I HATE MYSELF WEEK EDIT CHALLENGE

i WILL take any excuse i have to draw the abernant sisters Btw

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.

saimatsu week day 3 not on day 3: reunion

they do be sobbing

I could never do no nut november because unfortunately I love fucking myself too much

a very good measure for if you ACTUALLY hate yourself and need to work on that is to check if you're on your period and if your hair dye is faded. and if both are true you're probably fine

1x04 - What We | The Ones Who Live

vent post

What if. …

Phantom listens, and eventually peeks his head around the corner to watch. Cirrus and Cumulus seated together on the creaky velvet bench in front of the upright piano, playing together.

He loves the sound. All of the keyboards and synthesizers are cool. But this is different, it feels organic, vibration, air and space. Something about it feels like his own magic and he doesn’t know why.

And even though he knows the keys are made of something hard, they look soft to the touch. And he wants to touch them.

He rounds the corner and sees the vacant bench and decides to chance it. Lifts the lid and hits a single key. Rationally, he should anticipate the sound, but it makes him jump nonetheless.

He tries to apply what he knows to produce a chord. But it’s all a little bit confusing. Unfamiliar in a way. His fingers try to find the right places on their own but thankfully there’s two ghoulettes watching him from the doorway who are willing to help.

They speak and he jumps again and apologizes. Of course they tell him there’s nothing to apologize for. They offer to teach him and he accepts. They make him a notebook that has alternates sheets of staff and lined pages.

They litter the pages with little notes of encouragement or tips, written in colourful gel ink. They plaster the sheets with stickers. Soon he learns he prefers minor scales because they sounds a little sad but very pretty. And he loves the damper pedal because it makes the notes linger in his ears long after he’s struck the keys.

He has an end game. He didn’t at first. But now he can’t wait to show Dew what he can do. For him to lead Dew to the bench and play for him. Because he isn’t quite sure he could ever impress Dew with a guitar. That maybe, Dew would focus on the sound rather than his technique.

Maybe it’s embarrassing, how eager he is to please. But just once he wants Dew to be the one watching in awe as his hands move. To feel just a little of what Phantom feels when he watches Dew play.

huge fan of that saint sebastian guy

its so hard to watch time pass when things like careers and assignments exist. what do you mean im supposed to take that seriously

sun bleached flies – ethel cain

yes i did make a 6 minute long ethel cain x ft edit

no i am not well

emotionally i'm still here

BEHOLD! Cheesy garlic bread (homemade herb & parmesan dough) and homemade pizza sauce for dipping.

My old glasses are really worn out, my eyesigh got worse and I'm still using the old graduation. I don't like how I look with them anymore either so it is time to change them (also because I can get a blue filter in the glasses to protect the eyes form screens light and I really need that, and this store has a 2x1 offer so I'll have an extra pair half the price just in case :3c)

The two girls working at the store were really nice and tried their best to help me :')

I spend an hour yesterday trying on glasses... I found two models that I liked right at the end. I just. really. hope. I don't regret my choice when the glasses are done and I try them on again.

Got up early (for me), ate a light and healthy breakfast, applied to some jobs, took a long mental health walk with the dogs, gave one of them a bath, and even did some phone calls and messaging regarding my medication and pharmacy problems and managed to sort it out without breaking down!!! And! Showered!! Kicking ASS at mental health today