for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don’t often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.
i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we’d find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.
in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i’d be the first one up. i’d shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt… outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.
the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so… strangely lovely.
i have to be honest. i’m not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it’s tragic of me. i usually respond to “this thing is super old” by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.
i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don’t swim in walden, it’s so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn’t have “old house” kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70’s. history existed kind of… parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some “ye olden times” place and you’d see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you’d go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.
i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you’ll see how long we’ve been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.
the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn’t actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i’ve lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.
when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child’s scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.
we’ve been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.
we’ve been human for
a long time. way back before
we can remember.
Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.
My favorite little subgenre of the occult is “Fake Martial Arts” because what if that was the one type of magic that was literally 100% real. I love the idea that there’s some dude in a strip mall dojo named Sensei Todd Wayne who can teach you how to kill birds with ki blasts.
Being an actor keeps me sane. Yeah I have to work a day job but know what? When my day job is stressful and I want to scream I get to go hey wait. I have a scream scheduled at 7:30 tonight. Gotta save up. And then I go back to what I was doing.
I have a scream scheduled, I have a kiss scheduled, I have an argument scheduled, I have a making up scheduled, I have a sing and dance scheduled, I have a get slapped in the face scheduled, I have a cry scheduled, whatever. It’s all good.
Something something the Greeks were right about catharsis.
ohhhhhhhhhh my god and when you argue you always have a comeback, and when you make up there’s no lingering anger, and when you scream you don’t have to hold back, and when you get slapped in the face you know you’re safe, and when you cry you know all will be well.
Oh and if it doesn’t turn out and your character dies or something well then you can go to the greenroom and have a snack and that’s good too.
Everyone saying “oh like bdsm” or “oh like larping.” Yes. Humans thrive on imagination and play in many ways.
hello hello! ive been following the writers strike and ive been made aware that they are politely asking fanartists to not post stuff that affects struck companies so make sure to check what fandoms ur in and how to help!
for my dc mutuals, it should be safe, the strike does not involve comics
after some intense news reading without the bias of a tumblr lens, ive figured casual fans and fanartists should be fine unless were called to actively boycott, but! theres an important part to take into account
basically, if u want to unionize in the future (or want a career in this area), do NOT promote struck companies, which means no unpaid publicity either (this means cosplay and fanart when ur a presence online!)
that being said, feel free to just wait the strike out if ur unsure or feel weird about posting when these companies are being assholes
i will never care about the met gala beacuse i know in my heart if you gave a drag queen 45$ and three days they could make something completely out of this world that out every single celeb to shame
one of my professors, a historian who has been interviewed as an expert in various documentaries, said that the secret to documentaries is saying something very obvious, as slowly as possible. for example, if you say “the romans…….. enjoyed their dinner parties” or “being a gladiator… was… very… dangerous” then the filmmakers can get that clip and immediately pan over some cool pictures of mosaics or something. this has forever changed the way i view documentaries
