FUCK
got too high and deleted my whooooole blog. formerly thenewplanets, i'm following my faves again. hitting myself with hammers
$LAYYYTER

Product Placement

blake kathryn

@theartofmadeline

oozey mess
🪼

pixel skylines
Three Goblin Art
tumblr dot com
Misplaced Lens Cap
ojovivo
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

Andulka
KIROKAZE
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

Janaina Medeiros
NASA
AnasAbdin

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@largepenisofficial
FUCK
got too high and deleted my whooooole blog. formerly thenewplanets, i'm following my faves again. hitting myself with hammers
Light in the Dark, acrylic.
Ribbon-bird One, acrylic
"Hello, my name is Ignatius Archibald Featherstonne, son of Lord Tyrion Archibald Featherstonne and heir to the East Flight Trading Company! Pleasure to meet you."
My player character in Storm King's Thunder: a noble flamingo aarakocra who is a warlock, despite being a solid C student in his formal tutoring for evocation wizardry.
Steph Erving is dumb of ass, 6 of feet, and incapable of shutting her mouth.
My ribcage is filled with love and a healthy variety of small birds
Ive been thinking about clothes today.
I have a sweatshirt I bought from the h&m men's section when I was a freshman in high school. Wore it constantly too. I still have it, though now the wrists are a bit stretched out and theres stains on the sleeves and the inside is all chewed up like old sweatshirts always get after you wash that fleecy inside part hundreds of times. I've worn this sweatshirt to events and around the house and to visit friends I dont know anymore and to places I'll probably never go again. I met people while wearing this sweatshirt, people whose names escape me now and whose lives I'll never know. So many things in life have come and gone and this dumb sweatshirt's held out longer than all of them. I bought it out of desperation, it was so cold that day and I had nothing with me. My friend i was with had just transferred schools, she wasnt in high school yet and i had just gotten to it. Now she's a mother. This sweatshirt is not only older than my friend's child, its older than her relationship with her partner. This piece of cheap cloth made by underpaid and overworked laborers in Malaysia has been in my life longer than I've known I was gay. And I'm wearing it now, too! It's comfortable. Nice. Clean. It smells like my room here in Oregon and the cardboard box I kept it in on the drive here and the closet in Brooklyn i kept it in before that, a closet I will never see again in an apartment I'll never live in again.
Clothes, just regular clothes, plain things, like this heather-grey cowl-neck sweatshirt, unremarkable in every way, don't usually mean a lot. Favorite clothes, though, worn things, worn in so many ways, mean something, and old favorite clothes mean so much more.
I see a shirt, a jacket, a hat, and I can't help but to think about everybody who's worn that. What has that garment seen? Was it loved? The wear and tear on a well-used pocket, the sticky zipper on a tired coat, an old flannel with new buttons. And in sharp contrast, a wrinkled tag on a shirt that smells like mothballs and dust. A never-opened bag containing a spare button, tucked into the pocket of denim begging to be made threadbare after years of waiting. A leather boot that has more creases from the fold of its packaging, that's never known a long walk through nature or through cities or through farms, that is crying out to be used, finally, by somebody who can give it those creases it was made to carry.
No object holds more meaning than that which we give it, but to me, there is something deeply personal about clothes.
Ever since I was young, I’ve always been drawn to customize. That’s a vague statement, but I feel as though no truer one exists in my life. I was always particular about my dolls, only keeping two and always keeping them naked so their bare cloth bodies, connective tissue between hard hands, feet, and head, were perfectly exposed. Every notebook or journal had at least my name, written on them in thick sharpie, and as the year wore on they slowly became more and more coated in doodles, art, concepts, names, words. When I got my first cell phone, this flip-phone made in a post-blackberry era, I spent hours looking through ringtones, backgrounds, and fonts. That’s how I’ve always been, with every item I owned. For better or for worse, every single thing I own, I mark somehow.
I’ve had a conflicting view of my own body ever since I became aware of it, and this will be pertinent soon. For a long time, I was me, and my body and myself were not two entities, but one whole that ran, played, and loved. Then, as I grew, I became aware of the space I took up, the changes my body underwent, the things that set me apart from every other human animal I met, and suddenly the concept of myself and my body were separate. When I was a child, I had to have been naive to this fact, because there was something shameful in the flesh of my being that, though I couldn’t put it to words, was still very real. That shame, it couldn’t be me, it was my body. I was this entity apart from the meat I piloted, and the meat I found myself in was flawed, and incorrect. Now, examining my body in the mirror, I have to work to realize that the thing I see isn’t some suit I wear, it’s me. It’s my being, not some ill-fitting gift my parents crafted to house my essence or whatever else. The flesh I see is, for better or for worse, everything that makes up me. To see not my body in the mirror, but myself, is alien after so many years pretending to be something beyond the creature I am.Â
Finding that peace with my body again, I now realize, lays in customization. Perhaps it’s that draw to customization that’s led me to love and embrace every scar I’ve gotten. I love to show people the marks on my hands and arms, one from a broken bowl, two from gravy burns, and the countless others from rabbit attacks. The obvious white mark over my lip, in the place of a beauty mark, where a dog had bitten through the skin, and the less obvious mark on the boundary of my lip where the same dog had done the same thing a few months later. Likely, then, this explains why the only emotion that comes close to rivaling my frustration at my pinched nerves and aching hands is pride. Why I love to tell everybody, in as many words as possible, about my ulnar nerve pains, my carpal tunnel numbness, my cracking joints in hands that have spent time creating music, words, and art. Each mark is a reminder of what I’ve done, things that make up who I am, and they show that my body, too, is a part of those things. My body is marked, made my own by the life I lead.
And it’s through this I realize what I want, and what I need, in order to better see my body as myself and not a mechanical marvel of chemical signals I control from the outside. You see, I can mark myself without scars or nerve damage. I can change it to suit who I see myself as. Art can make itself at home in my skin, piercings can show my control over the bits of myself I show to you. I can choose to paint my skin, and I can choose not to, in defiance of whatever society dictates that I am supposed to do. I can strip my body of the hair it grows, and embrace it in kind, and I can do both things at once. I can exercise, sculpt myself into somebody physically stronger than I am, and I can feel the calluses on my fingers from playing guitar, and I can find peace with every little mark and ache and pain that makes me who I am. This flesh of mine and these thoughts of mine and these words of mine, they’re all me. I can put them wherever I like and dress them up however I please. I’ve always been drawn to customize, to externalize that which is me, and what I am is a worn notebook, begging to be made my own.Â
Every person, with every part of their being, is a canvas that they themselves get to recreate however they like, with whatever base materials they’re born with, and isn’t that beautiful? You get to be a person and live and grow and make, and there is nothing more basic and yet so profound to realize. Create what you will, and know that everything you make and every mark you receive is a part of you. You’re so much more than any single event, any single trait, and you get to show that to every other person you ever meet. Isn’t that incredible? Isn’t that fascinating, and wonderful, and overwhelming? How is it to know that you are always profoundly yourself? Every moment you get to express yourself, to express every part of who and what you are, is a moment you take another step towards your messy, scarred, perfect self. Take those moments where you can, and fight to protect them from those that would infringe on your right to be a human being. Fight so that every single person in the world can have a fair chance at creating and expressing and being themselves. It’s everything we have. It’s everything we are.
You know, sometimes I think about musicians and instruments and musician’s hands
The way that their hands find purchase on their instrument and they flow, self-assured and strong, exactly where they need to go, and the musician is focused but absent, as though letting the music flow through them, and their hands are built for this machine, this delicate instrument meant simply to create beauty, for beautiful noises, for noise-making
And the way that instrument was developed over thousands of years of cumulative human experience, of cumulative noise-making, and the way that the musician’s hands were developed over millions years of selection, from the noise, to the body, to our minds, wired to love noise and love making noise and love making beauty
And how the science of the thing, the acoustics and the psychology and the physics and the physiology, how it all comes together to make something we inexplicably, unexplainably love
and how musicians come up with ways to remember the technique, how best to use the science to make the noises they love the most, how best to carry that tune, and how best to create.
There’s nothing more human than creating and there’s something so primal about creating music, and the way we’ve cut and dissected and honed something as deeply instinctual as making beautiful noise fills my heart with a feeling that is both heavy and soft
Fuck, bro, songs and poems and shit always say things like "oh love is like sunlight" and "love is overwhelming" and "love hurts" and the fuckin whining about "the things we do for love" but they like... mean it??? Bro thought it was for the prose or whatever