I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

"Dyke March 1994" by Morgan Gwenwald

source: The Wild Good: Lesbian Photographs & Writings on Love, edited by Beatrix Gates

y’all remember we’re talking ab allegations of pedophilia and human trafficking and domestic violence right. real-life abuse. this isn’t fucking hannibal or Genshin or some shit even as a joke these posts are fucking weird

An excerpt from the trial of Elinor Crane, who was arrested in Middlesex in 1693 on suspicion of burglary. A witness claimed one of the burglars was a woman in men's clothing, and Elinor had previously been seen in the area dressed as a man.

"But the Court asking her why she went in Mans Apparel, the Prisoner replyed, She went to Wooe a Widow. Upon the whole Matter the Jury brought her in not Guilty."

(source: Old Bailey Proceedings: Accounts of Criminal Trials, April 26, 1693.)

Fat people deserve mobility aids, too. No matter if it's connected to their fatness or not, because having a mobility issue that is connected to one's fatness won't change that they're still fat and still have the issue at hand. Fat people don't deserve to "tough it out" because fatness should be this divine punishment doled out to those who "deserve" it. Fat disabled people deserve to have the peace of mind that they can exist in whatever way is most comfortable and accessible to them

”Men think about the Roman Empire” “What’s the female version of the Roman Empire” SHUT UPPPPP. SHUT THE FUCK UPPPPPP. AS A WOMAN I LOVE THE ROMAN EMPIRE. AS A WOMAN I LOVE ANCIENT HISTORY AND BATTLES AND POLITICAL INSTABILITY. THE “GIRL VERSION OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE” IS THE ROMAN EMPIRE. IM GOING TO STAB YOU 23 TIMES

oh my god there are so many books to read and instruments to learn and languages to speak and poems to write and oranges to eat and ideologies to study and songs to sing and films to watch and people to kiss and

shocked bystander at sydney, australia’s annual mardis gras pride parade (1994)

going through my old journals as part of therapy homework and i'm reading a section written in the emotional wreckage of a full-on breakdown when i get hit with this line:

There is never a satisfying answer to ‘Why didn’t they love me?’

like wow babe. good fucking point

Imagine purporting to be a journalist and saying there were no economic changes after 2007.

friend wanted to see my tumblr, and when i told him i can’t show it to him bc it’s basically my personal diary he went “oh so I can’t see it but a bunch of strangers on tumblr can??” he literally does not get me. no one will get me like the people in my phone get me

The Stand-in Job

Danny loved his job. It was an easy on call job he got rather on accident. But it paid well and gave him enough time to deal with ghost matters outside of scheduled work hours.

Though now he got stuck in a situation his Boss had not provided him with a script and or explanation how to behave for.

Danny was a simple Stand-in. Sort of like a Stuntman kind of job. His boss was paying him to simple take his place during public appearances, or meetings with no big decision he has to sit through just to listen. Or on the easiest of days, to just sit in his boss office so it appears that someone is there while his boss was doing who knows what. Danny doesn't question, that's why his boss liked him.

But again, no where in his contract was described how he was supposed to handle this situation. So now he was stuck having beat up a couple of wannabe kidnappers and some vigilantes talking to him all casually going on and on how 'Tim', his boss, wasn't supposed to do that to not risk his public image. Should he record this as evidence for his Boss? It sounded like these vigilantes were spilling some of his boss' secrets that shouldn't be known to the public.

Tim just needed someone to sit in his place to make it appear like he was there when he had cases to work through. Danny was the perfect hire for it and Tim liked very much that Danny doesn't ask questions, like he understood. Yet when Danny sent him a text questioning how he should behave as Stand-in in front of Gotham's vigilantes.... Tim wasn't sure if he should feel offended or highly amused about his siblings not realizing that the one kidnapped in public hadn't been Tim but his Stand-in Danny.

there is something so horrible about destroying churches, or any place of worship. im not even religious. it’s about the fact that people were so devoted, put so much effort into building and decorating and just experiencing this part of their life, that they hold so important. and all that effort is taken away by a fucking bomb

I find religion beautiful, and it’s harrowing to see these things happening in PaIestine and no one cares. suddenly now no one cares about religion or the importance of religious monuments

Thank you for defending Nazis. They're just little guys. Just misunderstood, with genuine grievances. I noticed you accidentally forgot to defend child rapists. Dumb commies like you are all the same 🙄

Piss on the poor! Also I'm not a commie and never claimed to be one.

nobody does chapter titles like charles dickens

[mc is reading a devildom textbook that is on human world history]

mc: .......

satan: ... you look troubled

mc: yeah cause it's all wrong

satan: what do you mean?

mc: well, first of all it says the earth is flat