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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okay so I wrote a fic based off this post that I made earlier today so... enjoy!
read here or on ao3
Thomas Kinard is eighteen years old and he just graduated basic training.
He's standing among nearly two hundred other graduates, all filled with some form of anxiety and excitement.
They're all standing at attention, although Tommy knows everyone's eyes are searching the audience.
They've all been given their orders.
They stand at attention until a family member or loved one comes and taps them out. Only then can they be at ease.
Tommy had called his dad a couple weeks ago. Left him a message on the landline about the date and time of his graduation. He hadn't expected a call back. The payphones at basic weren't great and you didn't have much spare time to be on them, but he knew his dad would get the message.
He wrote a letter to his grandparents, just in case. His aunt on his mom's side, and his older cousins too.
They'd been proud when he told them he was graduating early, joining the service, would be celebrating his eighteenth birthday in boot camp.
Even his dad has slapped him on the back and told him he was glad he was finally becoming a real man.
Tommy's eyes scanned the crowd, but it was hard to make anyone out.
He waited patiently through the ceremony. His heart skipped a beat or two when people began making their way toward the graduates.
He stood still, only his eyes darting around as the people beside him began to get tapped out. He listened to the cries of parents who had done nothing but miss their children for the past 10 weeks. Saw grown men cry at the site of their moms. Heard the laughter from boyfriends and girlfriends who surprised their partner by showing up. Watched little kids run to their sibling and wrap their arms around them in a hug.
He was certain that only a few minutes had passed, but it felt like hours.
As more and more seconds passed, his heart continued to pound, but for a different reason now.
Surely he wasn't the only one. As he glanced around, he didn't see anyone else waiting. No, he couldn't see everybody, but he was near the back in the center row so he could see most people, and they all had somebody with them.
A hand tapped his shoulder and his head jerked to the side, eyes wide. He felt a lump in the back of his throat when he saw his commanding officer standing beside him. He had the softest look on his face that Tommy had ever seen.
Pity.
“At ease, soldier.”
Tommy takes a breath, relaxes his posture. His CO moves in front of him, shakes his hand. “You've done well, Kinard. You should be proud.”
Tommy nods. Can't find his voice to speak.
He feels tears in his eyes, but he blinks them away.
He shouldn't have expected anyone to show up anyway.
He lowers his head as he walks off the field. A part of him wonders what it was all even for?
*****
Thomas Kinard is forty-eight years old and he just got promoted to captain.
It's not something he ever thought about until the past couple of years. He wouldn't get to fly much as captain. There's more paperwork, more politics, more people to answer to.
But there's also more stability. Especially with being the captain at Harbor. A regular schedule, forty-eight on and ninety-six off.
It was safer. There had been a scare a couple years back. Engine failure on his bird. He went plummeting toward the ground and, if not for a dense area of trees slowing his descent, the chopper would have exploded the second it hit the ground.
He survived, obviously, but his injuries were severe. He had a broken pelvis, fractured leg, thirty stitches down his arm, cranial bleeding, and ended up in a coma for nearly two weeks.
The recovery was long and so, so painful but he had Buck by his side every step of the way. Even the times he'd push Buck away, tell him to please just leave him alone, Buck stayed. He stayed and he learned all the physical therapy techniques and he loved Tommy through all of it.
Flying hadn't felt the same since. He was relieved when he had fully recovered. When he took his recertification classes and passed with flying colors.
But the freedom he had always felt with being in the sky changed into something completely different. There was anxiety. Relief when he was back on solid ground.
He stared out into the crowd, at the little girl sitting on Buck's lap.
Juniper. Six years old and looking more grown up every day. She was glancing all around the room, her eyes never staying in one place for very long. She kept pointing at things, leaning back to whisper into Buck's ear. He'd nod, smile, then whisper back. Tommy was sure they were swapping facts.
So much like her father, he thought.
He'd never forget the day he got home from the hospital. Juniper, only four then, staring at him as he was wheeled into the house. She was clutching onto Eddie's hand, her knuckles snow white. She hadn't gotten to see him in nearly a month, besides an occasional Facetime call.
Once he had gotten settled into the hospital bed that had been delivered to the house the day before, he called her over to him. She slowly climbed up onto the bed, Buck helping her settle beside Tommy without really touching him.
“You scared me, Papa,” she spoke quietly, eyes wet with unshed tears. “Please don't do it again.”
No, flying was never the same after that.
His eyes wander over the rest of the crowd.
A small smile breaks out over his face when he realizes he knows everyone in the first two rows.
Besides his husband and daughter, Maddie, Chimney, and Jee were there. Hen- or, Captain Wilson, now- and Karen. Eddie, Ravi, and Athena. Behind his family were all the firefighters from Harbor. They had been thrilled when they heard Tommy would be the new captain. He'd been taking cues from Bobby recently, starting special dinners with the crew and getting to know them better before he even became captain. He wanted his team to know he'd be there for them, that they could count on him. From the excitement they showed when it was officially announced that he'd be the new captain, he was fairly certain he'd done a good job so far.
The only person not in the audience today was Bobby. But, that was simply because Chief Nash was the one leading the ceremony.
Tommy takes another look around at the family in front of him. He waves at Juniper. She grins wide, showing off her missing front teeth, waves enthusiastically.
His eyes meet Evan's. Tommy gives him a wink. Buck smiles, winks back.
He straightens his posture as the ceremony begins.
He thinks, this... this is what it's all for.
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Edit: Thank you all so, so much. I am incredibly moved and incredibly grateful for everything you all have done. Donations, signal boosts, kind words. We can cover their food for at least one month. Anything sent from here out is most welcome and will go towards their needs, but the food crisis is past for now!
The extra will be held until Raleigh sees the specialist on the 11th and either put towards vet bills or used to get him more of his stinky wet food.
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Guys, we REALLY need help paying for cat food. This is not normally an issue, they come first, but a lot of bad shit happened this month and it has literally taken everything we had. I have tried my hardest to stretch their food to the end of the month but the boys, all three, are out of scrip food TOMORROW.
I'm so sorry. I don't want to be doing this.
It isn't helped by the fact that their food has shot up in price so much I can't believe it.
Please if you can help we would be so grateful. Just five bucks. My boyfriend's PayPal is
[email protected].
We need a total refill on Dried Pickle Man/Sid tummy care kibble, and hopefully a month of wet food for Raleigh, which is around $300 for it all. That sadly isn't an error. That isn't even touching the cost of their vet plans and vet debt, which are another $300, and we are behind by about $100 on the vet plans. But all we really need is most of that $300 for food.
The boys can't be off their scrip food. Sid becomes violently ill (I had to buy hospital biohazard spill absorber for when he throws up) with even a little regular food, and Dried Pickle Man eats the same food he does. For Raleigh, well, he's dying. He needs to be kept comfortable for what time he has left and without this food he develops extremely painful and very dangerous urinary crystals very fast and without wet food he can't eat without severe pain in his mouth. We are trying to fix his teeth but need clearance from a specialist which we cannot get until July. He has already been off his scrip food for a couple of days.
We have gotten along this far via Patreon every month, which pays for a lot of the cat stuff, but PayPal and Patreon are holding over $700 of our money due to some sort of technical issue and I don't know when that can be resolved. Without it, we will have nothing in either bank account by the end of the month. Like. Nothing.
We need help. Badly.
All money will go to him to get food for the cats and pay for their monthly plans and medical debt.
This is Raleigh, who will take your fingers and kiss them if you hold your hand out. Please at least help us get wet food for him so he can eat without pain while he is still here to hold my hand.
(If Raleigh does pass before his food runs out, we can easily return the remaining cans and put that money toward the cost of the euthanasia.)
(Reference, reference. These foods cost the same everywhere I can find, and have gone up in price a lot because greedflation, which is a big part of why paying is suddenly more of an issue.)
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