#poetry busking

[bespectacledbookworm]

Today I went downtown to write poems for strangers and it. Was. Awesome!

[pvdpoetry]

Alicia reading a poem on demand while busking at the Pedestrian Bridge in Providence.

[env0writes]

Janus Estuaries Vol. 3, 1.5.24 “Panhandle Busk"

We do not stop To drop a single, crumpled, tattered, unused dollar bill Into the streetside performer’s hungry tips For in their scraps, their elegance We do not see Refuse to see Any more than beggars; poor Noise and nuisance Inconvenient to the day So we do not stop and listen To the well rehearsed movements How can a value be ascribed To what can barely be described We do not stop To think of hours spent The minutes, days, the years Overcoming ridicule and fear To show something true and near We pull our phones and record the show And share with our all friends Look down Look down At the starving, ravenous box for tips Are they not worth loose change? Enough to wish to share To remember Not enough to pay What is the value Of one who seems to lack values

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artist!   Photo by @env0

[leicadiary]

[tugmataludtodtalata]

100 TULA PARA SA KANYA

Sequel

#031 Banda Masyadong makapangyarihan ang mahika ng mga kanta. Kayang-kaya nitong ibalik ang lahat ng ibinaong alaala. Kaya no'ng gabing 'yon, malupit ang hagupit ng banda. Nagawa nitong padalawin ang mga alaalang matagal ko nang iniwan sa kaniya.

[cinader]

Laurie Stone, Christopher D. Sims, Crystal Cauley

Martha Cinder speaks with Laurie Stone about her Substack, Tony Robles with Christopher Sims and Crystal Cauley about Juneteenth at the Carl Sandburg House

Episode 16 – Listen & Be Heard Subscribe at Spotify Subscribe at Apple Subscribe at Google Martha Cinader hosts live at WPVM in Asheville, NC, with interviews and spoken word. Laurie Stone Laurie Stone Martha speaks live from the WPVMfm studio in Asheville, NC with Laurie Stone in upstate New York, about her Substack: Everything is Personal, the series Succession, the VIDA count, (remember…

[sohannabarberaesque]

Poetry Corner

Those Bungle Brothers: Not exactly Branson's kind of stage act. Perhaps it's because their style isn't one as unconsciously promotes a Nutritious Patriot Love of Country, as Branson unconsciously expects in its "music show" acts.

Leaving George and Joey to try the rounds of small-time "home talent shows" (or what may still pass for them) to see if they can still manage Their Big Break for Once. Or at least try boardwalk busking "down the shore" over the summer period to see if their act will actually click with the masses for once, let alone generate the bakeesh.

And wonder what sort of act they may try pulling off, one trying to cross the line of Good Taste and Seaside Postcard Humour while managing to avoid Unwelcome Attention from the police as much as merchants and tourism-promotion agencies still a little too conscious about optics to the point of unhealthy.

Meanwhile, dost thou have some interesting Hanna-Barbera poesy worth the sharing?

*************

@warnerbrosentertainment @tallcharlie @jellystone-enjoyer @xdiver71 @archive-archives @themineralyoucrave @thebigdingle @screamingtoosoftly @warnerbros-blog1 @thylordshipofbutts @theweekenddigest @princessgalaxy505 @warnerbrosent-blog

[focsle]

I never did a long thing about scrimshaw, so it’s time! At 1 am, apparently.

I think scrimshaw is one of the most fascinating material goods to emerge from the history of the American whaling industry (which is the context I’m discussing here, though of course the artform exists across numerous eras and cultures outside this brief blip of nautical history).

It’s one way to see amatuer art that usually doesn’t often survive in other forms. To see the art project of an ordinary man who was bored and needed something to do with his hands. Others were highly skilled craftsman, creating intricate engravings or mechanically expert tools. The most common scrimshaw was images etched on sperm whale teeth. Sometimes those images came from the maker’s own imagination and sometimes they were copied illustrations. Ships & whaling scenes, women, mythical figures, and patriotic symbols make up the bulk of the visual language in those pieces that survive.

But alongside the teeth were all a manner of carved items: canes, candle holders, pie crimpers, children’s toys, sewing boxes, yarn swifts, corset busks. So much bone fashioned into quiet little homegoods. And it’s that contradiction within scrimshaw that fascinates me. The brutality of the industry, this ivory from an animal that frankly died terribly, that’s then softened into a little domestic item. An object that could have hours to years of work put into it. Some were made to be sold but many were made as gifts. In the long stretches of boredom at sea, in the lull between back-breaking work and life-threatening terror, scrimshaw gives a window into where the minds of these men continually turned. It shows where their hearts were and what they were holding on to over all the years they spent adrift in saltwater and blood and oil. That’s the poetry I see in scrimshaw. Pain and love and longing and creativity and playfulness all bound together in these complicated little pieces that found their way out of the hands of their anonymous makers to preserve a small part of their story.

Some scrimshanders names are known. Frederick Myrick is one of the most well known American whalers, not so much for the scope of his life (of which little is known) but for his scrimshaw. Born in Nantucket in 1808, he first went whaling in 1825 on the Columbus and then again on the Susan 1826-29. In the last few months aboard the Susan, Myrick engraved over 30 sperm whale teeth, all depicting the ship he was on (though there are a handful that depict other vessels). He signed and dated nearly each one. These pieces are often referred to as ‘Susan’s Teeth’ now, and when one comes up at auction it’s not unusual for it to sell for six figures.

Many of the teeth Myrick scrimshawed included an inscribed couplet of his devising: A dark wish for luck that succinctly gets at the violent and unstable heart of American whaling.

“Death to the living, long life to the killers Success to sailor’s wives, and greasy luck to whalers”

Sometimes large scenes were etched on panbones as well.

Moving from scrimshaw on teeth and jawbones, pie crimpers are some of the more common sculptural items. Popular motifs included animals (dogs, snakes, and unicorns/hippocampus are big), body parts (mostly clenched fists or lady’s legs), and geometric designs.

Others were more mechanically complicated, such as automatons and children’s toys with moving parts and gears. Here’s one of a small rocking sailboat, perhaps made for someone’s child or younger sibling.

Sometimes a particular creative fellow created something more eccentric, like this wild writing desk kit fashioned out of a carved panbone and sperm whale teeth.

Another frequently scrimshawed object was a corset busk that would be slid into the front of the garment in order to maintain the posture. A rather private item compared to others. And one with a very on-the-nose message of wearing close to one’s heart the memory of someone who’d be gone for 3-4 years, who might never come home again. On some level, so many of these daily objects whispered ‘forget me not’, ‘think of me while I’m gone’. 

There’s something tender to all the various domestic items that were fashioned on the job so long and far from home, but it’s the yarn swifts that really captivate me. They were one of the most complicated pieces of scrimshaw to make, with over one hundred different pieces that would have to be carved. It could take someone the length of the voyage (2-4 years) to complete a single one. Unlike teeth which were comparatively very quick to make and were frequently intended to be sold, it’s very unlikely that a swift was made with the aim of selling it because of the significant labor that went into it. They were almost certainly all gifts, and very special ones at that. Every time I see one I can just feel the love towards its intended recipient radiating off of it.

Scrimshaw captures a specific snapshot of a moment in time. On a broader scale it’s a surviving reminder of a bloody industry that flared up and winked out, preserved in the form of a long-lost ship and the spout of a long-dead whale inked on a yellowing tooth. But that snapshot also reveals the emotional world of the men who were caught up in such an industry: what they valued, what they thought about, what they missed, and what they wanted to be remembered of them.

[wordsinhaled]

i started writing this post ages ago and it’s been languishing in my drafts, sorry @teejaystumbles ! i mentioned bard!hob like EONS ago so i’m throwing this post out in the wild finally

what about, like... (no, i promise this isn't a witcher au) bard!hob canon divergent dreamling??? like. everything is the same except when dream and death enter the white horse in 1389 hob is performing a song about evading death, for a small crowd. dream is intrigued not because hob is particularly good but because as we all know, dream's a sucker for art and music. he buys hob a drink after his performance and invites him to sit together and by the end of their conversation, he's betting with his sister that hob will run out of things to sing about in 100 years

dream isn’t hob’s inspiration in the same way that he inspires shaxberd. hob isn’t a great talent vocally or musically. but there’s a light and warmth in his eyes and a deftness to his fingers on lutestrings, an earnest relatability in his tone, and a contagious enthusiasm when he talks to dream about his hopes, his dreams. and dream is intrigued

thinking about how their centennial meetings would be almost the same, but slightly different. hob reserves rooms for them when dream comes to the white horse so he can perform for dream privately. he still thinks dream is a lord, and deserving of special attention (and even if he weren’t a lord, he’s ethereal and gorgeous and the subject of more than a few of hob’s bawdier verses, which hob writes only for himself)

and the Tension??? the tension would be unreal???

thinking about 1689 hob, bedraggled and penniless, and maybe dream finding him busking on the street outside the white horse for coin, because the inns won’t let him in. he brings hob inside with him where it’s warm and dry and buys him a meal, and hob lays his instrument on the table between them and says, “it’s all i have left. i’m sorry, old stranger, i’ve no rooms for us this evening—” dream gets their room, and for the first time he says when they’re upstairs, “there is no need to sing for me tonight, hob gadling,” and he helps hob bathe and makes sure he is dressed in fine clothes again. hob looks lost and grateful and not a little in love and maybe he tries to kiss dream - after all he’s been pining for 300 years. but dream lays a hand on his cheek and says, “if you still feel the same in one hundred years, let us revisit this, hm?”

so of course 1789 is… 1789. the tension is there a thousandfold. by this time hob’s writing poetry and plays and he’s part owner of a bookshop. he’s been writing letters to dream as well. he hands them to dream, tied up in a red ribbon. “i still feel the same,” he says. “do you?” dream thinks he does. but then for the first time they have a conversation, outside of a performance; a real conversation. when it comes out what hob’s been doing, the kind of material hob’s bookshop sells and where he invests his money, dream turns on his heel and leaves

thinking about 1889, hob earnest and rueful, wondering if dream will attend their meeting this year. he’s taken a chance and hasn’t written anything. he wants to talk, to fix things. “old stranger,” he says when they’re seated by the fire in the rooms hob has rented for them. “i have changed. i hope that as you learn more of what i have done this past century i might raise myself in your estimation. but my feelings for you have only grown.” and maybe this is the year of their first real kiss, the year they go to bed together, and hob wakes up the next morning alone, fine sand under his fingernails and the taste of dream still on his tongue

and perhaps soon after dream goes missing hob hears whispers of it from some of the more eccentric patrons of his bookshop, and he goes and rescues dream. he dusts off his musicianship and gets himself in as an entertainer at one of burgess’ lavish parties as a cover

and then dream is free and they live happily ever after, the end, right?

cue modern day hob, teaching a course on the history of story and ballad, looking at old lyrics from the 15th century, asking dream, “remember when i sang this for you? god, i was bloody awful, don’t know what you saw in me…”

[reine-du-sourire]

A Covert Overture

Cheslock frowns in perplexity as he makes his way over to his favorite table in the corner of the café, enjoying the way the warmth of the coffee cup seeps into his hands through the fingerless gloves he always likes to wear.

Who keeps paying for my drinks? This is the third time this week!

His violin case bounces a bit as he slings it carefully over his shoulder and lays it on the empty seat beside him. Good tips today; not that he'd needed to use them on his usual coffee order, though.

"It's already paid for," the barista says cheerfully as Cheslock starts rummaging in his pocket for the few dollars he'd set aside from the money he'd earned busking across the street. "I wish I could tell you who, I really do, but I swore I wouldn't! You've got such a fan!"

"Thanks, McMillan. Sure ya can't even give me a hint?"

"Please, Cheslock, don't make me give it away! I promised!"

It really shouldn't be this hard to get secrets out of McMillan.

Cheslock takes a sip of his Americano and gazes languidly around the café. Violet's in his usual window seat, sketching away and completely ignoring Redmond's cheerful stream of chatter about whatever new book of poetry he's currently reading, plus a couple of other patrons scattered around the fragrant space.

Violet had only shrugged when Cheslock asked him yesterday who the mysterious benefactor was. Violet practically lives in this café; surely he knew, and he still wouldn't tell. Git.

"It's quite a lovely gesture, though," Redmond titters with a wink. "You could call it a covert overture, considering-!"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Very clever, Red."

The bell over the door tinkles. Cheslock looks up and, shrugging, goes back to his coffee.

That weird blond guy in the green zip-up jacket who never makes eye contact is back again.

[bespectacledbookworm]

Im going to get a lil tax refund and I'm trying to decide what I should do with it!

I'm thinking get my typewriter painted orrrrr? I'd like to do something to invest on my poetry. Maybe... hmm. A portable umbrella or canopy for when I busk at markets? A nice tips fanny pack? That would be lovely actually. Hmm. Something that would aide a crafts person like me.... Maybe have a professional sign printed? 🤔

I've also really been hoping to make my living g space more cozy and calming, but the only thing I can think that it really lacks rn is some privacy window film. We'll I suppose I could finally buy that without feeling guilty about it!

[m0ckest]

Benali Low-CC Makeover

Salim grew up in the Arts Quarter with all its creative influence. He knows his writing--specifically his poetry--can touch the hearts of many. Except there's a new book he wants to read, And a project he wants to start. And he definitely can't miss happy hour. With so many distractions in the city, will he ever be able to finish his book?

No-cc version available on the gallery @m0ckest 🖤 See my other low-cc makeovers

Salim has the same routine every day. Wakes up slightly hungover, eats a banh mi at the food stall downstairs, watches the violinists busking in the Arts Center plaza, strains to find inspiration to write, goes back to his apartment, sits in front of his computer, drinks gim & dusties until he falls asleep, and repeats.

Sometimes this is sprinkled with nights out, mingling with locals and artists. But most of the time, it's just him and cuddly Lalami.

He has books and books worth of poetry written that he's dying to share, but something is holding him back. Maybe it's the same thing holding him back from changing up his routine. Maybe one of his walks around the city will strike inspiration one day.

No-CC except for my defaults and a couple skin details. I’ve added some relevant relationship levels, preferences, skills, degrees, and more.

Unedited, no-cc pic:

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 15, 12 avril 1896, Paris. 9. Jupon Taglioni, propriété exclusive de la maison Jeanne d’Arc, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

9. Jupon Taglioni, propriété exclusive de la maison Jeanne d’Arc, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris. — Mettre un jupon sous l’invocation de la célèbre danseuse Taglioni, c’est donner l’idée d’une création imprégnée de parisianisme, légère comme des ailes de sylphe et â la fois commode et pratique. Tel est absolument le Taglioni. Ce jupon avec sa tournure invisible, complètement adhérente, crin et baleine, vous habille divinement, arrondissant gracieusement la croupe, rejetant l’ampleur des jupes en arriere, soutenant les godets dans leur fantaisiste disposition en éventail. Le jupon Taglioni donne â l’ensemble de la toilette les proportions les plus harmonieuses; c’est la poésie du galbe. Ce modèle en tissu de soie broché se fait en nuances claires et foncées, deux tons, garni d'un haut plissé en taffetas, couvert par une haute dentelle application nœud en aigrettes, prix 80 frances. Ajoutons que le jupon Taglioni se fait à 30 francs, 40 francs, 50 francs et 60 francs. Le bouvel album illustré, comprenant les dernières créations en jupons, lingerie, trousseaux et corsets avec busc et sans busc, est envoyé sur demande gratis et franco; Il suffit d'écrire à la maison Jeanne d'Arc, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris.

9. Taglioni petticoat, exclusive property of the house of Joan of Arc, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris. — To put a petticoat under the invocation of the famous dancer Taglioni is to give the idea of a creation imbued with Parisianism, light as the wings of a sylph and both comfortable and practical. Such is absolutely the Taglioni. This petticoat with its invisible bustle, completely adherent, horsehair and whalebone, dresses you divinely, gracefully rounding the rump, throwing back the fullness of the skirts, supporting the godets in their fanciful arrangement. The Taglioni petticoat gives the whole dress the most harmonious proportions; it is the poetry of curves. This model in brocaded silk fabric is made in light and dark shades, two tones, trimmed with a pleated top in taffeta, covered by a high lace application bow in aigrettes, price 80 frances. Let us add that the Taglioni petticoat is made at 30 francs, 40 francs, 50 francs and 60 francs. The bouvel illustrated album, including the latest creations in petticoats, lingerie, trousseaus and corsets with busk and without busk, is sent on request free and carriage paid; Just write to the Joan of Arc house, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris.

[something-tofightfor]

grandiose

Pairing: Shane “Dio” Morrissey x ... well, you’ll see. 

Word Count: 1880

Rating: M? Themes and language, allusions to sex. 

Author’s Note:

This story is based on this post by @stealyourblorbos and this conversation, which I tweaked a little to suit my thoughts:

I got her permission write it, and hope she enjoys. IDK what this is or where it came from, but here we are. 

Thank you for letting me play in your sandbox with your art for a little while, Jules. It’s a lot of fun.  And thank you to @the-blind-assassin-12​ for the beta and for making some comments and suggestions.

YES, I am aware that this raises more questions than it answers - but it’s a one shot, so I hope you have a good imagination to fill in the blanks.

Summary: 

One night is enough to change someone’s life, but which night will that be?

grandiose: characterized by affectation of importance or splendor or by absurd exaggeration; often implies a whiff of pretension

It started as a joke - even to him. 

The way he dressed, the black dye he put into his hair, the way he spoke. It was almost too easy to fall into the persona that he’d carefully crafted. Despite the way he looked, he was able to fade into the background in most cases  - sitting back and watching, waiting until the right person crossed his path. 

The right impressionable person, anyway. 

And there’d been plenty of those - young men and women that hadn’t looked closely enough to figure out that it was all an act, all a way for Shane Morrissey to pretend that he wasn’t who he was supposed to be - to make himself feel important, to matter in a way that had nothing to do with a 9-5 job in a sensible position or meeting the societal norms that he’d been inundated with from childhood. 

But there’d been times when he’d gotten too close to things, the act bleeding over more than it should have. There’d been the incident with Raven and that goddamn knife in his early 20’s, and that had been hard for a while. But even that had mostly blown over quickly, much to everyone’s surprise. 

While locked up, he’d started writing. He’d done a few years in jail for the assault before getting released early due to good behavior, which was ample time to fill up multiple notebooks with his thoughts and feelings. 

After his release, he’d roamed New York City looking for outlets to share his work.  And when faced with even fewer options than he’d had before, Dio dropped the moniker and persona and started going by Shane again. 

But the city had quickly become too expensive for him to stay, and no one seemed interested in listening to his poetry or lyrics when he looked just like everyone else, so he’d spent some of the little money he’d made and saved on a bus ticket west.

He’d found a secondhand guitar in a pawn shop, carting the case around along with his battered backpack of all his worldly possessions and teaching himself to play as he made his way toward the opposite side of the country. Shane was determined to make it happen for himself there in a way that he never had as Dio on the East Coast. 

And for a while, he’d done just that. He busked in parks, turning his writing into song while actively avoiding the same traps that had gotten him into trouble before. He made friends - other struggling artists and musicians - and after only a few weeks of roaming parks and sleeping on benches, he was living in a two bedroom apartment near Santa Monica with four other people. 

Shane worked overnight cleaning buildings. He earned enough to pay weekly rent and feed himself. It allowed him to continue performing on the Venice Beach boardwalk and the Pier. Slowly, he began to find himself, though the memory of who he’d pretended to be was never buried too deep. 

Until one night, a year after his move to California, he looked up after finishing a song only to find one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen watching him play. She caught his eye immediately, her ruby lips full and perfectly painted, the rest of her makeup done to match. 

He’d tried to play it cool, giving her a nod as she dropped a $20 into his guitar case and then stepped back, the man returning to his instrument and starting a new song. 

She was there when he looked up again, her arms crossed over her chest and fire in her eyes, but before he could speak, she beat him to it. “Do you have a few minutes? I think we should talk, Dio.” 

Her voice was like smoke, curling around him and muting everything else happening on the pier.  

He only had eyes for her, and moments later, he was walking next to her across the sand, parallel to the water with the guitar case slung over one shoulder. “No one’s called me that in years.” His fingers gripped the leather of the strap as he spoke, but the woman stayed quiet. 

They followed alongside the edge of the surf, her hair blowing in the wind, and after ten or so minutes, she stopped and turned back to face him. “I’ve been watching you.” Her voice was low but it was sharp, the look in her eyes piercing as she stared at him. “Put the guitar down, Dio, let’s talk.” 

He moved on autopilot, a feeling of certainty growing in his chest by the second though he didn’t understand it. “Who are you? How do you know me?” He wet his lips, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve been watching me? Where?”

“Philadelphia. New York City. Here. I’ve been everywhere with you, Dio. Don’t you recognize me?” He looked closer, the man’s head tilted to the side, his long, dark locks moving with the breeze.Giving himself a few seconds to think, he tried to figure out who she was and where he might have known her from. But I don’t know. I would have remembered someone like her. She stepped even closer, lifting a hand to touch the side of his face. “Have you ever wanted something you didn’t think you could have?” 

“Yes.” He closed his eyes, nodding. “I have.” - 

She continued to touch him, the scent of the woman’s perfume overwhelming his senses. Rich and spicy, it reminded him of the altars he’d made and maintained when he’d gone by the name she was using for him. 

Swallowing hard, he reached for her, breathing hard as he placed his hands at her waist. The woman didn’t shy away from his hold, instead moving even closer.

“I can give it to you.” She hummed as she kissed him on the cheek, lips dragging over it as they moved toward his ear. “I can give you everything.” The man felt her breath on his skin and then the bite of her teeth against his earlobe before they caught - and tugged on the silver hoops he wore there. “Everything you’ve ever wanted.” 

It was difficult to breathe, the sound of the ocean dulled by the woman’s proximity, the air heavy in his lungs. 

One of her hands was pressed to the back of his head, her fingers twisted into his hair; the other was running idly up and down his arm, the tips of her fingernails dragging slowly over the skin and bringing goosebumps to the surface. “How? What do you want from me?” 

He didn’t know how he was able to get the words out, but she laughed quietly at them, the hand moving all the way down his arm before her fingers slid between his, pushing their palms together. “Nothing you won’t miss.” She squeezed, pulling on his hair with her other hand. “Nothing you didn’t already claim you were ready to give.” 

He was confused at the woman’s words, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. 

She’d honed in on the thoughts concealed in the deepest part of his brain, the plans he’d made so many years earlier and all but abandoned in order to survive. “OK.” He shivered, nodding. “Sure.” He felt her cheeks lift in a smile and then the woman kissed him, yanking his head backwards enough so that she could press her lips to his. 

But the kiss was broken only moments later, the woman releasing his hair and then stepping back, though she didn’t let go of his hand. “Tell me what you crave, Dio.” He was breathing hard, still reeling from the kiss, but her demeanor was no different than it had been, the woman’s pale skin almost glowing under the moonlight, her dark eyes locked with his. “Tell me what you want.” 

“I want them to worship me.” His upper lip curled, the words coming with no pause. “All of them. I want their attention. I want them to see how I live. I want them to love me.” The woman hummed again, angling her head back, though she never looked away from him. 

It felt good to be so honest - to tell someone that even though he’d tried to ignore it for years, he still felt that way - still wanted the same things he had before. The Dio persona had been false, but the reasons he’d adopted it hadn’t been. 

He didn’t know what game the woman was playing, or how the night would end, though he hoped it would end in a bed with her somewhere. He certainly didn’t expect the way she moved as she pulled her hand free from his and then straightened her shoulders, the ocean - and moonlight - at her back. 

And it had to have been a trick of the light when he caught sight of a shadow behind her that looked like a pair of wings, unfurling and stretching up and out before they disappeared, the man blinking in confusion as she uncrossed her arms, still staring at him.

“I can make that happen.” Her smile grew, white teeth on display behind the red lips that had just been on his. “I can make it all happen for you.” 

She took another breath, extending her hand toward him, and for the first time, Dio noticed the design on her palm: a pentagram in dark ink, stark against the woman’s pale skin. Like the one I used to… He blinked slowly and then stepped forward, nodding. What do I have to lose?

“Let’s do.” 

It felt good to be back in New York City. 

Despite the abrupt nature of his previous departure, and the memories associated with the time he’d spent there earlier, Dio felt a sense of nostalgia for the place. And that’s a shock. 

With a final shrug of his shoulders, the man finished re-tying his boot and then glanced upward, nodding to the small crew of people gathered behind the camera. He gave them a thumbs up, and then pressed the tips of his fingers to the cement, the gold rings adorning them glinting in the light from above. 

He focused on the camera flashes as they came, repositioning his legs and arms and giving the crew what they asked for with the subtle tilt of his head and the smirk that had become second nature to him over the previous months. 

And though he worked with the long coat, the fabric pooled around his legs as he changed positions, he was careful to keep certain appendages hidden from view, though he could feel the weight of them against his back - their presence a constant reminder of what he’d chosen on Santa Monica Beach. 

But it was worth it, he reminded himself as he smiled for the camera, one of the assistants rushing over to adjust his styled hair and reposition his garters before any more pictures were taken, her fingers combing carefully through the strands and then sliding - not entirely professionally - over the skin of his thighs. Completely worth it. 

His smile grew, but so did the heat that crawled over his right palm - and the man knew exactly what that meant. 

It’s time to find someone else… and make a new offer.

- 

tag list reblog coming soon

[mostlyonthefloor]

HOT DAMN

Secret Worlds is having the same effect on my psyche as 'The Hollow Men', the beat drop in the third chorus of Dust Bowl Dance, and the guy I saw busking beat poetry who screamed "THEN HOW CAN I BE HOLY?" into a crowded street and I am SO here for it

I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANYBODY BUSKING ANY FORM OF POETRY BEFORE THAT SOUNDS SO SICK

But yes that's a banger of a song I'm so excited you like it!!!!! They reach RIGHT into your brain. Have you listened to The Calling yet (same psychic effect as standing outside in strong wind as it begins to rain. and you are so small but you feel that you are in control in some way)

[focsle]

I was wondering if you've picked up any information on items like wedding rings or other love tokens among the whalers that you study. I've read your essays talking about domestic scrimshaw items, which are fantastic but -- I dunno! Wedding rings don't necessarily make sense for men doing hard work with their hands (and I know they go in and out of fashion) but I'm curious if there was something of the sort! Thank you for your aaaart and haunted whale men.

I feel like so many of those domestic items ARE the love tokens! Especially the yarn swifts that had so much labor poured into them, and the busks that, in addition to being an intimate object worn close were carved with all sorts of entreaties of love and remembrance to the woman it was made for. That so many of these scrimshaw pieces were these incredibly intricate domestic items (that would mostly be used by women at this time) that demanded so much patience and artistry speaks to the craftsman’s love. There are so many emotions carved into those things—ugh, I find such poetry in them.

I haven’t come across any wedding rings myself, but that isn’t to say there never was one! Here are some scrimshaw rings—they were likely just adornments, but who knows, they may have been love tokens too!

Men wearing wedding rings wasn’t a common phenomenon in the US until the 20th century. But whalers still remembered their loved ones left ashore in varying ways. Usually in the form of daguerreotypes, once the technology existed.

I always think of 2nd mate of the Arnolda, Benjamin Boodry writing on the May Day tradition of hanging a basket of flowers on the door of a sweetheart (in his case, a woman named Helen):

“I wish I was there to hang her a May Basket. I believe I should get into a 2 bushel basket and hang myself if she would take me in. here I set in my state room the door shut and my whole family of Daguerreotypes around me and my Accordion in my hand and I try to imagine myself in old Mattapoisett.”

Another mate, John Wilson, of the Wave talked about how his wife’s miniature gave him solace.

“it is hard and I still trust we shall yet get something if it is Gods will and far from home and far from home but the Image of my Wife is my only Consolation. The Island of Fyal [Fayal] Bearing E. NE. good Night. Lat 38 25.”

He mentioned sometimes speaking to his wife’s portrait while on the voyage. Whalers would hang them in their bunks so they’d be able to look upon them when they woke up. I’ve come across logbooks that had a portrait of the keeper’s wife pasted in the front cover, or poems about her. I came across a logbook keeper who held on to a cake a woman had baked him before he left, and was dismayed to find it spoiled when he finally went to eat it on his birthday. There were captains that brought some of their wife’s belongings with them, and talked about burying their face into them and weeping. Most of the ways I’ve seen whalers remembering their wives were less tangible than the scrimshaw tokens they made for them, but man did they still think about them. Physical token or not, their minds continually turned back to those they left behind.

Letters were some of the most prized objects of affection. Silliman Ives, of the Sunbeam, wrote about the importance of receiving letters.

“Speaking of letters leads me to remark that of all the people in the world, it seems to me that a sailor prizes a letter the most. Expected letters form the subject of many conversations for weeks before the ship goes into port. How many each one thinks he shall get, and who will be the writers. Speculations are rife as to the health of those from whom they are awaiting news. And if it is known that Jack, or Ben, or Dick were paying particular attentions to any certain young lady, previous to sailing, or if they are supposed to be engaged to get “spliced” when the voyage is concluded, many jokes are cracked at their expense, and numerous are the wishes of their messmates that they “may get good long ones, and chock full of love.” 

Nothing plunged a fellow into greater despair than coming into port after months at sea and receiving no letters, and nothing seemed to make him happier than when a letter did arrive (that is, if it brought good news). Old letters were clung to, sometimes from seasons’ past. They’d be read over and over again. There was even a market for selling the love letters they got to men who didn’t receive one, as whaler Ezra Goodnough once described:

“I sold a letter I received from a young lady of Salem and the only one to that I have received this voyage for two heads of tobacco, it being a very scarce article.”

Whoof, this was a long way of saying I haven’t come across any wedding rings yet, men likely wouldn’t be wearing them at this point, but they really did cling to their pictures and papers!