☿ @lifeinthegladhouse - Tumblr Blog

Coat by Sharron Hedges, 1983.

Sharron Hedges is an INCREDIBLE textile artist, one of the initial pioneers of the Art to Wear movement of the ~70s. This piece is called Morpho, and it represents approximately a year of work.

Hedges’ pieces are incomparable!

There is an episode of PBS’s great series Craft In America that features Hedges, and it’s well worth a watch!

imposer

via weheartit

pomegratea

i need to know who started this young james spader!hannibal pipeline on twitter. what the hell. sure

lifeinthegladhouse

Honestly I saw this on IG too and I was like What

horrorcitos

House of Ayla

kafk-a

Klara Lidén Self Portrait with the Keys to the City, 2005 Digital print, 60 × 42 cm

j-k-i-ng

“Walker Canyon“ by | Elliot McGucken

funstealer

1980s French B-7 Tankers Jacket via a.bout___

pacogabby

Chola blossoms at Red Rock State Park, Arizona.

globeshaped

Brian Eno and photoshop (1995)

this-is-my-decline

Hannibal Script Project Masterpost (complete)

I have now completed my little project where I would compile together deleted dialogue and scenes and other interesting parts from the scripts of each Hannibal episode. The posts often ended up being pretty long, because I included almost every single deleted line, no matter how small.

Here are links to each of these posts, to make searching for them easier. They can all also be found under THIS tag.

Season 1

Apéritif

Amuse-Bouche

Potage

Oeuf

Coquilles

Entrée

Sorbet

Fromage

Trou Normand

Buffet Froid

Rôti

Relevés

Savoureux

Season 2

Kaiseki

Sakizuke

Hassun

Takiawase

Mukozuke

Futamono

Yakimono

Su-zakana

Shiizakana

Naka-Choko

Ko No Mono

Tome-wan

Mizumono

Season 3

Antipasto

Primavera

Secondo

Aperitivo

Contorno

Dolce

Digestivo

The Great Red Dragon

…And The Woman Clothed With The Sun

…And The Woman Clothed In Sun

…And The Beast From The Sea

The Number Of The Beast Is 666

The Wrath Of The Lamb

Out of context Hannibal script (for funsies)

Season 1

Season 2

Season 3

Hannigram edition

If you wish to read the scripts yourself, here is the original source, on the Living Dead Guy website.

lifeinthegladhouse

For later 😍

I'm never on here anymore. I'm not sure anyone follows or will see this but I often like it that way. Tumblr is an empty space where intimate histories die. I have somewhere many secrets locked away in time over the past 15 years (!), most meaningless now.

Anyways,

I had top surgery some months ago and am effectively going through a divorce, unemployed, with no family except my half sister in another state, disabled and the state programs that are supposed to help me aren't because of federal funding freezes, but I'm subsisting on dead dad money and praying it doesn't run out.

I've made it last well. I'm in school.

I'm still heathen, I still have strange and uncanny experiences.

I've been getting into Hannib*l (the show) and something about it is deeply healing me inside and it kind of feels like gentle fingers pulling my chest open, just enough to pry the taut stitches out and give my heart more room to breathe. For so many reasons. I hate gore and thriller crime murder whatever stuff but Mads is so fine and ... Weird things happened before I began watching and it just felt like it was Time. I think something about the violent romance of it all has been helping me feel ... More compassion towards myself, and others, strangely.

And maybe it's a needed romance. I've never felt so decimated before by a fictional couple.

It's strange thinking of myself as someone in a fictional couple, a couple that once was, is now a shell, in the slow practice of extrication and unraveling, to begin anew in other ways, ... A freshness that I won't be used to, a stark whiteness after years of scuffs and fingerprints and lipstick and lace and jokes and stories and memories only we will know.

I don't know how to be intimate,

But something about this is helping me.

Maybe it's helping me get in touch with something internally, a reckoning with human feelings that I often push aside, and exposures too, exposure therapy for those who suffer moral OCD but then think, "ah, at least I'm not in their situation".

Seeing Will's big soulful puppy eyes and the ridiculous god given arcs of Mads' fucking lips is like, keeping me tethered to.... A joy of life or something ... A small kindling of fire I need to grow into a bigger fire.... After feeling dead for so long. Why this?

Anyways did I say the god given arcs of his lips? Jesus fucking christ idk if there is a more beautiful man (maybe except for Mr. Sp*der? Whew).

#idk what I'm doing here

coldalbion

Postulate

Imagine with me, if you will.

Imagine with that deep faculty that built worlds for you as a child.

That, if you try, even now, can make trees speak and rivers laugh.

Back and back. Beyond the ages of Iron and Bronze and Stone.

Into the Golden Age, and this is not the age of metal-glint.

Oh, no.

This is the age of honeycomb and honeydew, of mead-blood and winedark sea. Of nectar and ambrosia and the golden apples of Idunn and the Hesperides.

Drink with me, all flushed and rolling, all whispering, all gorged on godflesh and wreathed in smoke. Swallow it down as it boils and bubbles in the belly and bowels.

Falling back and back, dizzy and something lifting in your chest, something peeling back, the muscles of your face shifting, baring your teeth in a smile so very eagerly shared by all the others in the room.

Perhaps they have hair like snakes, faces all ash-white and blood-daubed; ochre-bodied, painting fingers that writhe and twist in strange and potent shapes that leave electric blue-traces across your vision.

Did you think you were the only one? The only child of this ancient knotted line; your breath like all the winds flasked in skin, all tied together with thread?

And now you are undone, the storm unleashed:

And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. - Kubla Khan, Coleridge

Imagine then. Imagine, yes.

Imagine the salt on the wind, the iron in the blood. The crackle of flame.

He waits beside the fire, there in the bloodlight of womb, there in the centre of the very heart of big bellied verdant Mother.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

The antlered shadow there, scalp festooned with the roots of the bone-tree, stretching up and down into darkness, wreathed in laurel and vines. There, all enmeshed, lie serpents and eagles, black-eyed and unblinking in their wisdom.

He throws the bones, carves the lots; weaves a cat’s-cradle out of his own viscera. She nourishes him there. in the darkness. Enfolds him as he tends the flame that he brought from the stars with a word that is not a word..

Such a handsome beast is he. Such a monstrous uncreated coming-together and breaking apart of vision and form. Did you think yourself the only one, when he still remains buried here in dark earth?

Well, did you?

The shining colours of his guts; with one deft pull he snares you; ten thousand masks cast out by his shadow; plays you like a lute, like a liar strumming a lyre.

Down and down. There lies his spear, his club, his bow, his skull-breaker, his arrow of gold.

Down and down, in fire and flux, in ice and pestilence. There he sits, in the age of honey and amber. Even the rocks groan and bleed at the pulsing of his drum, as he bores his way down through the top of your head, as he kisses, wakens the snake and she rises to meet him

The secret centre. He drinks from the freezing fount and transmutes it to intoxicating gold.

Poisoner and poisoned.

Pharmakon. Body and blood. He gives himself to us, so to be devoured, to ignite the fire in our breast and bellies.

A mocking smile, echoed from the other end of time:

“Do this, in remembrance of me.”

We, the hunted, lay ourselves prostrate, as his curved bone knife cuts us free, hands roughly kindling organs, filling them with light and darkness. With solemn mockery, he cleaves the stone of our heart in two; we are to bleed forever, to stream back across the tracks, to this, the place beyond beginning and end.

Bones disarticulated and dismembered, we are naught but hide and flesh to be stitched together with thorn, scratched and cut down to the bones, our marrows stuffed with secrets.

Burns us black, so he does, until we all go up in smoke; draws us in, holds us there, and then expels us as changed breath and a gesture, so we rise and stream forth from that place; almost to see her emerge from the darkness, this lady of feline grace and hawkish beauty, this leader through the labyrinth.

We do not imagine her, flanked by kings of beasts, heavy pawed and golden. Do not see her in feathered cloak and covered in gleaming jewels. Do not see her place her hand upon his shoulder, and watch him strengthen, watch the weariness we never saw was there, the loss of what he gave for us, be banished once more. We do not see her give him the cup, the mark of her eternal favour.

For this is just postulate. Just a might be.

Isn’t it?

coldalbion

And breathe.