On my way to be gay and do crime
we're not kids anymore.
trying on a metaphor
AnasAbdin
noise dept.

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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
i don't do bad sauce passes

#extradirty
h

roma★
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

ellievsbear
wallacepolsom

@theartofmadeline

★
styofa doing anything
Today's Document

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TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Keni

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@blorbatos
On my way to be gay and do crime
green waves
Barbatos and his children I suppose
oh hello delightful forest boar. why are you charging at me so fast
la wes hal wynlic wuduland eofor. hwy forþræsest on me swa raðe
Wynlic wudulandes eofor nu ic þe cwæð 'wes þu hal',
yrnende geond ealde holtwudu,
ond ic wille þe gefrignan freolic hwy þu forþræsest
on me swa raðe receleas miltse.
Verse-types:
HE (hypermetric), hB1 (hypermetric)
E, A2b
A3, A1
A3, A1
Translation:
Delightful woodland boar, now I say to you 'hello',
running through the old forest,
and I wish to ask you freely why you are charging
at me so hastily, reckless of/setting no store by mercy.
I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.
"Would you like to?"
"Sure!"
So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.
Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.
OP can I buy you a spa leaf skimmer with a telescopic handle fit for a briefcase so you can better care for your wife favorite statue?
Jesse Welles
I am going to [remembers that jokes about suicide are detrimental to myself and others] Scarborough Fair.
oh cool can u get me parsley sage rosemary and thyme while ur there please?
Absolutely I can
The homosexuals always have these kicky little gifs to append to audio posts of gay music
Lookit ‘er go
Hey, don’t cry. Free online database of Japanese folk lore
Might I add, free database of mostly European folklore and myths
A Book of Creatures by @a-book-of-creatures doesn't update these days but is another thing along these lines, really huge, fully illustrated all by the author and cites all sources
Anthony interviewed Calypso Rose who is a pioneering woman in calypso music and Caribbean music in general. I saw this documentary on her that is well worth checking out and shows what a phenomenal woman she is. I am so glad Anthony had her on the show.
A really fun ballet thing is when they have like a bunch of actual child extras and also there's clearly some twink jumping around who's meant to also be a little boy but the role involves a level of dancing far too strenuous to make a kid do ethically. This isn't me nitpicking it's not a medium that's remotely focused on realism or whatever I just chuckle a little
It's just really funny visually. To me. There'll be like children prancing in the background & this guy who's like 20 serving unfathomable cunt & he's supposed to be like 8
(Flawlessly executing a deathdrop) how do you do fellow kids
★ 【Rafa】 「 钟离 」 ☆ ✔ republished w/permission ⊳ ⊳ follow me on twitter // bsky
The Genshin outfit of the day is:
Zhongli from Hoyofair by ho_siya!
So are we ready to admit the world is doomed yet <3
No cuz I'm not a little bitch
Love is an observable force, evil is an illness to be cured, light will pour from the sun long after we need it, I have a gun and I swear to GOD I'm not fucking around
thinking of jesus at the gay bar again………
Do tell
[ID:
a poem by Jay Hulme, titled Jesus at the Gay Bar
He's here in the midst of it - right at the centre of the dance floor, robes hitched up to His knees to make it easy to spin.
At some point in the evening a boy will touch the hem of His robe and beg to be healed, beg to be anything other than this;
and He will reach His arms out, sweat-damp, and weary from dance. He'll cup this boy's face in His hand and say,
my beautiful child there is nothing in this heart of yours that ever needs to be healed.
/end ID]
favorite dynamic is big guy gets big comfort from little guy
just a little furry paw in cold metal hand
(if you still haven't read the story about Mr. Fox and the Clockwork Guardsman in the Tales of a Snow-Winged Goose book then do it)