I had forgotten how much fun it is to fall headfirst into a new fandom, and be able to crank out a vid in a couple of weeks without wanting to toss my laptop off a tall building. Bless this new machine!
Vampyroteuthis infernalis, lit. 'vampire squid from hell'
oh to love a deep sea mermaid, counting down every second together in the measured oxygen of a submarine's tank. the phantom touch of her hand through the inches of acrylic plate between you. knowing that to hold her would mean your instant destruction, or hers.
how do you explain love to a creature who knows neither warmth nor light? how do you explain love to a world that has never held it's breath, just to linger a minute longer with that which you cannot hold.
I don’t get the whole thing about being friends with someone whose politics you disagree with. If relatively well-informed people can humanely disagree on a political matter, how would I know enough to have an opinion on it? I don’t have any particular insight into how to improve the FDA or the post office or whatnot, because I don’t work in the FDA or the post office. I only care about politics because people keep using it as a stick to beat minorities with.
This Saturday, May 2, we'll be tabling at Hampshire Pride in the Armory Street parking lot behind Thornes Marketplace, in Northampton MA! We'll be at the white booth, #29, and we're sharing the space with Bee Leake!
We'll be loaded up with all sorts of goodies. Hope to see you there! We also will be offline once we leave tomorrow morning, so if you need to reach us, call, text, or wait.
The point of A Doll's House is that both the husband and wife are "playing house." When Nora walks out, that's because she refuses to be a part of the game any longer. But in everything I can think of where a husband considers walking out, the "happy" path is for him to stay and continue the game.
It's not a perfect genderswap, since part of Ibsen's take is that men like Torvald built the legal system Nora lives under. But the social system makes them both into dolls.
what is it about night in an unfamiliar city that makes it feel like you're even further away from home?
feat; coat borrowed from a friend
I had to use Deviant Art's image host to post this as the upload I put on Dreamwidth isn't working. I'll try to insert it below just in case, maybe some day I can edit this. please let me know what you are seeing on your end.
The super-psychics are called Errans, but I found a single lore entry calling them Aryans. I'm not sure if this is a spoiler, an autocorrect, or a red flag.
Our one-pagers and the Riso edition of Coming In or Staying Out is now on the shelves with the Paper Pushers Print Shop in Seattle, Washington! It's a six-month pop-up at 1200 5th Avenue, the old IBM building.
So if you're in the Pacific Northwest and want to skip the shipping, go check them out! Tell 'em LB sent you!
Compared to the past, an employment field currently has a higher percentage of brown people and pays less. The typical interpretation: “Employers found it easier to shortchange brown people, so higher-paid white people got laid off or otherwise forced out.”
Compared to the past, an employment field currently has a higher percentage of women and pays less. The typical interpretation: “Men quit because they didn’t want to work jobs that had a lot of women. Men quitting made the field less respected, so now it’s underpaid to match men’s low opinion of women.”
Now that I think about it, my openness to people identifying as whatever may be tied to my disbelief in free will. A common argument is “people will pretend they have mental illnesses so they can claim they have no control over their actions.” I don’t see it as my job to evaluate whose behavior can and can’t be “corrected.” I simply determine what my boundaries are, state them, and limit contact with people who don’t respect those boundaries.
Eh, maybe it’s different for people who have kids, since you take responsibility for teaching kids to respect others’ boundaries. But I have no fucking clue how to ethically raise children, so I always leave them out of my ethics arguments.
Just for funsies, we wondered: what countries have bestowed works on our bookshelf? We chose countries both based on authors BORN in said countries, authors who were now CITIZENS of said countries, or, in the case of interviews, where the interviewed was from even if they didn't get credited as an author, since for fuck's sake, they provide all the material! ( Library atlas )
The “rawboned” in my user name is supposed to mean like a really thin, really hungry dog. Not actual bones. But the bones look cool so I did them anyway for my new PFP
Rogan: normally I don’t dream journal here, but recently there have been a couple I want to remember.
This morning, I woke up from a dream that I remember nothing of, only that it had a singularly beautiful (and reproducible) rendition of Amazing Grace, Mac’s favorite hymn. It was instrumental, performed on fiddle and... either another violin or a viola, playing accompaniment. Unlike the classic gospel style I’m familiar with (and which Mac mostly sticks to), this was played with a swing beat, folk or bluegrass style. I’m still humming it, trying to fix it in my head like the other dream songs.
(I swear the first version of Daniel Johnston’s “Devil Town” I ever heard was placed simply on the piano with vocals. I’ve never found it, and it was the best version. Drives me crazy.)
The other dream was a few days ago. It was one of those dreams where the vessel’s lineage alters all share a body like in waking life, but the others have their own corporeal bodies. Us alters were with our dad, Sneak doing gymnastic tricks, while Dad took photos of us. Even though nothing bad was happening, I kept feeling like something was wrong, I’d stopped talking to Dad for some reason, something it was very important to remember...
And then I remembered Mac, and immediately I knew I was supposed to be with him instead. I tore myself from the Dad photography scene and instantly found myself instead in the middle of me and Mac’s wedding. It wasn’t like the real one we’d had in 2009; we wore fancy suits in blue and gray, rather than our black rented tuxes, and we were outdoors, surrounded by ladies in saris doing a riotous, silly dance of joy. But the joy in my heart and Mac’s face (fifteen years ago! His hair was so short and his face was so young!) were the same as they were then, and that was all that mattered.
As a kid, there were two authors I assumed every literature fan knew a gazillion stories by. One was H.P. Lovecraft, and as an adult I see nerds reference The Call of Cthulhu and At the Mountains of Madness and The Dunwich Horror and The Colour Out of Space and so on. The other was Robert Cormier, and as an adult I see no one reference The Chocolate War or I Am the Cheese or We All Fall Down or After the First Death or Tunes for Bears to Dance to or The Rag and Bone Shop or Bunny Berigan—Wasn’t He a Musician or Something? or The Bumblebee Flies Anyway etc. etc. etc.