impossible. Rosemary, with her loud voice and bright energy, is exactly like every Doyle in the world (and the ones who have since left it, too). Michael, with his caution and precision, isn’t much like a Doyle or a DeLuca. He’s his own thing. Always has been.

When they were kids, Michael and Rosemary largely avoided each other. They loved each other, always, but they didn’t know how to be friends. Things changed around 2015, when Rosemary started watching Game of Thrones in between her classes at Michigan. Michael, who had recently moved into his own place, still stopped by to see his parents every now and then. He caught her watching, stayed a little while, and talked with Rose. Before long, he was coming back home just to hang out with her. They didn’t agree on anything about the show, but it was always a good time. He still wishes he’d made fun of Rosemary more when they were children. She’s a good sport about it.

This morning is the perfect opportunity to mock her. It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and they meet up at Starbucks to discuss their game plan for tomorrow’s dinner: how to deal with Charlie, with Grandma Maggie, with Katie Sheehan’s terrible store-bought pumpkin pie (the one she still thinks is fooling everyone). Billy, as always, is running late, but they don’t wait for him.

“I can’t do this without caffeine,” Rosemary says as they wait in line.

“Me neither,” Michael says. “You know, it’s your fault I’m addicted to caffeine now.”

“It is not.”

“Yeah, it is. Before you forced me to drink that cinnamon tea –”

“Forced you?”

“Forced me … I was getting by without caffeine. Now, I’m like that … what is that? Girl you like. The hair and the outfits.”

“Lorelai Gilmore?”

“Yeah, that one.”

Rosemary rolls her eyes.

“I don’t know how I got to know you well enough to figure that out,” she says. “I’m kind of sorry I did.”

Michael almost laughs.

“Yeah, well, you’re next,” he says, as though she doesn’t notice.

Rosemary grins with all her teeth, tips her head to the side like she’s modeling for an archaic Sears catalog, and says, “Pumpkin spice latte, please!”

Now, Michael actually laughs. Rosemary turns around and stares daggers at him.

“Basic bitch,” he says.

“Basic asshole,” Rosemary says. “You know what? I’m gonna tell them you’re my very tall son, and you’re not allowed to have coffee.”

“You wouldn’t even get away with it.”

“Sure I would. I’d tell them you suffer from SORAS.”

“Sore ass? Like I need a hemorrhoid donut?”

“No, asshole. Soap Opera Rapid Aging Syndrome. When a woman has a baby on a soap opera, and three months later, he’s starting high school.”

“Rose, no one knows what the fuck that means.”

“Watch me. Watch me prove you wrong. And when you’re wrong, it’s apple juice for you. It’s apple juice all fucking day.”

Michael rolls his eyes. The barista turns around with Rosemary’s pumpkin spice latte in her hand. She wears a knowing smile.

“Here you go,” she says to Rosemary. “I have an older brother, too.”

Rosemary looks at Michael and shrugs before taking a smug sip of her basic drink.

[toqiuh]

@buggachat Hello I’d like to let you know that your BEAU is the reason I wake up so early in the morning and check Tumblr, thank you very much for giving me something new to brainrot over

BUT FR THO i’m absolutely AMAZED at how you’re building all this together and keeping most of us on the edge of our seats while ur at it DSJFHKJAHF You are SO SO talented at storytelling and I hope you know that too

[mhaikkun]

in full bloom! 💐

FINALLY posting this absolutely bonkers piece I made for the cover of the @ohshc20thzine fanzine to celebrate the 20th anniversary of ouran!! 🥰💖

this is one of my favorite things I have ever drawn, and I'm so grateful to everyone who supported the zine! ;v;

[khickuwa]

a momentary respite.