$LAYYYTER
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
No title available
Keni
blake kathryn
Andulka
Mike Driver
Today's Document
ellievsbear
Product Placement
Stranger Things
Game of Thrones Daily
roma★
Show & Tell
oozey mess
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
ojovivo
tumblr dot com
No title available
No title available
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from United Kingdom
seen from South Korea
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Latvia
seen from Czechia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
seen from Latvia
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Ukraine
seen from United States
@sophiafaust
watching a disgusting man connected to that school be roasted on a grand scale does feel good even tho he'll probably win, probably go on to reign over us all. I can still enjoy the exposure, the collective recognition of a liar lying. it does feel a bit, if I contort my heart, like they're all seeing a glimpse of the big bad truth.
- the "moss vision," tunneling down into something beyond language, a glimpse into a hostile takeover, humans into something green, congealed. consciousness treated this as an occupation. the mind-ghosts kept alive memories of what being a human was like. a.'s grandmother's painting was one of these memories; it turned into a small flame at the end of the tunnel, something treasured, secret, forbidden. one vision, maybe a few seconds long, and the entire plot of a specific future unfurled itself to me. I found myself (don't know what other phrase to use) in some core emotion of the story, attached to a specific character's experience. it was a version of myself living through cosmic horror hard times but also my great-great aunt alice who I also felt-saw on something else. anyway, was like I'd been projected into it. I felt vertigo, physically queasy. from staring down the tunnel of plot but also from a sense of movement. it really was like I'd been thrown. each of my senses was at least partially overtaken by it. I've only had a few moments of panicking. the first was embarrassing but educational, others have been emotional and frustrating, this one was from seeing something frightening that felt "real" but not like an entity appearing but a story appearing in my head like a perfect cube with a small door just my size. ideas usually come to me in trinkets, sometimes jewels. it can feel like trading with a crow, you'll get junk and useful stuff and priceless stuff all mixed in together. the work of curating arranging assembling is yours, which is why it is Yours despite the symbiotic relationship. but this was bigger, complete on arrival. and not a story I want to write; even this is a struggle. so it's kind of like a. being shown a bunch of egyptian shit behind his eyes--ok cool, but...why that? in the moment, I stumbled all around as I tried to put language to this. made weird sounds, hung over the back of the couch to make all the blood rush to my head. when I got back to words, I asked a. a string of insane questions. increasingly urgent versions of "what if we're being turned into slime?" him saying I was scaring him sent me into immediate composure--the last thing I want to do is scare anyone, not with this stuff. so we laughed and I stammered thru emotions the username av*c*doibpruofen (which felt ridiculous, incoherent as the paranoid shit I'd been babbling) because I'd seen them post about being disturbed by all the artists working with moss. a moment of grasping for an Example. it worked all right. "this is some weird stuff," a. said as he scrolled, hit follow.
- is it possible for me to believe some man assuring me that life will be better in the unrecognizable future? gut says no. the drive to write has to come from here, the girl in the garden not buying it. this is katie and lm, me and The Man.
- novel writing as a clinging to ego, the form of the novel as a celebration of the individual, novel writing as the litmus test for the psychonaut, novel writing as an exercise in transcendence, in dissolving boundaries into an other's perspective
- the nonhuman seminar ending with a book on objects, on things--the furthest point k. hayles stretched us to. I was such a dunce in that course, so clueless and struggling. part of the lesson has to be in looking back and seeing how far I've moved (in which direction, unsure).
- the confusion, discomfort of the audience as he wraps it up, ending on that note. how he stands back smiling and takes their photo.
"for my blog"
"- is it possible for me to believe some man assuring me that life will be better in the unrecognizable future? gut says no. the drive to write has to come from here, the girl in the garden not buying it. this is katie and lm, me and The Man."
the finnish artist depicts the Other Place but this isn't recognized by anyone besides the discredited souls talking in the dr*g subreddits. even with titles like "the waiting room" and "song of the universe," the connection isn't really made. artists who do this, who depict it in plain sight, are my obsession now. can't shake the feeling that they're getting away with something, that maybe I'm being incredibly uncool by verbalizing any of this at all. but I'm selective about the secrets I keep, and who benefits from me keeping my mouth shut about this? so I dig, I do my usual routine, google the name + psychs, + whatever--a result comes up that shows the artist is in a jazz fusion band, the music described as psych*delic among other things. the kicker is its name--"w*lcome our future." a different style of depiction of the Other Place on an album cover. be brave and w*lcome our future with open arms, without fear. this was tm's greatest message, this is what r.r*cker was trying to communicate with "it's going to get better." I don't believe it, not yet, maybe not ever. I've never had that "love is all that matters" revelation; the life I've lived has shown that plenty of other things matter too. when I heard it say we really do love you, I saw machinery behind the message. I can still imagine a version of this story in which we're being placated--with love, with pretty colors, with overwhelment. in the face of love, I say "big whoop."
yesterday we saw a car with the "I'd rather be slowly consumed by moss" bumper sticker and I felt the chill!! I quipped to a., "big moss is still at it." I wagged my finger at the receding truck, "I've been there buddy and I promise you do NOT want that."
how to hold steadfast to your role as gardener caretaker guide, how to welcome the future without succumbing to numbness or childish doom -- "I'd rather be consumed by moss" "giant meteor for president" etc -- surely feeling the DESPAIR and FEAR and RAGE without getting stuck in those emotions is part of it -- and good lord the answer is not telling others how to think -- that is not and will never be your job babygirl -- stand on the mountain and call others to hear etc
like am I crazy or does entertaining some weirdo animist philosophy that grants sentience to each digital writing you create not sound like a very fun thought hole to fall down? or at the very least an interesting basis for sci-fi? a fiction writer saying that thinking about xyz isn't a good use of time is creepy. everyone is acting creepy.
🦠🪽🏺🦚🏵️👾🌀🐙🕊️
sirenshores
Mirai Mizue
the theme is vindication. funny how when it comes, all you end up feeling is an empty pity. this refers solely to something personal and unspeakable but the ripples obviously move outward. I keep thinking about tm's prediction that psychedelic people are going to have to be trip sitters for the normies once shit starts hitting the fan. I know that's patronizing but lately it does ring true. I wish I could trust more with my vision but it's not time yet. what I can say is that ada is an egirl living in an earthship, my technopagan daughter I aborted twice. writing a girl born in 2008 makes me feel better about everything because it's a reminder that I can understand anyone. I gnashed my teeth against motherhood stories for years and then stumbled into a simulated matriarchy. surprise! it's always been there. you just never got your whore mouth off the godhead's cock for long enough to notice. babygirl, come here. you don't have to do that to him anymore. now it's all about tending to the plants and the animals and to each other, and watching the night sky for you-know-who. :)
maine story is so horrifically maine, from the humble farmer responses of those whose family members were killed to the cops being warned and doing nothing, reminds me of course it reminds me of the disgusting b*ngor priest who would drag his special boys with him to the police station to show off, because he knew he could get away with anything. the sheriff tipped him off when the investigation started, that's why he killed himself before anyone could get to him. failures and willful blindness all the way down. makes me think of the kids tied to trees down in the school for the deaf, makes me think of the evil the kids in derry saw that no adults would acknowledge, a place that radiates evil in so many ways.
halloween
if this somehow loops back to the h.school -- I'm looking at halloween
I can't 😭 I can't tell 😭 I need to figure out how to tell 😭 I never will 😭
"she" as an entity, undefined. wanting to be seen, appearing in the hallway. the bishop arrives on behalf of the church to give her a name: a ghost. he captures her in his iron drum, forcing her into matter.
john cale is the one who first chiseled away the camp from hallelujah to reveal the emotional landscape everyone loves. john cale, the true unsung king.
he who hath the power to make ch*rl* actually interesting for once
barely a satire of the level of cognitive vigor brought by the youth to today's pressing topics
my wide eyed, very round face, planet sized, with archetypes orbiting
maine story is so horrifically maine, from the humble farmer responses of those whose family members were killed to the cops being warned and doing nothing, reminds me of course it reminds me of the disgusting b*ngor priest who would drag his special boys with him to the police station to show off, because he knew he could get away with anything. the sheriff tipped him off when the investigation started, that's why he killed himself before anyone could get to him. failures and willful blindness all the way down. makes me think of the kids tied to trees down in the school for the deaf, makes me think of the evil the kids in derry saw that no adults would acknowledge, a place that radiates evil in so many ways.
halloween
if this somehow loops back to the h.school -- I'm looking at halloween
ongoing skittishness, a reaction to the tenor of the crowd's chatter. one on one people are so different. irl someone admits to using the thing but online they post increasingly violent rhetoric against it. where is the center? it's hard not to frame inconsistency as hypocrisy but I can do hard things and that includes pushing past the finger pointing habit of framing everything I don't understand, or am anxious in the face of, as morally repugnant. I am evolving in the same way I was decades ago. I keep my thoughts to myself but I note which words come out of which sides of somebody's mouth. I am an artist who lives in the world of her own art more than anyone I know, and I am lucky to do so but my daily practice is chock full of choices and my past is littered with sacrifice. gruesome. I have been, so they say, stolen from. but I was accused of stealing myself so many times, and those accusations were maggots writhing blind and senseless. why on earth would an accusation of theft, coming from my mouth, be any different? what is the cliche, "the cycle ends with me"? I don't stand for the devil and I don't whisper in ears / I stand on the mountain and call people to hear I am not afraid of the technology the way I am afraid of human reactions to it. I am not threatened by the technology that so very clearly cannot do what I do--and I have tried to coax it into imitating, emulating me. what I dread are witch hunts, struggle sessions, the worst being full of passionate intensity, the hunger of the mob for righteous outlets. I am afraid of what I saw six years ago turning again on me.
