#bc i haven't in weeks

[sunlit-mess]

coping real hard

[inkskinned]

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.

[akiacia]

pokemon au

[welcometogrouchland]

All the DC gotcha4gaza prompts I've completed since my last post! Donations are over now but there's still more art to come, so stay tuned!

[junewild]

Watching Sam & Brennan talk about the beauty of frivolity, of adults playing silly games just as seriously as they fight to survive, and... yeah. There are some things that keep us alive, and there are some things that make life worth living, and I think games are one of those things that fall into both categories. Games make our lives better and they make us better at being alive. I think that's pretty cool.

[satans-knitwear]

Puttin on some clothes.... Gotta keep it casual.

Treat me ~ Tip Me ~ More of me

[whyoneartheven]

there are so many "if this gets (insert number) notes i'll do something productive/good for me!" but has there ever been one where someone goes

if this gets 10k notes i'll slap myself in the face

i suppose i'm wondering

would people be so eager to reblog if it would cause something slightly unpleasant?

[why-the-heck-not]

maybe maybe a mistake taking astronomy; idk why I thought I'd suddenly be a physics mastermind just bc I have more motivation for it now. It's the first week and I have no actual clue what I'm doing (or more accurately: should be doing. Mostly so far it's been lots of staring and muttering of "what the fuck" in regular intervals)

[slavhew]

Assorted doodles across time

[crescentfool]

orpheus and thanatos 💚

[lazylittledragon]

if i had a nickel for every time i've been obsessed with drawing a gentle 40 something year old wizard man who would go to extreme lengths for love getting with a beautiful elf woman with red hair and a thing for skeletons, i'd have two nickels which isn't a lot but it's weird that it's happened twice

[dont-let-me-eat-pears]

things that are Too Much: both times lancelot dies, the last face he sees is merlin's, and the last thing he does is smile.

[solaestial]

russell pixel portrait and some different expressions i drew a few weeks ago for discord emotes

[north-noire]

oh no, you killed her! what have you done? inspired by this (they're one of my favorite artists EVER i love their works so much)

[x-starshines-x]

they r very important to meeeeee

[sleepy-steve]

@steddieangstyaugust 12/08 // ‘Terrible Things’ by Mayday Parade

wc: 530  // rating: M // cw: references to sexual content, references to parental abuse // tags: angst, mutual pining, bad parental figures, unhealthy relationships

divider credits @steddiecameraroll-graphics

They’re not together.

Steve comes to the trailer almost every night, waiting until after Wayne’s left for work, or sneaking through a window. But they’re not together.

Eddie’s heart jumps in his chest when he answers the door. His eyes flutter shut when Steve’s lips meet his. Eddie could swear their hearts beat as one when their chests are pressed against each other. When Steve is inside him, he feels whole. They lay together in the cramped bed after, shared joints passed back and forth, arms around each other, heads on chests, sweet nothings whispered. But they’re not together.

Steve leaves before the sun comes up. Kisses Eddie on the lips—soft, sweet, romantic—and says he’ll be back the next night. Which he will. Eddie wants to ask him to just stay. Almost does, every time he leaves. But he can’t. Because they’re not together.

Eddie wants to, but he won’t bring it up. Because he remembers the way his father yelled. The way his mother cried. How they always fought, with Eddie hiding under his bed to get away from the noise. His mother would apologise and hold him, a sole source of comfort in their house. He remembers how awful it was when she passed, and that his father was even angrier then. Eddie has never seen a relationship that went well. Where people were actually happy. He doesn’t believe anyone can have it, let alone him. So they’re not together.

Because what they have now is good. And it’s all Eddie will let himself have.

———

They’re not together.

Eddie welcomes him with a light in his eyes that Steve only sees in the evening, and his heart aches to see it. But they’re not together.

Steve longs for the feeling of his lips on Eddie’s, of his hands in his hair, of Eddie’s teeth biting his neck. Thinks endlessly about the sounds Eddie makes when Steve enters him, taking his time, drawing it out for as long as he can. Even more, he craves the time they spend together after. The soft trailing of fingertips against hot skin, the gentle embraces, the intimacy of shared cigarettes, the ghost of their lips still on the filters. But they’re not together.

Eddie always feels so far away. No matter how close they are physically, there’s a distance. Like Steve’s being held at arm’s length. And he wants to chase. He wishes he could. But he knows when he’s not wanted, so he doesn’t. Because they’re not together.

Steve wants to talk about it, but he’s scared. Because he still feels empty when he thinks about his parents leaving him alone. Still remembers how they never had enough time for him, how they barely tolerated each other. The cold indifference that they regarded him with only rivalled by that which they treated each other with. Despite how much he wants to chase, to go after the thing he wants, he holds back. He knows better than to chase someone who doesn’t want him. Steve keeps himself safe, leaves before he can get hurt. So they’re not together.

Because what they have is enough. And Steve convinces himself it’s all he needs.