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Contact Your Representative and Tell Them To Fight Against Trump’s Camps
Additionally, if you can see if you can donate money to these organizations
Lawyersforgoodgoverment.com
fairfightbondfund.org
lgbtqfund.org
communitybondproject.org
immigrantfamilies.org
freedomforimmigrants.org
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art history is an endless loop of learning how fucked up and crazy every artist is. art history professor will show you a painting of 4 oranges and be like the guy who painted this killed his wife
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For anyone confused, the fordist model is basically how Henry Ford thought the world could work, with innovation happening so fast that new luxury goods could be produced cheaply enough that you could pay workers next to nothing while also keeping prices low.
The idea being that if everyone just shut up and let the robber barons expand into every corner of your life as fast as possible, the industrialists make money off the growth while the peons get to enjoy a constantly rising quality of life. It's a magical economic model where the rich and poor benefit.
It has literally never worked and quickly leads to environmental collapse and labor wars.
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more pieces for our scars make us
hmmmm.
******
******
mista used to sleep on benches and fight passers by for money to eat.
now he sits at the reserved table in the city's finest restaurants, laughing too loudly.
bruno smiles.
******
abbacchio joins them last, sharp-tongued and wary. almost immediately they all feel a change. things should feel unsettled among them, but instead...
abbacchio sneers when mista says something ridiculous, and bruno sees fugo's mouth quirk, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. mista, unbothered, spars back in his own easy way, the conversation an aimless and pleasant hum across the table as narancia chatters about american musicians. mista leans back in his chair, and abbacchio's gestures become pointed, then settling again as he begins a story. narancia stops talking and turns to listen.
abbacchio's fingertips are weaving in and out of the sunlight slanting off the cafe umbrella. all other noise seems to fade as this particular moment spills over and around them, time flowing slow and golden as honey in the warmth of the afternoon.
in the future bruno won't remember what he was saying. just the moment of listening, the feeling of the summer air, and pale, elegant hands moving from shadow into light and back again.
******
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baby draft of something i’m working on to get through vento aureo feelings
our scars make us is the tentative title bc i cannot name things for the life of me
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each section describes no color but that the new character brings and is associated with
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until /green/ which describes trees getting their new leaves and, sparingly, the way the characters and their colors come together in harmony and discord, and each brings their own color to the scene, like spring
then the history, his perspective
then the sun, then the girl, then gold, then the end
1. orange
2. red
3. purple
4. blue
5. green
6. yellow
7. black & white
8. pink
9. gold
10. silver
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orange is for fugo, like warning colors in animals, his bright anger and brighter intelligence, the shiver, the nervousness in nails bitten to the quick, the fidgeting, the simmering mass of emotions, the snapping to focus, his bright ostentatious clothes that he fidgets in, the orange jacket, bright bright bright and searing, to the point where you were surprised when his stand was purple, but it makes sense as his shadow, the purple of a bruise faded to orange smears at the edges, how anything made his skin go red, hand tap tap tapping an orange pen on the paperwork, artfully slicing a cheese, holding a boxcutter with a safety orange handle to a man’s eye, hands on various object with a nervousness before he set to the task but competency once he’s on his way, the love of rules and systems he knew but could never force himself to fit inside, last scene is him cutting an orange with a knife and offering it over more paperwork, orange pools of light in the late night warm companionship of bruno’s apartment, orange settling into bruno’s cool grey life and warming it
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red is for narancia, the blood around him, the stink of infection and how easily his face goes red when he's angry or cries, passion and a loud voice and music and violence, everything about narancia is bright now that he's better and you would die to preserve that because always in your mind the image of a boy in a hospital bed, eyes and heart vacant and forgotten and scared, blood on the pillow and the way fugo's nails dug so deep into his hands they drew blood, and how when you banished naracia from joining you he didn't know that you'd already taken pains to kill/threaten those who'd hurt him, that fugo was in charge of keeping an eye on him and how your own rage had snapped when you found out fugo had given him an introduction to polpo, narancia's face going red when he cried and screamed as you tried to send him home, his cheeks still red when he fell asleep later, safe as you could make him while knowing that his blood was now already on your hands
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Purple is mista, excess, freedom, the first time bruno picked one of his own, how bruised and hurt mista was by prison and that bruno got him his gun (? Check?), wine and all the rich things in life, crushed grapes, berries, a woman in a purple dress, his chatter to nara and fugo a background noise that drew fugo’s annoyance and nara out of himself, the sound of music in the house, mista ducking into a shop to come out with pastries for each of them sticky and oversweet, turning mista away as soon as the body in the alley drops, handing him off to fugo with a look as the purpleblack spreads on the pavement and bruno hurries to call stickyfingers, the sky overhead going purpledark in the summer as mista came wandering home from a long walk, gun in his waistband and a hum in his throat, bruises on his knuckles and a smile on his face, and his cheeks are never gaunt anymore
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Blue is abbacchio, love and pain and lust and most of all a strange companionship. Power imbalance and worshipfulness, self-degradation, a beautiful afternoon, the stink of a drunk, the refinement and expansiveness he tries to crush, loving someone who wants to self destruct and how hard it is to have someone always turn away when you offer vulnerability, self doubt and finally a creeping despair of things changing, but through it all love love love, the swell of orchestra and the magnetism, the color of the open sky, something ascendant, of heaven, his old uniform and the sea beside the cafe where you first realized you were in love, blue bruises from fights and blue in the shadows of the bottles of liquor and the blue of blood and of a sacred broken heart, wishing he could see himself still, wishing he would see you, catching your breath that sometimes you think he does but the love lying unspoken between you is just as bright and unknowable as heaven itself, an open question forever unanswered
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Green (we green and growing things), a year of early spring, new leaves in the trees and something stirring in the air, the smell of cut plants, things were getting better for the gang
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Yellow is giorno's arrival, associated with light, flowers, bees, the sun, flashing everywhere in the reflection of a luxury car, he is like the sun and yet still almost a child, new things, perhaps the flowering of what began in green, his is hope
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then in black and white, bruno's actual view becomes clear, rather than just scenes that include him as focus. colors become absent from bruno's life with the loss of his parents, and once he joins the gang formally and gets his stand he gives up on himself and his life includes no color/passion, only emptiness and careful balancing acts and unease.
Those colors are also identified with nero and then white noise on the phone (pledging allegiance to silence) and the simple logic of following orders, superiors and subordinates, gang members vs civilians/everyone else, who lives and who dies according to rules he just has to follow, step by step
(we also find out about bruno's particular method of body disposal and that that was a role he played before he was given his own subordinate in the form of fugo, partly because polpio felt bruno was wasted as a bullied junior member of another gang)
then one by one, he is given his gang (none were technically chosen by him, but each chose to stay with him) and color returns to his life, slowly, through his interactions with him which lead him to finally feel that there is perhaps more to life than taking orders until his untimely death.
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in yellow it's revealed that although polpio nearly raised bruno for while and was always his direct superior, he was abusive. when giorno kills polpio bruno's feelings are mixed, but the end result is still that giorno killed his abuser and freed an essential part of him that had until then been trapped.
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in pink we discover that bruno's choice to save trish was the *first* time he had ever gone against orders at all, and that yes he was both dead and freaking out v badly. but she was someone he could save, the way he had wanted to keep his gang safe and even get them out of the gang one day. and she reminded him of his mother, quiet and strong-willed and unfairly treated as a pawn by the world.
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gold is about bruno's feelings about giorno re the longevity of the gang and it's stability if something happened to him, and his own choice to embrace battle and a final death in the face of a way to break the cycle of the world in which his has grown up and that has shaped and hurt every one of his people. willingness to see the world change, at any cost, even though he never wanted to pay the price it took and did begin to doubt himself, but in the end there is only one choice, a final choice, and everything else doesn't matter.
short section about bruno's willness to die, and his gratitude for each of the people who brought color to his life, as it begins to seep away for a final time
Trish. Giorno. Abbacchio. Mista. Narancia. Fugo. I'm sorry.
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[drop silver as a chapter name, use epilogue?]
a man walks by a cafe where someone gets up to help him with a bag, their walking leads them through an alleyway where the taller tugs the shorter to a brief stop, a momentary kiss, they talk of their friends briefly, and then they go on together beyond the bend in the road
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I'd forgot how to daydream
So consumed with the wrong things, but in
The dark, I realized this life is short
And deep down, I'm still a child
Playful eyes, wide and wild, I can't
Lose hope, what's left of my heart's still made of gold
and i know that i'm still fucked up
but aren't we all my love
darling our scars make us who we are, are
when the winds are howling strong
and you feel you can't go on
hold tight sweetheart
you'll find a rainbow/
Rainbow - Kesha
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What do you reckon are the benefits of posting your poetry on tumblr (if theres not even a large chance of anyone stumbling across them) rather than just keeping it all in your notebook?
HMMMMmm,… i’ve been stuck on this for daaaays bc i wanna give the best comprehensive answer but the Truth is contributing any kind of creative work on tumblr is a thorny business & i would urge anyone considering it 2 Rly think on it before they do. publishing my work on here was in a lot of ways a huge blessing but it comes w/ its own baggage.
i started writing on tumblr after a huge years long drought of not writing at all. it was great bc thru other ppl reblogging my work it gave me motivation to write & publish more. it also put me into contact w/ other writers which has been invaluable not only creatively but in my personal life. some of my greatest friends are ppl i met thru the writing community on here.
if ur not necessarily in it for the exposure (which is a double edged sitch i’ll get 2 later) then starting a sideblog for ur work like i did here is helpful because it in some ways keeps u accountable. i mean i say this & i haven’t posted a new poem on here in 3 weeks but u get my Drift. if accountability & motivation is an issue for u, then posting ur poetry on tumblr can help w/ that. it definitely reinvigorated my writing. its also cool bc u end up w/ this platform where u can v much visually see ur growth & how ur writing has changed. u could go to my writing tag on my main blog & do a quick /chrono & its V obvious that my style & interests have evolved.that said. in all the ways tumblr can be a great place to write & engage w/ other ppl’s writing (look how many ppl have had books published thru their tumblr poetry!) it can also be a huge crapsack. i think it can b rly dangerous for young/new/insecure writers to start off on here. we all want validation but if ur Soul reason for writing on tumblr is for ppl to see ur work u might b disappointed. it can be hard 2 get ur work seen & i know that can be v discouraging. so many ppl end up equating quality for notes & its just not true. the truth is some ppl just have a bigger following than u & that helps them get attention. u just need 2 keep that in mind & go into w/ realistic expectations. the other thing is…people steal. straight up no sugar coating ppl will fucking steal ur shit. if they don’t do it blatantly then u’ll see it in other ways. sometimes they don’t do it on purpose. but it happens. it sucks. it doesn’t just happen to ppl who have 1k notes on a poem it happens 2 everyone. & its not just ppl w/ v little followers who plagiarize, sometimes its successful writing blogs w/ published books. every single one of my friends who publishes on tumblr has had their poem plagiarized at least once. its not a safe place to post ur writing.
bottom line: u have no control over how ppl choose to engage w/ ur work. when u post it to tumblr u leave urself rly vulnerable to a lot of shit. ppl will misappropriate & misuse ur writing if given the chance. if u still wanna do it, which is ur prerogative bc Hi, my friends & i still Definitely do it, this is my advice: never post ur best work. save it. try to publish the best stuff thru a mag or journal or whatever. but keep ur best stuff 2 urself!! b a dragon sitting on a pile of dope poetry u won’t let strangers touch. after that decide what 2 do w/ the rest. maybe u wanna post it & tag a couple friends. maybe u wanna make a writing blogue 2 workshop ur stories. mayb u just wanna write gay love poetry abt ur Girl where other Gays can see it. who knows! the world is ur oyster.. just b safe out there guys…
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i’m going to try to come back to writing, but i don’t have a lot of confidence right now. it’s been such a long time.
i still get comments and messages about resurrection, and some of the others. it has been killing me to not be writing. for a long time i felt i needed to focus on other things, and that the energy and space to write was beyond me. i wonder how much i was right about that and how much was a case of believing making it so.
anyway. i hope i can get back into this. my readers, my characters deserve better than the long hiatus and lack of faith i have in myself. perhaps i deserve better too.
audeamus - Let us dare, and
ad meliora - Towards better things
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