Hi everyone, Iām French, Iām 46, Iām a She and Iāve been on tumblr since August 2012 As much as I'd like to, I cannot live solely in my head (so I'm taking worlds with me)
It's my cat's birthday (anniversary of me getting him) so I told him the story of his life while petting him real good
Highlights include:
For your first two years (when you were small) you lived in a foster home with people who raised you into a very polite young man. Two is like you plus me, that's what two is.
Some people adopted you before me and they called you Timmy (which is a stupid name) and they returned your ass almost immediately because you were so annoying at that age.
Like think about how annoying you are right now at seven years old, but way worse.
I'm better than them though, I don't call you Timmy and I wore earplugs to bed for three years because you love to scream at bedtime. Earplugs are like when I roll over and go back to sleep even when you are yelling so so so loud.
I got you at a time in my life when I was really sick (being sick is like when I'm up late because I'm throwing up and you are a very handsome good boy who sits with me) and they had to put me asleep for a procedure. A procedure is like what happened to you when they put you asleep and took your balls away.
Now you've lived with me for five years. Five is like the number of toe beans on one of your feet. When I clip your nails five is when we're halfway done. But we're hopefully not even halfway done with how long we get to be together. I'm gonna have to figure out new ways to help you count.
I just saw a video title on YouTube that said something like āWhy is glass transparent?ā And thatās an interesting question and Iām sure itās great that the video exists but my first thought was like āBecause glass is terrible, obviously.ā Because itās unwieldy and letās out warmth and needs to be heated to hundreds of degrees to be shaped and turns into hundreds of tiny daggers if you drop it. Why the hell would we bother with that if it didnāt have some magical quality like being totally transparent despite being solid? Glass is transparent because if it werenāt, weād use something else.
If youāre still curious we did not start working glass for its transparency.Ā It was most likely started as a sanitary concern.Ā Glass is easy to clean with soap and water, once itās cleaned out you can use it again for anything and no germs or flavor from the previous meal or drink will remain.
Other materials at the time, namely clay, would absorb flavors and germs meaning that if you ate beef off a clay plate your next meal with that plate could have beef flavor and microbes common on cow meat on it.Ā That would leak out seemingly at random no less.Ā Heck imagine a sick person coughing into their soup bowl and then months later their germs hiding in the clay would pop out to infect whole new people.
Also the earliest human use of glass we know of is for its sharpness.Ā Pre-historic people would use volcanic glass as sharp knives for food preparation.Ā Also beads.Ā Pretty much any new substance humans get their hands on for most of our history we immediately try to make into beads.
The fact that it could become see through was a side benefit.
wrong: The customer is literally always correct, in factual matters, and cannot be disputed.
correct: The customer is always right in matters of taste. If they're here to spend money and want to buy the ugliest thing you've ever seen, you must not argue them about it.
correctest: In every person there are two souls locked in eternal combat - one is the disciplined, good-willed, and financially responsible one, and the other one is The Customer, who will always yearn to buy some stupid shit. Your job is to side with The Customer, and do your best Emperor Palpatine "do it" to persuade them.
Once we've fully explored this space, we can start varying the number of princesses.
The Princess and the Pea [Explained]
Transcript Under the Cut
[A graph is shown, showing the ratio between princesses and peas. In the middle is a thick line labelled with '1:1 mattress-to-pea ratio'. Around the graph extends outward, with on the left line a label is marked 'many mattresses per pea', and the right line has a similar label reading 'many peas per mattress'. Below are pictures, showing various images. From left to right, they are: A princess hiking up a mountain of mattresses with an arrow indicating a pea being inserted somewhere in the distance, a princess waving at the top of a massive pile of mattresses on a bed with an arrow indicating a pea being inserted at the bottom of the pile, a princess on one bed with an arrow indicating a pea being inserted under the mattress, a princess eating a bowl of peas on the same bed, and a princess on a bed on a mountain of peas which are spilling on to the top of the mattress. The one of the princess sitting on top of many mattresses with one pea is labelled "existing Hans Christian Andersen story", and the others "potential sequels slash reboots".]
Add 1 or 2 cans of diced tomatoes. Whatever makes the ratio of onion look right.
Add a ridiculous amount of frozen peas. Peas should make up a notable portion of this sauce.
Add frozen corn also if you wanna be real fancy. If I have bacon, I'll add that too, but I very rarely have bacon.
Cook on HIGH.
While sauce is cooking, grab the nearest bottle of mixed spices that isn't obviously for desserts. Add some. How much? I dunno, enough that you feel like you've added seasoning so it's technically cooking. (For me this is most often a mix called Moroccan, but it could be anything. I've reorganised my kitchen recently so tonight it was something called Pizza Topping.)
If you happen to have green herbs lying around, add those too. Whatever you have on hand that's green.
Let the sauce boil on HIGH until all the water is gone. Stir occasionally so the saucepan will be easier to clean later. Serve on cooked spaghetti noodles with no cheese.
Today I added a new step called "while the sauce is cooking, duck out for 15 seconds to post about spaghetti sauce on Tumblr, then get distracted and forget you are cooking." This adds a novel Extremely Burnt edge to the flavour profile.
I am not Italian, or of Italian descent by *any* stretch of the imagination.
I am also not one of those "cooking purists", who believes that everything must be done in a specific/ traditional way (unless you are making a cooking video with the title "how to make x" in which case if you don't specify mid video that your way is not traditional god help you).
I am a firm believer in "If it tastes good, then it is correct for you".
Except in this case.
This hurts every cooking bone in my body. The latent ancestors in my soul. The judgmental elf in my brain just bit a cyanide capsule.
Why? The spices.
Using a different spice mix every time, based on what is ready at hand just ... hurts.
I mean you can also do it in the same pot you're making the spaghetti sauce in! The important thing is the onions get a little cooked before the wet stuff goes in, so they're not so wet and limp and boiled....
Honestly this depends entirely on whether I remember to chop an onion first or I find the can opener for the tomatoes first. The ingredients go in in whatever order they go in.
I don't think you'll catch him. I think he'll smell that horrible sauce from miles afar and will run in the opposite direction. Jesus Christ Derin they sell sauce in jars you don't have to live like this.
Also if you put in a tin of beans then you don't need the peas any more, and you were all super upset about the peas. It doesn't have to be kidney beans, sometimes I use cannellini or butterbeans or a four bean mix. If I'm feeling fancy.
i would like to start off by saying yes beans are normal food, i agree.
but like, the wording implies you only use spice mixes ? and then maybe some additional spices you have on hand? surely sometimes you just grab whatever singular spices you have available to make your own custom mix?
that being said
frozen corn for when you're feeling fancy?
why would anyone cook with corn for a sauce if it's not a chili
Currently I'm using cumin, cayenne pepper and paprika, because that's what I have on hand at the moment. But I generally prefer premade spice mixes because they cost the same and I'm not very good at making my own blends. When I do it myself it never has the same depth as premade mixes, and there's absolutely no point in following the mix recipe because then why not save myself some measuring and just get the mix.
I like sweetcorn and it's expensive. So it's for being fancy. A treat for when I feel like splurging.
I thought I grew up in a good neighborhood, surrounded by good people. Everyone said good morning to each other in the morning, my mom was friends with our neighbors, and we all went to church together. In my young mind, that made us very good people.
Then Daffodil came to town and turned my world upside down.
I first met Daffodil when he knocked on our door. Mom was absorbed in a book she was reading so I went to go answer the door. I thought I was mature enough to do so at six years old, and plus, I had Bear- a dog mixed with a million different breeds but was big and looked pretty intimidating. Dad got him for us before he shipped out overseas, for his own peace of mind. Someone to keep us safe while he was off keeping the country safe.
I didnāt expect to see a skinny rail of a guy standing on the porch, bouncing on his heels as he waited for someone to answer the door. His cheeks were bright red, he had a short beard and curly blond hair, a guitar that had seen better days was slung over his back, but what really got my attention was that he wasnāt wearing any shoes.
āHello!ā He knelt down to my level, grinning broadly. āIs there any chores or work I could do for your family to earn my bread?ā Ā
I glanced at Bear to see his reaction to this bizarre fellow. Normally my dog would at least be a little apprehensive around a stranger, but much to my surprise Bear was happily panting away. The man looked at Bear and actually squealed. āOh, a good boy!ā He gave Bearās ears a scratch and Bear licked his hand.
I craned my neck in and yelled for my mom, āMom, thereās a man here who wants to do work for bread. Can I have him help clean my room?ā Ā
āSure, sweetie!ā Ā
Of course, my mom was distracted. She loved her books. But since she said it was okay, I let the man in. He bowed his head politely. āThank you, thank you so much. Sun was about to burn me alive. My friends call me Daffodil, whatās yours?ā
āIām Will. Come on, letās go clean my room.ā Mom said I had to, after all, before I went to go play, and if all Daffodil wanted was bread then what was the harm?
Daffodil was a very efficient cleaner, and I learned quickly he was a complete weirdo but he was nice. He asked the names of all my stuffed animals, asked about my favorite games to play, my favorite color. When he wasnāt asking about me, he was humming tunes to songs I didnāt know. Ā
We just got done when Mom popped in to ask who I was talking to and screamed when she saw a strange man in her sonās bedroom. āWho- Will, who is that?!ā She grabbed me by the back of the shirt and yanked me away. Ā
āMom, itās the man I told you wants to work for bread! You said it was okay!ā I complained.
Daffodil politely bowed his head. āNot to be argumentative, maāam, but heās right,ā He said.
My mom was pretty embarrassed, but in the end Daffodil did end up staying for dinner. She came to the same conclusions I did- weird, but absolutely harmless. He was a traveler, just planning on cooling his heels in town for a while.
How long was a while?
āMaybe a week, maybe a century. Iāll make up my mind later.ā Ā
As he left, he gave me a dried out flower. āThank you for dinner,ā He said before tipping his head once more and skipping down the street. Ā
I still have that flower on my desk. Ā
Daffodil did end up staying a while, several years in fact. Heād typically go door to door, asking for work in exchange for something to eat or a place to sleep. If he wasnāt doing that, youād find him in the park playing guitar for tips or selling pressed wildflowers. His songs told stories of home, of gardens that went for miles and a wife named Rose and another named Dahlia and their dozen children inbetween them. I rather liked his songs, even though apparently he had some raunchier ones that my mom told me about when I was older. He never sung them around the kids though.
My mom gave him a pair of my dadās old boots during winter, and I swear he did a little dance and promised to dedicate a song to her. When my dad got home, he was also a little hesitant about Daffodil (Iām pretty sure I heard him ask mom if Daffodil was a queer), but I thought it was impossible not to warm up to such a charming fellow. Ā
I learned better when I got older.
See, Daffodil never minced his words. Never pulled any punches. He got into several heated arguments with one of the neighbors, Mr. Robert Miller, about why he wouldnāt go to church. Miller was a quite devout Christian, always trying to convince the ālost sheepā of God to join the flock. Most people knew better than to try to argue with him about it. Ā
Daffodil was not most people.
I was about nine when I overheard one argument between the two.
āMr. Miller, I am well aware youāll put a roof over my head and food in my mouth if I go to church, but again I donāt think itās very Christ like to blackmail me like that.ā
āItās not blackmail. Iām just trying to help you-ā
āNo, no, youāre helping yourself feel good.ā
āHow dare you!ā
I enjoying a good amount of eavesdropping as a kid, so I kept myself hidden behind the fence dividing our two yards as I continued to listen in on this bickering.
āIāve been around the block a few times, Mr. Miller, I know how it works. The moment weāre done here, youāre going to run to all your other little church friends and talk about the heathen that wonāt hear God, you will pray together and pat yourselves on the back for doing a job well done.ā Ā
āWhat is wrong with you?!ā
āNothing. Or a lot of things, depends who you ask. I found my version of god in song and in nature. Iām at peace with that.ā
āYouāre one of those, arenāt you? Is that why you wonāt go to church?ā
There was a pause before I heard Daffodil sigh.
āI am not inclined to share my sexual past with anyone, Mr. Miller. Good day.ā
āYou are then! Youāll burn in hell, faggot!ā
Iād never heard that word before. But the way he spat it out so venomously almost frightened me. I almost asked my mom what it meant, but I lost my nerve, given it sounded like a bad word and I didnāt want to get in trouble.
Didnāt lose my nerve to ask Daffodil though, next day while he raked leaves for old Ms. Reed.
āWhatās a faggot, Daffodil?ā
He didnāt even miss a beat as he twirled the rake in the air. āA bundle of sticks,ā He responded. Ā
āThatās all? Like a bitch is a female dog?ā I couldnāt say these words around my mom. But I could ask Daffodil anything and heād tell me the truth.
āSorta.ā
I remember him laughing and performing another twirl of the rake. āWill boy, just know that Mr. Miller meant it in a way to cut me down. Itās a nasty word, so donāt use it. You can use some of the other bad words when you get old enough, but thatās just one of the words you canāt.ā
āWhy?ā I asked.
Daffodil never got mad when I asked why, but this time he looked a little sad as he reached over and ruffled my hair. Ā
āYouāll understand one day.ā
And I did understand one day. I suppose Daffodil wasnāt exactly hypermasculine, he put flowers in his hair, danced down the street to no music, cried when he was emotional and was not afraid to get excited over things like baby bunnies or dogs. To be totally transparent though, I donāt think Daffodil was gay. He was too much of a flirt with any women close to his age. Ā
Didnāt matter though. He was a piece of pyrite surrounded by the asphalt on the cul de sac and people didnāt like that too much. Ā
It really came to a head when I was twelve. Daffodil was one of my friends, my parents loved having him for dinner and it wasnāt often that he wasnāt crashing on our couch, snoring like a freight train and his oversized legs hanging over the couch arm. I felt like he was a cool uncle, the guy I could turn to whenever I had a problem or question.
I was doing dishes while my mom was enjoying a glass of wine with Mrs. Miller in the living room. I still hadnāt learned not to eavesdrop, so I took a break from the suds to listen in.
ā-And I just donāt know if itās a good idea to have him hanging around Will all the time.ā
I heard my mom laugh. āAnna, Daffodilās harmless. Weird, definitely, but harmless.ā
āWell, you know heāsā¦ you knowā¦ like that. What if Will turns out like that too?ā Ā
āAnna, you canāt seriously believe Daffodil is homosexual. Really, I think youāre making a mountain out of a molehill.ā
āI just care about you and your son! And god knows what he might have if he is a homo, what if he gives Will AIDS?ā
āAnna!ā My mom sounded horrified, and I felt the same. I did not like the implication that Mrs. Miller was throwing out there. Ā
āIām being serious!ā
āAnd Iām being serious when I say, again, Daffodil isnāt gay and he doesnāt have AIDS. Besides, I think the neighborhoodās done well with him around. You know we havenāt had anything really bad happen since he started staying around here? No oneās lost their job, everyone has a good looking yard, no oneās gotten badly sick or diedā¦ā
āWhat, are you saying heās had something to do with that?ā
āWell, maybe heās a good luck charm. Letās change the subject. Howās Levi, has his grades improved?ā
I went back to the kitchen after the subject changed. I genuinely hoped it was just the Millers with such nasty thoughts, that their venom was contained in the family.
I was wrong. Mr. Miller was a deacon at the church at this time and had the respect of a lot of parishioners. His nasty thoughts had taken root in many peopleās minds.
I donāt know why I was out late that night. It was hot, maybe I couldnāt sleep, but I wasnāt really the kind of kid to wander the streets after dark. This is the only night I remember doing it. I heard a commotion and followed the sound, curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back, Daffodil taught me.
I found a mob of twelve men and all of them had surrounded Daffodil. For the first time in my life I saw Daffodil look afraid. Ā
āYou donāt have to do this,ā He said, hands raised in the air. He wasnāt armed. He was defenseless.
I saw Mr. Miller lift up a baseball bat. āWe told you to leave, Daffodil. You wouldnāt listen. You forced us to do this,ā I swear I heard pure evil in his voice that night.
Daffodil looked down and then he looked straight at me. I heard him mutter āstay putā before he looked back at Mr. Miller. āThen I suppose Iāll cease to speak. My words have fallen on deaf ears for long enough. Do what you came to do.ā
They descended on him like a pack of wild dogs, and he never fought back, not once. Ā
I watched them beat him into the ground with bats or golf clubs or whatever the hell they brought. They beat him while he howled in pain, they beat him until he only whimpered, and they beat him until he was still and quiet. When they left, all clearly proud of what theyād done, thatās when I crawled out of my hiding spot and hurried to Daffodilās side.
He didnāt even look like a human anymore, he looked like fresh roadkill. That friendly face that I never saw without a smile before tonight was swollen and broken, the flowers in his hair were squashed on the groundā¦ Ā
āDaffodil?ā
Somehow, Daffodil turned his head towards the sound of my voice. āā¦ Will. Goodā¦ good boy, for not leaving your hiding spotā¦ā
āWhy wouldnāt you let me help you?ā My eyes overflowed with tears, they landed on my friendās face.
āBecauseā¦ I couldnāt stand the thought of you getting hurt for me, my little friend.ā
A shaky hand, one with fingers bent in horrifying angles, reached up and touched my face, smearing blood across my cheek.
āThank you for listening to me. Thank youā¦ for being my friend.ā
I waited until he seemed to stop breathing before I dragged him off the road and into the nearby woods. He was far too heavy for me to consider doing this in a sane state of mind, but I was on autopilot at this point. All I could think of was how they might further desecrate Daffodilās body in the morning. How theyāll say he deserved it, and then put him in a grave that didnāt have a proper headstone and not even a name. Ā
I folded his arms over his chest, like he was just sleeping. I covered him in leaves and flowers. I took one and put it in his hair, tucked behind his ear.
This was the grave he deserved. The best a twelve year old boy could do. Ā
I didnāt eat for two days after Daffodilās death. I didnāt leave my room. My mom was confused as to what was wrong until she realized Daffodil hadnāt shown up. Miller claimed he just left town but mom knew he wouldnāt have left without saying goodbye.
She managed to pry the real story from me and then she called the police. Ā
Hereās the kicker though- the body was gone. They found the grave I made for him, the piles of leaves and flowers, but there was no Daffodil. My mom told me that maybe Daffodil was okay, that he got up and just chose to quietly leave, but I knew I saw him stop breathing. Ā
You know how my mom said Daffodil was a good luck charm, right? I think she was right. Well, half right. Daffodil was good luck to the people that did him good, and their neighbors prospered because of that. But Daffodil wasnāt going to give that kindness any longer to the people that beat him and left him for dead.
The week after Daffodilās death, I saw him. Ā
I couldnāt sleep. I hadnāt been able to sleep well since the incident. I was staring out the window when I saw a familiar head of golden hair walk into the space between ours and the Millers. I couldnāt believe it. I rubbed my eyes a dozen times before I got up and pulled the window up, ready to call out to my friend to see if it was really him or if it was just a dream.
The word froze in my mouth when I realized I wasnāt sure if this was really Daffodil. Sure, he had the golden hair and the beard, but he wasā¦ different. Taller, which was quite a feat given he was already a giant. There was this unnatural glow about him, and he wore strange clothes. If this had been a few years later, Iād say he looked dressed to be in a ren fair. Ā
One look confirmed though that he wasnāt wearing shoes. It was still Daffodil.
He turned to look at me and now he smiled, but there was an unfamiliar mischievousness to it. He put a finger to his lips to shush me before he opened the window and reached inside. Out he pulled the Millerās infant daughter, Rebecca. He cradled her for a brief moment before he turned his head behind him and whistled.
Two women walked out from the bushes. I didnāt recognize them. Both were also quite tall, one with hair almost silver in the moonlight wearing a white gown and the other with midnight black hair cut short to her jaw and a sword hanging from her waist. Daffodil handed Rebecca to the swordswoman who bounced her up and down a few times before walking away. I saw the silver haired woman slip in through the window and a few minutes later left the front door with the Millerās two sons, four year old Micah and seven year old Asher. Both were still in their pajamas but clung to the womanās hands and looked at peace with her. She walked down the street and vanished in the dark.
Now it was just Daffodil again. He looked at me, still smirking, before he rubbed his hands together before lifting them up to his mouth and blowing on them. I saw sparks fly out from his palms and dance in the air before going black.
The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning to police all over the street. The three youngest Miller children were gone. And the eldest, seventeen year old Levi, was dead. Autopsy would later reveal he had gone undiagnosed with brain cancer, even though heād just had a physical a few months prior and he was healthy as a horse. Ā
Sure, I was asked if Iād seen anything, since my window was closest to the Millerās, but I just remembered Daffodil putting his finger to his lips and told them nothing. Ā
Only one child of the Millers would be found, baby Rebecca, returned to her crib. But a week in and Mrs. Miller looked ready to have a meltdown. A teatime with mom and she confided all about how Rebecca never slept, only cried, and how she swore she heard her daughter giggling whenever she wasnāt in the room. Ā
That child was certainly not Rebecca, but once again I kept my mouth shut. Ā
Things went downhill for the Millers the fastest, but they werenāt alone. Several other households faced their own bizarre and sudden catastrophes. The Petersons were in a terrible car accident that cost Mr. Peterson his legs and Mrs. Peterson her memory. To her death, she believed every morning was July 21, strangely not the day of the accident but the day of Daffodilās disappearance. The Caldwells had a nasty divorce after Mrs. Caldwell got mysteriously pregnant, even though Mr. Caldwell had a vasectomy. Itād later come out she was approached by a young handsome man and they had a moment of passion in the backseat of Mr. Caldwellās car. Ā
The Andersonās house burned down. The Rivers were infertile. The Wardās prize garden wilted and died while Mr. Ward wasted away with an illness no doctor could diagnose. The Reeves lost their jobs. I could go on. But Iām sure you guessed by now what each of the families had in common.
Each of those families had someone directly involved with Daffodilās beating.
While everyone elseās family was suffering disaster after disaster, ours only prospered. Bearās health held strong until he was nearly sixteen, long time for a big dog. My parents thought they were out of luck when it came to having another kid, but mom became pregnant with twins. I insisted one be named Daffodil. They compromised and Marieās middle name is Daffodil. They were also approved to adopt and thatās when I got a brother just a few months younger than me, Brian. We became thick as thieves the day he came into our lives and weāre still quite close. My dad got an amazing job when he was discharged from the army, mom got some serious promotions so we got to go on amazing vacations and make amazing memories. Ā
I was eighteen when Mr. Miller finally cracked and hung himself. Heād lost everything- his job after he failed a drug test that he shouldāve passed with flying colors, his position as a deacon after said failed drug test made common knowledge, his wife after she was just done with his bullshit, he just had to give up the car because of the debt he was in and was about to lose the house. In his suicide note he did confess to Daffodilās murder and named the other conspirators as well. A few of them were already dead from various means, but the others got in pretty deep shit, even though they couldnāt be officially charged without a body apparently. Ā
Sometimes I wondered if I dreamed that night I saw Daffodil outside. Sometime I even believed it.
But itās been a long time since then. I have a family of my own now, married the love of my life and we have a six year old daughter, Iris. I actually own the Millerās house, I got it for a steal because of the suicide. My wife thinks it serves for great inspiration, sheās a horror novelist, so that works out.
Maybe I wouldāve forgotten Daffodil one day if my daughter hadnāt run to get the door before I could stop her. Girl has no fear, probably like I did when I was her size.
I almost reached the living room when I heard her yell back, āDaaaaadddyyyy, thereās a man asking if we have bread!ā
āErm, not quite, if you have work so I can have bread. Close enough though.ā
I never forgot that voice. I ran for the door, nearly tripping over the dog in the process. I whipped open the door the rest of the way, nearly bowling over Iris in the process.
He looks exactly the same as he did back then. Same beard, same guitar slung over his back, same lack of shoes. He stared at me for a few moments before his eyes widened and he grinned.
āHello, Will! Itās so good to see you again. Mind if I help around the house? I like to work for my bread.ā
it would suck being a new immortal. like itād be 2109 and people would go,Ā āwhat was it like seeing ancient civilizations rise and fall like that? seeing the pyramids being built? watching the expansion and growth of the new world?ā and iād just be like,Ā ānoā¦no i was born in 1991. so like, wow iām gonna see some cool stuff, but, i mean iām not that much older than just a really, really old person, you know? phones were big back then. so big. but only for like ten years, then they got like, as good as they are now. uh. rhinos existed. donāt think i ever saw one in person. cool, good talk.ā
even worse, imagine being an immortal who keeps missing stuff.Ā āWhat was it like seeing the pyramids being built?ā
āFuck if I know, I was in Madagascar.ā
āOh, okay. Well, how was the Renaissance?ā
āI fell down a hole in Scotland and people thought I was an enchanted well for four hundred years, it was over by the time I convinced someone to get me out.ā
We barely know anything about Madagascar pre-500CE. We donāt even know whether the island had a permanent population before then, despite finding a bunch of much older signs of temporary human presence.
Malagasy mythology makes mention of the vazimba, a āprecursorā ethnic group that might or might not be distinct from Madagascarās current population.
The point is, we do not know.
So you were in Madagascar when the pyramids were being built in Egypt, i.e. during one of the most obscure, most undocumented parts of Madagascarās human history?
Oh, buddy, you better go and make a bunch of anthropologists and archeologists really happy RIGHT NOW instead of feeling bad about missing everyone elseās pet Major Event.
My sycamore tree began life in the gravel at the edge of a parking lot. If trees can feel pain, that is a painful, unlucky death. I carefully dug it up and put it in a pot I made out of a disposable cup.
Hello small one. This world may be cruel, but I will not be.
I decided to take care of it, not expecting it to survive, and when my sycamore tree unfurled one tiny leaf and then another, it chiseled a tiny foothold in my terrified brain, the kind of brain that doesn't remember a world before the atomic bomb and before 9/11.
I googled the lifespans of trees. My neurons had to stretch and expand to accommodate what I learned: My sycamore tree may live five hundred years. It's hard to think something so big. In twenty years, my baby sycamore tree will be three stories tall, and the home of many creatures. In five years, my sycamore tree will be taller than I am. In one year, it will be summer.
There's this concept called sense of foreshortened future where people who have lived through trauma can't conceptualize a future for themselves because deep down they don't expect to survive, When I look forward, all I see is fire and death, melting ice and burning sky. We were raised Evangelical. All we see is Judgment Day, except there is no heaven.
But now there is a tiny gap in the wall, a crack in the door of my cell
and on the other side, I see a tree
There is, in the future, a great old sycamore tree, full of clean winds and the stir of a thousand wings. A hundred years from now. Fifty years from now. There will be forests in that world. There will be a world.
It takes courage, but we have to imagine it.
Most tree species can live in excess of three or four hundred years. I think I'm learning something. I think there are ancient voices saying hello small one, touch the dirt and the leaves, for now you are part of something that cannot die
in 2030 I will be thirty years old and the world will not have ended and there will still be hummingbirds, and we will have photos of the stars more beautiful than we can now imagine.
I planted an Eastern Redcedar; they may live nine hundred years. There will be nine hundred years. The people in that time will remember us. Maybe we will meet the aliens (hi aliens!).
I will blow out the candles on many birthday cakes in a world where there are wolves in dark forests far from home. I am learning to imagine the future. I learned recently that elk were reintroduced to the Appalachian Mountains after over a hundred years of extirpation, and that they are expanding their range.
That tiny crack I can see through now opens a tiny bit more:
Maybe elk will pass through my hometown, maybe there will be a forest where the pasture is on the high hill that I can see from my home
say it, say it, say it: ten years, thirty years, a hundred years from now
I am learning to imagine the future. There is a crack in the wall of this prison, of this machine, of this darkness, and through it, I see a tree.
Not gonna lie this makes me a bit irritated. Here's the real version of this photo:
Instead of a cutesie reference to film censorship it was an explicit statement of defiance of Maryland's criminalization gay sex, which was not repealed until 2002. This wasn't a guy saying "Oh they can't put what I do in the movies according to a completely voluntary industry code" he was saying "The State of Maryland wants to put me in jail for being gay and having gay sex."
It wasn't a guy being cheeky about sex in an ambiguous, cute way. It was a man stating, in no uncertain terms, that a whole state of the United States considered him a criminal for being homosexual.
in elementary school i figured out how to customize the classroom desktop's autocorrect to make Word change whole sentences. this made it appear almost like the computer was responding to you. you could, for example, type in "where did i put my keys", hit enter, and watch it switch to "you put them under the couch". this was before chatbots, and we were all 9 so i considered it closer to a magic trick than a tech one.
i immediately scripted out a dialogue exchange between me and a girl who had died by the swings (classic). i invited another student over and told them i had found a ghost, then proceeded to type out the pre-scripted exchange. i was immediately pulled into the counselors office. the kicker was that none of the adults could figure out how i did it. i had to show them the menu and everything.
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