daphnedumaurigay
she is like a cat in the dark
Miggy.
She/her. Sapphic. Sagittarius.
A clusterfuck of my brain’s clusterfucks. I like witches, villains and crime shows.
Trying to be kinder.
❀ In Memoriam H.M. ❀
“I am being
eaten away by light”
— Margaret Atwood
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Last Seen Blogs
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i’ll be here eating dirt or whatever
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Bathroom break
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18x47 // 18x51 // 19x07
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Ghostface calls and asks what my favorite scary movie is and suddenly he's stuck listening to me info dump for 2 hours
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Ava + Barbara
ABBOTT ELEMENTARY (2021— )
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So I just had a thought
What if supernatural creatures don’t exist anymore? What if they did once, but through the years, they slowly mixed in with humans?
You can see the blood of fairies in the way a ballet dancer hovers in mid air before he or she hits the ground. You can see it in the way that middle school girl never forgets when someone makes her a promise. You can see it in how that one little boy in the kindergarten class seems more comfortable in the forest on that field trip than the others.
You can see the blood of dryads in hikers who never trip over roots. You can see it in that suburban grandmother never lets any of her garden die. You can see it in that one kid who climbs a tree faster than his friends, barely looking at the branches as he goes.
You can see the blood of naiads in the way a professional swimmer seems to command the water to help them. You can see it in how a cross country runner needs a water break more often than his teammates. You can see it in the way that one girl in your class always has a water bottle on her desk.
You can see the blood of mermaids in a surfer who can be tossed around underwater for a long time without drowning. You can see it in a teenage boy who doesn’t have to pretend to be unbothered by the pressure when he races his friends to the bottom of a swimming pool. You can see it in the little girl who wades into every stream she sees on a hike without quite knowing why.
You can see the blood of sirens in people who never have a problem with getting people to date them. You can see it in that soprano who can hit notes most of her fellows can only dream of. You can see it in the camp counselor who all the straight girls have a crush on, who can play guitar and sing better than any of the others.
You can see the blood of shapeshifters in the way an actor adjusts their personality to become their character with scary accuracy. You can see it in the subconscious, barely noticeable changes a tween girl’s eyes make to match her outfit better. You can see it in the way you always lose that one friend in a crowd if you’re not careful, because he’s just too good at blending in.
People who carry the blood of werewolves don’t change with the full moon anymore, but you can still see it in the way your best friend always knows something is wrong, though even they don’t know they’re smelling the changes in your body chemistry. You can see it in the way that one guy always seems to eat more than the reasonable amount of red meat at an all-you-can-eat buffet. You can see it in the way that one werido never has a problem when the teacher turns off the lights before a PowerPoint presentation because her eyes adjust quicker and better than yours.
The blood of supernatural creatures may have mostly faded away. But if you look closely, you can still see it.
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This Property is Condemned (1966)
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“Imagine yourself in pieces. Imagine all the people who have known you for only a year or a month or a single encounter, imagine those people in a room together trying to assemble a portrait of you, the way an archaeologist puts together the fragments of a ruined facade, or the bones of a caveman. Do you remember the fable of the seven blind men and the elephant? It’s not that easy, after all, to know what you’re made up of.”
— Dan Chaon, Await Your Reply (via budddha)
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Jackie Kennedy snapped by paparazzo Ron Gallela on a 1969 New York shopping trip
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— JOYCE SUTPHEN.
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· QUEEN VICTORIA’S GOLDEN GOWN WITH ROSES ·
Emily Blunt · The Young Victoria (2009) · Costume designer: Sandy Powell
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fantasizing about my back being cracked like a glow stick and releasing all of my inhibitions, allowing me to feel the rain on my skin
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“A tongue will wrestle its mouth to death and lose— language is a cemetery.”
— Natalie Diaz, “Cloud Watching”
“Where do words come from? They come from the dead. We inherit them. Borrow them. Use them for a time to bring the dead to life.”
— Ruth Ozeki, A Tale for the Time Being
“All the dead voices.
They make a noise like wings.
Like leaves.
Like sand.
Like leaves.”
— Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot
“Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs?”
— Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale
“The sentence is adorned with all of its dead.”
— Jacques Derrida, Cinders
“There are no people in what I’ve written. Only ghosts.”
— Susan Sontag, Reborn: Early Diaries, 1947-1963
#im#q#samuel beckett#susan sontag#jacques derrida#ghosts#diane setterfield#Ruth Ozeki#natalie diaz#writing
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Laura Harring in MULHOLLAND DRIVE (2001) | dir. David Lynch
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Do you think tumblr will ever learn the difference between “I’m defending this person because I agree with them wholeheartedly and I am also like this person” and “I’m defending this person because your behavior is dangerous and you need to stop”
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Meeting the Man: James Baldwin in Paris(1970) dir. Terence Dixon
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glory be to the topsoil. to the worms. to the private church of mushrooms. what makes for a better angel than the quiet promise of decomposition - that thankless, endless task. returning to the earth: this is a final prayer.
you said to me - we understand so much of history through the lens of how each society handled death. i have been thinking about the funeral industry. about embalming. how the devil is supposed to be almost-human, charming. i was raised on teflon pans. the poison in my blood came from good intentions; sprinkled over pancakes and scrambled eggs. will those particles go, too, when i go?
i keep thinking about how many cultures personify death as being gentle. as being a friend. as being kind-of-beautiful. an outstretched hand. oh, we scowl so much at carrion birds; but they make their nests by the worship of a carcass. something about that feels beautiful to me.
i am often scared. i understand why some people seek immortality, even if it's not something i desire. i spend a lot of time worrying about coffins. i spend a lot of time thinking about how if they dug me up, my bones would tell very little about my soft spots. so many of my friends say - i just want to be a tree. i want to find a quiet space and go home. the other day, we got the bill from the funeral home, and i just stood there, staring. this is death?
you said: it's learning backwards. from how a society approaches death, we might learn how they celebrate life. i worry about what that means, sometimes. about what others will think about us. divorced from our contexts, maybe alien archivists will have a fondness for our tendency to call death sleep. maybe they will write essays titled towards the light: an analysis on how some sects of humanity worshipped solely facing east.
oh, there's so much about my life that won't survive. especially these days. there's so little that lasts in-the-same-shape. oh, if the universe is kind - i want them to know that we loved moss. that we loved lichen. that even decay could be beautiful for us; the little warm space of mulch. how i will go home, one day, in the body of a bird. in a worm. in a leaf.
how when we lay a body in the ground, we say: be at peace.
oh, to go to sleep so gracefully. when i go i want to leave no mark. i want the dirt to take me. // r.i.d & a.b
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CATHERINE ZETA-JONES as MORTICIA ADDAMS || WEDNESDAY (2022)
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