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.
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*bracing myself on my knees and trying to breath, nursing a cramp*
I got here as fast as I can. I just wanted to point out that THIS…
Is one of the gayest fucking lines of television I’ve heard in my life.
Even if the presence of the song itself somehow wasn’t a flashing spotlight enough, the literal voice of God directly draws attention to it. Telling us that in universe, a nightingale really is in fact singing in Barkley square, and to know its music is sweet regardless of if we can hear it. Just like there are really in fact angels (one fallen but we’ll let it slide) dining at the ritz, and they’ve been falling in love regardless of if they’ve been allowed to openly pursue that feeling.
And hell, maybe it’s BECAUSE of the traffic that the nightingale finally sings. Perhaps it wasn’t ready until it was sure no one else could listen.
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Places with "just a few steps" aren't accessible to ambulatory wheelchair users, either. This isn't an angry post because I don't know if full time wheelchair users really understand that, but a lot of ambulatory users are just as fucked when encountering a step as full time users. The problem is not that ambulatory users are the only people being accommodated. The problem is that business don't think or care about any wheelchair user and ambulatory users are only sometimes accommodated by accident and only if they're a very specific kind of ambulatory. The "well we're accessible if you can walk a little" excuse is just that, an excuse to try to pin the problem on the wheelchair user rather than the business. It's not even a valid excuse because it fundamentally and perhaps intentionally misunderstands how a lot of ambulatory wheelchair users live.
I'm ambulatory but sitting up uses a large amount of my energy, almost as much as standing does. I use a Permobil M3 Corpus that has power tilt, recline, and footrest adjustment so I can adjust into an energy preserving position. My chair weighs 400lbs and I'm not leaving it outside or in a lobby so I can do a "couple of steps". I don't think the usually minimum wage employees get paid enough to babysit a $13000 piece of equipment that is virtually irreplaceable and vital to my freedom. I'm not the only person who can't get my chair over stairs and can't afford to leave it behind. There are plenty of ambulatory powerchair users. There are plenty of ambulatory users who can't lift their own chairs and don't want strangers touching their mobility aid. There are plenty of ambulatory users who can't do stairs at all. Most ambulatory wheelchair users don't want to leave their chair behind out of fear that it will be stolen or misplaced.
This isn't a time for pointing fingers and "who does society like better"ing each other. It's a time for demanding that the law be followed and new laws be put in place together so that no one has to sacrifice their safety and comfort to access necessities or entertainment or be barred from those things entirely.
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i've been reading a lot about fundamental differences between homer and tragedy and one interesting thing is the preoccupation of tragedy with the conflicts of women's loyalties to their natal and marital families, which manifests in so many tragedies putting women in situations where they are forced to choose sides in conflicts between their husbands/fathers/brothers/sons (eg medea chooses her husband over her father and brother, antigone chooses her brother over her future husband and potential children, procne chooses her sister and father over her husband and son, creusa remains dedicated to her father and his lineage instead of her husband and his). women are supposed to forge chains between men by their marriages and tragedies are so often interested in what happens to those connecting links when things go sour.
and that's just totally absent in homer, there's never any tension between icarius and odysseus or between eetion and the house of priam or between autolycus and laertes or between tyndareus and either paris or menelaus and agamemnon. most of the time either father-in-law or son-in-law is totally absent from the narrative. there's nothing that would put a woman in the position of mediating between the family she was born into and the family she married into.
but you know who in homer does experience this tension between loyalty to natal and marital families? hector. in iliad 6 andromache begs him to adopt a more defensive strategy because she and their son will be totally lost if he dies, and hector speaks of having to fight for his father's glory and his own. andromache and astyanax will suffer if hector dies well and bravely fighting for a lost cause, but priam will benefit. hector even acknowledges that after troy's fall it will be andromache who suffers most, not priam or hecuba-- for them the memory of hector's glory will be a consolation, while for her it will only be more pain. hector is torn between his father and his wife, the family he was born into and the family he has created through marriage.
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Hello!💜I have some questions I'd like to ask you. Does mychael get sick? If he does, how does he take care of himself? Or how would he like mc to take care of him? (Here I used a translation tool. If the grammar causes difficulty in reading, please skip this question. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, and thank you🙇♂️🙇♂️)
The translation always works well, no worries!! <3
I've been thinking about this a lot!!! Since he's not human, he doesn't get sick like we do:
He's aware we call it being sick, but his term is 'feeling withered/wilted.'
He doesn't have a temperature, but his skin turns pale and blemished like a diseased plant, and gets kinda slimy and cold like a frog's.
No energy, no appetite, barely talks. Very zombie-ish.
He gets real drowsy and dazed and the only thing to motivate him is seeking out warmth.
He just needs sunshine and sleep to get better so you'd find him laying out in the sun during the day and hiding away in blankets at night, sleeping it off. He only eats once a day, since his body needs rest rather than sustenance.
He's not used to asking someone to care for him, but in this state if MC offered to help he'd honestly just ask you to keep him warm too with zero assumption as to what you might think. He's just a little too out of it to be embarrassed about it.
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