(It’s the plotting look)

Man sitting on a stone bench by a stone wall. Black and white nitrate negative, taken between 1895 and 1915. 

City of Toronto Archives, Fonds 562, File 448, Item 1.

"Somebody needs to do something about Sephora 10-year-olds...these i-pad babies are so rude and don't do what they're told....oh my God, these kids can't read and have no social skills...Ugh, look at these little consumers and their Stanley Cups."

I am, in fact, actively worried for these children and I refuse to hate them for the ways that society, as a whole, has failed them.

Keep seeing that post where OP starts like 'Thinking about...grieving the undead' and then adds on about like. Real life situations where people have not died but have left your life and you would have reason to grieve them.

All respect, that's an important concept, but that is not what I am thinking about when I read 'grieving the undead'.

trans women are everywhere and are so eager to be seen and heard but only if they feel safe around you. if you hardly ever have trans women interacting with you, especially online, then consider there might be a reason for that and you should address it

we need to bring back inviting people over for cake and coffee. my grandma used to do that all the time and I think it's a lost art

lesbian werewolf call that dykeanthropy. is this anything

i think they should take turns cuddling for healing purposes

when the academic article is so good it has you giggling and kicking your feet

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.

tribute to legends arceus

december 31st but i make it silly (based on a tumblr post, below the cut!)

everyone say thank you xenia, i made adjustments for the december 31st context but nyx avatar is still fitting.

original draft of the last panel. i considered putting the bi flag but i didn't know how to squeeze it in. we love ryoji mochizuki in this house.

82: Lightnin' Hopkins // Lightnin' and the Blues

Lightnin' and the Blues Lightnin' Hopkins 1960, Herald Records

Armchair blues. Think about cleaning the eavestroughs then don’t blues. Dog kinda pushing at your hand to see if you’ll play then laying down on your feet blues. She’ll come around blues. Ambiently horny and lonesome and relaxed blues. Opinions about this year’s local blues festival’s lineup not being ‘blues’ enough blues. Reading the faux-ethnographic liner notes by a long dead A&R man blues. Should I finally trade in for a new truck blues. Saying, “That man sure can play,” and nodding approvingly blues. Squinting and not wearing sunscreen blues. Taking fifteen minutes to get up and flip the record blues. Comfortable shoe blues. Suspenders and a belt blues. No hurry blues. Just blues, blues, and won’t let you down too hard if you don’t ask more of it than that.

82/365

I 100% believe Lois Lane requested the presence of Bruce Wayne in her delivery room.

Nobody, not even the League, understood until it was time to give birth and Clark froze up at her bedside. Bruce was there to coach them both through it, as Clark’s friend and as Lois’ human reinforcements.

(Bruce flew to Metropolis in a helicopter when he got the news. He found Clark ashen and trembling at Lois’ side, eyes clenched shut as she screamed. He slid into place like he’d never been missing, talking Lois AND Clark through it like he delivered babies every day of the week)

Genuinely love the fact that regardless of which Superfam/Batfam pairing (romantic or platonic) you're looking at, it's always some variation of:

Batfam member: They're so lucky I'm the normal one.

Superfam member: Holy shit, every single one of you is fucking insane!!!!

a "fun fact" i read as a child is that pure honey never spoils, to the point where honey from ancient egyptian tombs was found to still be edible

i used to think about this, and imagine a poor intern who was strong-armed into putting in their one human mouth something was made literally thousands of years ago, just to make sure it could be safely eaten

but having since met scientists and having learned what freaks they are, if they did put this to the test, i am VERY confident that every single archaeologist in the room was duking it out over who got the honor of putting their tongue on that mummy's dusty old bee goo.