Hey I'm sorry to ask I'm sorta rediscovering my obsession with Dark Shadows and esp Willie do you write fics I thought there was a post but maybe I'm mistaken??
Hi!
I have written exactly one unfinished Dark Shadows fanfic about Willie Loomis.
Hey, I know your blog hasn't been active for a while, but I've noticed that some of the photograph aesthetics have 1967 crossed out in the corner, and I'm Extremely curious as to why. (I really love your aesthetics btw, they're lovely)
Hello! Thank you for the kind words, they are much appreciated.
Really long explanation below, I'm sorry:
So the main theme of the blog was supposed to be a mainly visual representation of the character Willie Loomis's introduction to Collinsport in the TV show Dark Shadows. And from his point of view, kind of.
The photographs are supposed to be photographs that he might have taken, if he had a camera, during the time he was helping Barnabas Collins repair the Old House, amongst other things.
His record-keeping is poor, which I felt was in character. This is why some photographs have brief descriptions, or spelling errors, or dates, or nothing at all.
And the annotations in the post descriptions are supposed to be if the photographs were found by another party and were subsequently cataloged and preserved. (I used to work in collections and in libraries.)
And as for "1967" being crossed out: Willie enters Barnabas's service in late 1967. And from that point his mental and emotional state are poor. My thought was that he may lose track at times and forget was year it is. He's in such a state of stasis and constant peril, barred from the outside world and anything familiar, that he'd probably forget that time still passes. Hence why he wrote "1967" only to remember that no, it was in fact now 1968.
I'm sorry if that was long or weird. This blog was a fun project for me a while ago and I don't really get to talk about it. The photograph series was probably my favorite aspect and I am humbled that it interested you.
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed–see here it is–
I hold it towards you.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
C-O-double M-O-N
A wave, an awesome wave,
That rushes skin and widens in blooded veins.
Breathe in, exhale,
I've poked a nerve he'll slap me like a whale
Slaps the C-O-double M-O-N.
Tide out, tide in,
A flood of blood to the heart and the fear slipstreams.
Breathe in, exhale,
I've poked a nerve he'll slap me like a whale
Slaps the C-O-double M-O-N.
Flood of blood to the heart.
Flood flood flood of blood blood blood to the heart heart heart, to the heart, heart, heart.