#timesick

[utterqueerdisasterthesimp]

introducing the latest emotion

timesick: like homesick, feeling as though you are in the wrong time, and wanting to be able to relive a certain point in time again

[babamessiahoftheholycat]

it feels so weird seeing a colored picture of an older time.

because when you see a black & white picture, you brain tends to dismiss it as abstraction because of the lack of colors. it obviously doesn't look like reality.

but when you see a really old color picture, you brain can't dismiss it and has to accept it's real. and suddently, you get an idea of how that time looked like, was like.

and you realise it's so different from right now, yet not how you expected it. and then you try to imagine what it would be like living then, walking amonst those buildings, seeing those people dressed in those clothes. and it feels eerie, like homesickness for an era (yours rn).

and the "worse" (it's not bad, really) is that it's gonna keep getting worse... like, i imagine at some point there's gonna be as much time between then and the invention of colored pictures than now and the middle ages, and it would feel FUCKING weird to vividly picture yourself in the middle ages ;w;

[natalieironside]

So far I've managed to explain pretty much all technology to Marcus (timesick Roman legionary who's crashing on my couch) by just telling him "An engineer made it, there are cogs and mirrors inside" and he just accepts that most of the time but I tried to show him some vine compilations and he got so scared. Spent all day hiding in the cupboards muttering about "daemons chanting barbarous names."

[birrdies]

timesickness (15199 words) by birrdie Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hermitcraft SMP, 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: John Booko | BdoubleO100/EthosLab, John Booko | BdoubleO100 & EthosLab Additional Tags: Time Travel, Immortality, Historical Fantasy, First Meetings, Time Skips, John Booko | BdoubleO100-centric, EthosLab-centric (Video Blogging RPF), POV Alternating, EthosLab Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Ambiguous John Booko | BdoubleO100 and EthosLab Relationship, Mentioned ZombieCleo (Video Blogging RPF), The Watchers are Morally Grey (Evolution SMP), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Immortal EthosLab (Video Blogging RPF), Time Traveler BdoubleO100 Summary: Staring at him feels personal, like peering in on a memory he doesn’t know he had. He should know this moment, this feeling, this man. He should recognize that deep, bone-aching pull inside himself that leaves him cemented in that stool, that nags at him that maybe, after all this time, he’s finally ended up in a specific place for a specific reason. There’s plenty of things he’s been waiting for— a sign, a reason, a why— but this? Bdubs licks his lips. “Do I know you?” A private smile. Even through the mask, Bdubs can see it. “Not yet.” “But I will?" Or; Bdubs jumps through time. Etho outlasts it.

[mundancheemudomo]

McFly July 2024 🌲🌲day 20: Local legend

The brave Clint Eastwood is a legend at Hill Valley and around !

When he's alone, and homesick, or especially timesick, Marty wears his Nike shoes.

[shrinkthisviolet]

Allegra and Cisco for the character bingo👀

Allegra Garcia:

She’s cool. Her powers are cool too, and so is her superhero name (Wavelength, I think it was?). I wish I had more to say about her, but honestly I didn’t get attached to most of the new characters 😅 her story did start off very intriguing, with her being a former inmate who had to turn her life around, and the story with her cousin Esperanza was interesting too, and her powers are cool, but…aside from that, she didn’t really strike me in any particular way.

Especially since she doesn’t have much to do after that except be Iris’s mentee…which was a messy arc on its own tbh—somewhat effective, but not as much as I think the writers wanted, especially since iirc Allegra is the de facto head while Iris is timesick or on her babymoon with Barry? That struck me as premature, because the show establishes her as a strong reporter and hero, but not a strong leader as much imo

(I also don’t like that she was the one to defeat Thawne, but that’s on the writers, not her)

Cisco Ramon:

I love him so very much 🥰 he’s incredible, underrated and nerfed by the show…and as I’ve said in the past, he never should’ve given up his powers (or, if he did, the show should’ve properly explained why and not tried to undo it lazily with “Mecha-Vibe”).

Also also, the fandom is generally pretty positive towards him now, but…the way they turned on him in s3 when he dared to be rightfully mad at Barry…*heavy sigh* also I once saw a video titled “Cisco being SB’s child for x minutes”*, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Literally wtf. Cisco is their age you weirdos.

*I don’t remember how many minutes it was, and ofc the ship name is censored

send me a character (or multiple) and I’ll fill out the bingo!

[jiubilant]

cw: brief blood mention

The city Bromjunaar, bright crown of old Keizaal, has sat abandoned for a thousand years. The wind scratches like a rat through its maze of crumbling walls, skittering through rubble, gnawing the nose of the mage struggling up its frozen steps. He scrunches it.

Then he leans heavily on his staff, breathing hard, and stares. The ruin is dotted with tents. Unless he is seeing double—and he won’t, he thinks wearily, rule it out—he counts several figures, cloaked and cowled, poring over a fallen bas-relief.

They must not, the mage thinks, know the meaning of the word abandoned. Or dangerous. He cups a hand around his mouth. “Hello?”

The figures jump. A young man with the patchy beginnings of a beard spots him, starts, then scrambles down to him over the scree—looking for all the world, the mage thinks, like a disgruntled goat. The fuzz on his chin has frozen into a point.

“Who goes there?” the boy demands, scowling. His voice cracks, bless him. “Stop where you are. You’re—you’re intruding on College business.”

Baa-siness, thinks the mage, then chides himself. They had warned him in the village that the mountain air would make him thick. He’d only half-believed them; now he can’t get his breath, and his vision is starting to swim, and he’s making goat puns. “College business?”

The young man folds his arms. “College business.”

Surely not, thinks the mage. Bright spots dance like witchfires across his eyes. He squeezes them shut, then opens them again, half-worried that the boy might vanish with the lights; surely Mirabelle had not sent a pack of prentices to undergo the most perilous trial known to wizardry, no matter how dire the circumstances—

“My friends—my colleagues and I,” the boy continues, blushing at the slip, “are conducting field research. The Archmage knows all about it. Um.” The points of his ears flush red. “This site is full of ancient tr—uh, artifacts of, of historical interest, and we—are you all right?”

The mage, with scholarly eloquence, says, “Nuh.”

He sways like a metronome. Then there is a steadying hand at his elbow, and another at his back, and a startled little laugh—strangely familiar, the mage thinks, and less like a bleat than he had expected—easing him down, all together, on a jut of stone.

“Altitude,” the boy says sagely. “Or you’re timesick. Here, sera, sip this.”

He thrusts a flask at the mage, who takes it in numb hands. Mirabelle, he thinks, did not send these students. They must have set out on their expedition—unsanctioned, the mage does not doubt—long before things on campus went bad. Savos Aren’s amulet, cold as the man who once wore it, hangs heavy as a millstone from his neck.

He clutches the flask. He stares at this boy too young to grow his beard, who doesn’t know about the Archmage, or Ancano, or the Eye.

“—can’t hurt to tell you what we’re up to, I suppose,” the boy is saying, oblivious. “In a few weeks, we’ll all be famous. Well, go on.” He straightens, dusting the snow from his breeks, and crunches backwards through the rising drifts. “Ask me why we’re here.”

The mage stares at him. The boy, or perhaps the mountain, rocks gently to one side.

“Why,” he rasps, the words thick and slow, “are you—”

The boy, with a grin and a grand flourish, throws out his arms as if to embrace the rubble. “This is the site”—he raises his voice over the frigid howl of wind and snow—“of a temporal singularity!”

The mage’s ears are ringing. He tries to look interested. “A temp—ah, temporal—”

“Years ago,” says the boy, bright-eyed, “a dragon-priest of Bromjunaar meddled with chronology, hoping to create a space outside of time in which to stash his treasures. There’s no record of whether he succeeded. Maybe he did. Maybe his pocket-realm can still be unlocked, if you have the key—not that anyone, to my knowledge, does.” He crunches back and forth like a scholar pacing behind a lectern. “Though we were supposed to meet a Breton fellow here, a scholar, who was excited about a sonaak mask he bought from some antiquary. But he’s a week late. We won’t wait much longer for him before going in.”

The mage’s face sharpens. He sits up straighter, ignoring the nausea that rolls in his stomach like a stone. “Going—”

“In any case,” the young man continues, unheeding, “time was broken here, once, and the cracks remain. Things slip through. It’s not unprecedented. You’ve surely heard of the Second Numidian Effect—”

He stops. An odd look crosses his face.

He’s staring, the mage realizes with strange unease, at Savos’s amulet.

“Things slip through,” the boy murmurs again, half to himself. “Um.”

And he draws, from the folds of his scarf, the same amulet.

The mage stares at it. He fumbles a hand to his own talisman, cold and heavy and there—around his neck, yes, but around the boy’s neck, too—

“Are you from the future?” The boy’s voice is soft. His eyes, red and watery with the cold, are wide as coals. “Are you—are you me?”

Not real, thinks the mage. Not real. But the boy, he remembers, had touched him.

He swallows a hysterical laugh. “I’m not you.”

“Oh.” The boy’s face falls. Then it fills again with wonder, hesitant and trembling, like a half-tame animal. “Are we—friends?”

The mage stares at him. He thinks, as the wind cuts their faces, of the man that this boy will become—twisted in the snow, blank-eyed, beard bloody.

“You saved—” His throat closes. He clears it. Smiles, somehow. “Saved my life.”

The boy’s eyes gleam. “Really?”

“Savos!” One of the other apprentices, little more than a speck on a high wall, waves down at them. Her dark curls fly in the wind. “Sav! Hurry up!”

Savos Aren jumps. Turns around.

“Atmah,” he calls back, his face wild with delight, “you’re not going to believe—”

He vanishes. The girl vanishes.

The mage stares, unblinking, as the snow whirls through the space where they had stood.

“Not real,” he says to the wind, the ice, the frozen stones.

Then he blinks down at the flask, capped with a cork, still clutched in his cold hand.

[ihopeucomehomesoon]

maybe timesick? like you miss a certain period in your life while you were there

i was thinking that lately i might miss who i used to be or my younger self…even though i felt more existential and in my head, a little bit of existentialism may be necessary to generate a sense of self. lately i feel detached and uninterested so im a bit homesick for the self if that makes sense

[lunar-rotation]

23 Oct 2023

I don't really have a theme this week. I guess I went for extreme tonal whiplash bookended by songs about nostalgia. Also there is a very horny sapphic song on here. Anyway.

This week’s playlist:

Remember by Cinema Stare

Far Cry from the Ritz by Elle Lexxa

Rebel by Pep Squad

Daydream In Blue by I Monster

Born Leader by Coach Party

Skeleton by Set It Off

Rockstar by Momma

Alphas by Dope Saint Jude

AFTER THERAPY (feat. Hot Mulligan) by NOAHFINNCE

Timesick by Goodnight Sunrise

Lunar Rotation Weekly by Winifred Yost

[doomedandstoned]

EMMALEEN: ‘The Sun Will Still Shine When You Die’

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

As regulars know, we feature a lot of heavy music in these pages. Sometimes heaviness shows up in the least expected places. Would you believe in a banjo? EMMALEEN will make a believer out of you.

Her new album 'The Sun Will Still Shine When You Die' (2023) is beautifully bluesy music with notes of melancholy and sorrow, but also hope and peace. Music for a cloudy day, if you will, and we're getting right into them now. Emmaleen's haunting, oaken voice is warm, hearty, and strangely soothing, even while singing sad songs about sad situations. It is, after all, witchy blues and Gothic folk. I call it downright enchanting.

There's a macabre air to songs like the swampy "Timesickness." I envision long, lonely days and nights spent on 19th century prairies waiting for loved ones, waiting for the weather to change, and plenty of time to stew on the grim reality of things.

The eleventh hour is here The world is over run and underpaid

The smart instrumentation makes each song captivating, whether brisk and up-tempo or slow and unhurried (those bass drum drops on the opening "Wailing Trees"). The recording captures the experience with great clarity and presence. I felt as if she could have been playing my piano across the room during the dark, dreamy "Ballad in Blues."

I really appreciated the "Interlude," with its spontaneous singing and spontaneous noises from the band. When "Forever and Ever" started immediately following, I was all ears. Story time! Emmaleen convinces you of every verse, painting a word picture that is vivid and easy to sympathize with. In the most amazing and unexpected way, the mood changes to a bluesy country folk that transports us to a time before all the sound and fury of this present age.

"Sun and Moon" follows and it's a bouncy, pleasant number, with the bass drum rejoining us for moments. You can feel your cares starting to lift. By the final song, "Lullaby For Lonely Nights," you can really float away. True to its name, it is gentle and reassuring, starting with banjo and voice and then appropriately timed appearances by the harmonica, bass, bass drum, piano, and guitar.

The Sun Will Still Shine When You Die is recommended for fans of Tom Waits, Jim White, Odetta, Karen Dalton, Son House, Diamanda Galas, 16 Horsepower, and Billie Holiday. And if some of those names are new to you (as they were to me), it presents an opportunity to explore a genre that still finds power and relevance in our busy, sick, and haggard world. Emmaleen has tapped into one of the powers innate in all of us, and that is the outlet of song, giving release to our burdens and expression to our joys. Out in digital format on October 20th (pre-order here).

Give ear...

LISTEN: Emmaleen - 'The Sun Will Still Shine When You Die'

SOME BUZZ

Born in 1991 in Namibia, Emmaleen Tomalin is a force to be reckoned with in the world of independent music. As a solo artist, she has crafted a unique and enchanting niche in the realm of witchy blues and gothic folk. Following the success of her debut album 'Songs from the Unseen, the Unsaid and the Unborn' in 2022, Tomalin has continued to captivate audiences with her evocative storytelling and haunting melodies.

In February 2023, Tomalin unveiled 'The Other Side,' a mesmerizing recording from 2015 that showcases the artist's early mastery of her craft. This release served as a tantalizing prelude to her upcoming full-length album, 'The Sun will Still Shine When You Die,' scheduled to be released on October 20, 2023.

The journey into the shadows continues with the release of the first three singles from the upcoming album. 'Wailing Trees,' 'Sister Sister,' and 'Timesickness' were unveiled in August and September 2023, giving fans a taste of the ethereal landscapes and mystical narratives that await them. These singles set the stage for an immersive experience that transcends conventional musical boundaries.

'The Sun will Still Shine When You Die' promises to be an inner journey into the realms of magic realism and spiritual introspection. Emmaleen's time-traveling witchy blues and gothic folk songs transport listeners into another dimension, where bone-chilling moments coexist with raw vulnerability. The album's slow pace, haunting vocals, resonator guitar, banjo, and sparse percussion create a sonic tapestry that is as unique as it is bewitching.

Recorded and engineered by Ruan Vos (Sonic Nursery) the recording process took four days - nine hours a day of live recording and overdubbing. All songs were recorded live with guitar, banjo or piano and vocals in two to four takes. Emmaleen wrote the bass lines during the recording process on acoustic bass. The percussion was improvised with handmade instruments and a kick drum.

Being the only guest musician, Lliezel Ellick performed cello on 'Wailing Trees'. It was Emmaleen’s intention to keep the music as clean and natural sounding as possible with an analogue 'hands on' approach. The process still allowed room for spontaneous creativity in the moment.

Emmaleen chose to record very quickly to capture a small window in time of focused energy. “If I became too self-aware my performance would suffer - having a tight deadline gave me no time to think and forced me to feel my way through. We purposely left in certain sounds we liked such as; clearing my throat or the sound of my shoes shuffling. This being part of the music and the nature of live recording.” She comments.

The album serves as the next chapter in Tomalin's artistic evolution, an amalgamation of old styles giving birth to something both timeless and fresh. In a deliberate departure from instant consumer culture, 'The Sun Will Still Shine When You Die' invites audiences to embrace the deliberate and savor the nuances of a musical journey that defies the ordinary.

Brace yourselves for a musical experience that transcends the ordinary and takes you on a spellbinding adventure.

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

[rustbeltjessie]

Reasons I Am Not Working On My Novella Today

I sat down at my desk, wrote a few lines; a passage about The Alley and the coffin full of vintage pins. How you were supposed to pay for them—a quarter in the early days, fifty cents by the last time I visited—but I don’t think anyone ever did. And then I had to find the pins I stole all those years ago, as research (I said to myself). All those one-inch badges for punk and new wave bands. Blondie, Buzzcocks. The Clash, The Cramps, Tom Robinson Band. Those pins are mostly older than I am, and I’ve had them since the end of the last century; the metal backs are tarnished, the images stained, peeling. All the old songs stuck in my head, a scratched record playing a single groove, as I sifted through my bag of badges. I pulled them out one by one, found myself lost in other places, other moments, a sea of words and pictures once cultural signifiers, now significant only to my memory project. I stuck my finger on one which was not fastened, pricked myself on that rusted spindle of the past, and I got timesick.

A memory came; sudden, unbidden. Of a drive from Chicago to Michigan, late November, maybe December. Passing through a slivered crescent of Indiana, cupping the lakeshore, the smokestacks of Gary cinereous, up past the dunes, crossing the stateline, the New Buffalo Welcome Center with its tiny ersatz lighthouse, say yes. Yes, heading further into Michigan, the northeast curve of I-94, the surge of the hills heavy with snow, the woody, gnarled fingers of winter-dormant grapevines. All those vineyards in West Michigan, near St. Joe, Benton Harbor, Coloma. And the sun setting off to the west, over that inland sea, disparate streaks of orange and peach commingling into gold-limned coral, the last light before the long night reflecting, lurid, a starshot wound, upon the hills and snow.

Break off from I-94 at Marshall, continue north/east on I-69, and eventually you’ll reach Flint. My childhood; the earliest place I remember enough to call home. The children of Flint, the people of Flint, still are drinking leaded water. My childhood no idyll, but I had clean water. My childhood, not idyllic, but now I remember Flint in flashes, three-dimensional images in full-color Kodachrome turning through the ViewMaster of my mind. Click: the bruisy, rose-vanilla dusk inside the lilac bushes in our backyard; the stale-penny smell left on palms and fingers after playing for hours on jungle gyms, monkey bars. Click click. Sticky swirls of strawberry & cream cheese oozing from oven-warm croissants at John K.’s bakery. The thagomizic glass spines of Autoworld, a Godzilla-sized misstep, a fossilized monument to Flint’s failing industry.

How hard it is to raise children in this ever-failing world. How the water is full of lead, schools leaded with bullets & disease.

Today is my oldest son’s birthday. My son, a vessel of noise; the bleepbop of the video games he plays, the stories he hums as he runs back and forth and back across the house. Today I found a Valentine’s Day project from back when he was in school, where each classmate wrote down what they liked about each other. The ones for my son read: I like you because you make cool noises. I like you because you play video games. I like you because your favorite color is light blue. Oh my little boy blue, my humming baby blue-boy. How many years I spent worried no one would like him, his sounds, obsessions, only to find those were the very things they liked most.

Today is my oldest son's birthday, and he requested a big breakfast. I spent the late half of morning baking biscuits, toasting hashbrown patties, frying up bacon and chicken-apple sausage, making omelets thick and gooey with tomatoes off the vine, green onions, spinach, colbyjack cheese. I fell into a breakfast reverie, a diner daydream. Fat scent of butter and eggs, coffee strong and black and steaming in the pot, sizzlepop of meat in the skillet; I could makebelieve I was in a place all griddle and chrome, walls grease-stained and hung with old records by Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers.

As I diced and fried, I listened to a jazz playlist. “Peace Piece” piano swelled up around me, a lonesome meditation, and then another memory. Of a boy I once loved, who knew how I loved that piece, and one Christmas tracked down the sheet music for me. He gave me a painting, too. His heart splattered on a canvas, a heart so blue, floating in a pastoral sea of violet-gray. I thanked him for the ornamented melody line, I shunned his painted heart.

He often said things to me, unintentionally cruel things, so I cut right back. Cruel, on purpose. A month point five post-Christmas, I broke (up with) him on Valentine’s Day. He cried for two hours, while I watched, aghast, said nothing. Harsh or sweet. I hadn’t meant to hurt him, that time. I only knew I needed out.

And oh the cruelties we visit upon each other’s hearts; accidental, with purpose. Oh, the undulations of our affections.

There I was, “Kind of Blue,” and Miles Davis on the playlist, too. I remembered: nights at the Jazz Showcase, place of legends; gin martinis and the infamous table Miles once set fire to. Thought of angels jazzing over the Loop, legendary bop angels, hark the dark heralds with their trumpets, setting fire to the night, its sea of stars.

More jazz and I got ready to make art. Donned my tomato-red beret and felt self-consciously arty, had to take some self-portraits to commemorate it, daddy-o. Baby, oh, I remembered my art and writing room from that flat in Bayview, and the vintage kimono I owned. A silky thing, butter-yellow, a dragon and flowers embroidered abloom upon the back. How I’d wear it while snapping photos of myself; myself writing poems or jazzing on my ukulele or draped across the futon, smoking expensive cigarettes from a chintzy plastic holder. How it caressed me like a lover, how I felt beautiful whenever I had it on. What I wouldn’t give to have that feeling back.

A different playlist; this one of piano and accordion en français, and I cried, my tears viscous, Gallic, remembering another room, this one in Brooklyn. Remembered the boy I loved there, who would squeezebox-serenade me with valses. Un deux trois mornings we fucked in the gray gloom, three nights starshot with white powder and we sat by the open window holding cigarettes (Galouise, or hand-rolled) between our yellow-stained fingers, watching the drip of snowmelt on fire escape and past that the wind blowing the trashcans across the brickwalled alleys.

In the midst of tears of memory, I drew a crow. Spent an hour or more getting the shading just-so; layering bluish-gray over dark gray over black, over ultramarine, over cobalt. And oh the crows outside my window, and the weather so bitten-cold. November. The sky gray, clouds alluvial, loops and scallops etched into the silt.

Gray, cold, and I wanted a hot toddy. Mixed ginger tea, bourbon, clover honey, squeeze of lemon, drank it while feeling the weight of time, the press of the squeezed and undulating years. Then time to make dinner. Stirred pots of cranberry and rosemary, orange smiles of butternut squash salted with maple syrup and coriander seed-beads. As it cooked I checked Facebook and saw another new book by a poet oh, so much younger and wondered, as I always do, why not me? Wondered if they’ve had more opportunities, or worked harder, or if they’re just better, oh. This envious jealousy I choke on is a sour apple, a shriveled grape from a dormant vine that makes the bitterest wine.

It doesn't improve my poetry, or write my lines, or bring any opportunities. And all the success in the world won’t stave off death. I remembered that when Low came on the radio, Mimi’s clarion angelvoice singing. I don't need a laser beam. Rest your drunken mind. I remember the last time I visited Duluth/Superior, that time I went north to chase the autumn and run from love. How I scaled that rusted out-of-use railroad trestle with my squeezebox in hand and sang a lullaby to the captains of industry and the inland sea.

And now I lay me down to sleep on the banks of another, sick with remembering. Goodnight starshot voices, goodnight angels. Old songs, old rust, accordion waltzes. Fingers of smoke and pennies, bourbon and the sky, goodnight. Goodnight all the cruel rooms, the boys, and all. Of the time.

—Jessie Lynn McMains, 11/13/22

[fictionkinfessions]

re:re: billy (720363409685741568) and jimmy (720331442297700352):

booster here! yeah uh, the JL gives up on people once they can't perform to their cookiecutter standards anymore. they pretend they dont, but they'll stop looking at you as their equal and more n more like a failure, just for expressing your humanity in too ugly a way.

my mental health deteriorated after ted died for a combo of reasons, mainly grief, isolation, and timesickness. travelling thru the multiverse showed me my own death a dozen times over, lifetimes i would have lived, worlds i wish i could have shared with ted, the JL, ANYONE - but i couldnt share it. i had nobody who'd believe me anyway. and the actual act of jumpin around in spacetime leaves microabrasions on ur brain, turns out

so when i'd go 'home' to the people who refused to see the real me and tried to take on hero stuff in the present, it was hard to care. my life felt like a sick dream. i lost whatever qualities batman was proud of. id forget the timeline i was in and go into battle unprepared af. so i left the JL before they could vote me out n cruised the timeline full-time. i couldnt stand to hear the no that was coming.

i remember you, question - not sure which timeline(s) i met you, but i regret not hanging out with you more. ableism is p unavoidable in discussions about me too. + i admire you, shazam - you rule, but im glad you never joined up. the JL woulda chopped your confidence to bits. you're both heroes, aight?

-your pal, booster gold!

[wyrmoftheweb]

thinking about lessa and flar they really are all that. their meetcute where she psychically manipulated him into killing a man. the time when they had awesome epic sex while fnor was busy dying of timesickness in The War. the fact that they had a son and then renesmee'd that poor boy

[natalieironside]

I was trying to tell Cameludorex about like electricity and stuff (btw Cameludorex is the timesick Gallo-Roman centurion who's crashing on my couch) but he just went "Hold on, tell me more about these bitumenous roads y'all got" and that kept him busy for like 3 days

[birrdies]

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 !

call me birdie!! // they/he // adult

✔︎ mcyt/life series side blog (follows back with @ggreet)

✔︎ writing on my ao3 & with #birdie writes

✔︎ art with #birdie draws

✔︎ fic masterpost below

series (✔︎ = complete, ✎ = in progress) ‣ outbreak (mczu) // life series zombie apocalypse AU

✔︎ to each other (and no one else) (23.3k) // desert duo-centric ✔︎ the survivor (32.3k) // etho (past-ethubs) centric ✔︎ everywhere, everything (30.4k) // rancher centric ✎ the revenant (tbd) // etho-centric, sequel to 'the survivor'

‣ pirate au

✔︎ oh captain (let's make a deal) (22.9k) // desert duo-centric pirate AU ✔︎ art of burning (2.6k) // spin-off boat boys one-shot

‣ taking on a hero // vigilante and university AU // ✎

✔︎ alright, alright (3.5k)

standalone (✔︎ = complete, ✎ = in progress)

✔︎ as above, so below (119k) // scarian thriller / horror ✎ LIFELINE // desert-duo post-apocalypse project

‣ AO3 // Tumblr // YouTube

✔︎ timesickness (15.2k) // ethubs time traveler x immortal AU

✔︎ a wish, a warning, a confession (7.7k) // desert duo (canon)

✎ the king & the exile (tbd) // etho and tango fantasty / dnd AU

[whimsithea]

Looking forward to the day I can claim my own time, when I can labour at my own pace. When I can spit in the face of consumerism, abandon the need to uphold unattainable production standards. When I can lay back and sip tea, so that I have the means to tend to a greenhouse of my own for an hour our more. I feel timesick, for a time I’ve never had.