I have read all the nebulas I intend to read for this project. Soon I will post my picks

Origami Around
trying on a metaphor
Sade Olutola
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Cosmic Funnies

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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
sheepfilms
Cosimo Galluzzi
Show & Tell
DEAR READER
Claire Keane

Love Begins

pixel skylines

★
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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todays bird
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@spiritelectric3
I have read all the nebulas I intend to read for this project. Soon I will post my picks
So apparently I actually should care about Ed, Edd, and Eddy. Huh.
ADHD affects how I experience time, not how I experience attachment. I love you. I miss you. I just don't realize how long it’s been since I last said that, let alone messaged.
I understand that most normal functioning brains need regular engagement to maintain a bond. Absence doesn’t diminish my affection. My silence isn’t neglect or disinterest. It’s time blindness and object impermanence. The contact gap is purely neurological, not emotional. Thank you for being patient with my inconsistency and holding a seat in your heart for me.
Happy Pride Month to those two women dancing together in the foreground of the boat scene in Godzilla (1954).
I’m sorry your romantic foibles were overshadowed by a big ass atomic lizard thing.
made you some graphics to help you remember
happy pride to losers who get no bitches and stack no paper
given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that
sometimes u comment under a mutual's post and it's like god, this is it they're gonna kill me now
Once when I was in undergrad, someone described something as “problematic” in class and our professor was like, “That’s cool, but ‘problematic’ doesn’t really mean anything. It means that the thing you’re describing has a problem, and in and of itself that’s not bad. Art, especially, should always have problems, or else it’s not interesting and not art, either. It sounds like you’re trying to say that this is bad, but you don’t want to say ‘bad.’ Is that right?”
So from then on whenever one of us called something problematic, he would make us talk it out until we could name the “bad” thing we were hinting at. In this particular class, 7/10 it was some type of oppression, and the remainder was like, “I’m uncomfortable because this is very new/confusing/pushing boundaries that made me feel safe.”
Once we stopped calling things “problematic” and stopping at that, class got way more interesting and... we all had to say, like, “that’s racist” or “that’s misogynistic” or “ew capitalism gross” out loud, which a lot of us had never done in a classroom before. Or we had to be like, “Uhhh... I’m not sure what’s so bad?” and confront our own beliefs and that was maybe even more useful.
Anyway. Whenever I see the word problematic, I can’t help but think of this professor being like, “Good starting point, now let’s get specific.” I think when we have to commit to saying “that’s ___” it requires a lot more careful thought about the truth and impact and complexities of whatever we’re claiming. Sometimes there really is some bullshit afoot, and also sometimes it’s art, and it should be full of problems, because that’s what art is.
i know we’re both just messing around pretending to be whole but look at me. if the train was coming would you move. if the ground was falling from under your feet would you even notice or would it just be another tuesday for you. if somebody stabbed you could it hurt worse than you already do. what i’m saying is that i love you but i think we both drive over the speed limit when it’s raining. what i’m saying is that i want to hold your hand and i understand about how you sometimes have to sit down in the shower. what i’m saying is that i’m here for you and if the train comes please move.
i wrote this 7 years ago, somehow. every day someone else finds it and whispers to me - oh, i understand this. something always turns in the wash of my stomach: i am so, so glad you feel seen. i wish you had no idea what this post was about.
i wrote this while working in a program for new writers. on wednesdays, two of the teachers would be contractually obligated to read our writing aloud to the group of 300+ teens. i had never read my work in public before. i had something like 6k poems and was panicking about it. none of them are good enough. sometimes the train is howling. it is hard, actually, sometimes, even as an adult.
and then i thought - what is one thing i wish i could tell all of them. each of these 300 kids. what did i need to hear, at 16?
i wanted to tell them about the day you wake up, and the sun feels warm finally. i wanted to tell them about carving a life out of soapstone, your hands turning bloody. i wanted to tell them that sometimes yes - it actually does feel easy. i wanted to tell them about weddings and cookie dough and long road trips. about albums of new music and old friends laughing and the sound of snow falling.
you will learn the pattern of the train. you will learn to close your eyes when you hear the engine rumbling. you will learn to let yourself have the grey days in their lily-soft numbness. sometimes it will feel like life is wet paint, and god has smeared your canvas across a sewer grate. sometimes it will be so boring it isn’t even pronounceable - the tenacious, soundless blankness. survival isn’t just ugly nights and wild mornings. it is also the steady, unimportant moments. it is just driving with your seatbelt on. it is calling a friend on the way home. it is burying your face into the fur of your dog.
when i had finished reading this poem aloud, the auditorium was silent for a solid minute. someone stood up to take a picture of where it had been projected onto a screen, and then three more people followed the action, and then - like a bad internet story, people remembered they were supposed to be clapping. kids came up to me after it - thank you for writing that. i think i hear a train coming.
i would write this differently now, i think, but it has been 7 years. i still live by the tracks. i also haven’t picked up a blade in over 10 years. the scars are still there, but these days i only pick up scissors to cut my hair. i know why you can’t tell your mom about it. i know how the numbness slips over everything, a restless horrible cotton. i know how when you dropped the dish, you weren’t crying about the broken glass. i know about feeling like all the roads have closed their exits, that you aren’t supposed to still-be-here - and yet.
i am still here, and still yours, and i haven’t forgotten. what i’m saying is if any hope is calling to you - i know it’s hard, but you have to listen. i’m saying keep driving, but slow down the car. sit down in the shower, i’m not judging you. we can stay in the dark with the good hot water and do nothing but stare. notice the stab wound. make it through another tuesday.
i know what it is like to miss yourself. do what you need to. come home to me. i am writing to you, my past self, from the future. i’ll be waiting for you.
and when the train is coming - please move.
please god let chatgpt die out like nfts did. With a fast and graceless fall into irrelevancy
Like to charge, reblog to cast.
This spell has a very low hit ratio, so we need a lot of us to do it.
there’s this term i coined in my friendgroup i call “the charizard effect” and it can apply to anything and everything, but it was born from me explaining my feelings about the pokemon charizard. the term is basically about how overexposure to something be it by corporate shilling or fandom prominence drives me away from really enjoying something bc i’m exposed to it so much against my will i become tired of it. it came to me bc i was ranting about how tpci does not, and cannot stop reinventing charizard, and how it is popular and obtusely included in almost every region, merch, etc in every way possible and it’s highly commodified.
i dont dislike the pokemon charizard, in fact i really like its X form, but i am exposed to so much charizard in my pokemon consumption that i cant be bothered to care for it in any more than in passing. this applies to a bunch of other stuff i’d otherwise be ok with, but i always just call this aversion phenomena “the charizard effect”
making this term has done numbers for me being able to concisely express how i feel abt something. like. its not charizard’s fault i feel this way, im sure i’d feel normal abt it if it was stripped of all this over commodification, but i cannot. hence the name
"I really would not like to be treated like my body makes me dangerous" OK but sorry, transphobia aside, that is just part of being a human. Your hands can strangle someone. Your fists can punch. Your legs can stomp hard enough to crack bone. The fact that you are presumably an adult means that you could, theoretically pose a sexual danger to any child or sufficiently disabled person or elder. There is no world in which you do not have to earn people's trust to be in vulnerable situations with them. That is a fact of fucking life. Why are you always going on about how you don't want to prove yourself? Are people wary of you? Probably the reason people are wary of you is that you seem to expect to access other people's vulnerability without doing the *necessary* work to prove you are a safe person who can hold boundaries. Be a safe adult, I believe in you.
me when I don't know what it's like to be part of a marginalized group that has been heavily fearmongered about in mass media
it's like... yeah. I know. I hold a capacity for harm. there are many people around the world who put in the hours 24/7 to remind trans women of this, lol. the hard part isn't learning that
the hard part is opening up, relaxing, being tender and letting tenderness come to you
the hard part is noting the ways that the rhetoric that binds you finds its way even into the beliefs of those close to you, and knowing that there is a wall between you that means you will always be a loaded gun to them
the hard part is noticing how these walls don't exist between yourself and other trans women, because the footing is equal. it's wondering whether this ease of trust and closeness with other trans women is how it feels all the time for other people. it's wondering what it's like on the other side, where you don't only ever feel truly safe among people from 0.5% of the world population
to be privileged is to take for granted how often you mingle with people with whom you are on equal footing, because nobody's fearmongering about you and nobody's fearmongering about them. you do not get contemptuous glances from strangers. to be privileged is to think that one can simply pull themselves up by their bootstraps and no longer be bound by the rhetoric that makes their kind monsters
I have been abused all my life by people who would not conceptualize their own capacity to harm, and none of them have been trans women
to be clear, I have been mistreated by trans women. comes with the territory of us being human
the distinction, though, is that the trans women I have been treated poorly by have been deeply, obsessively concerned with their capacity to harm, to a degree that is not healthy
they have been women who were taught they were dangerous, and who don't know how to hold someone gently without feeling like they are digging their claws through their loved one's skin
they have been women who apologize routinely, for everything, because everything they ever do feels like an act of violence to them
this kind of obsession with your own capacity to harm does not let you see your loved ones clearly. it does not let you develop healthy relationships. it can drive you to break your loved ones' hearts as you push them away so that you can't hurt them anymore. it's an obsession that obscures the truth of the love you receive, that isolates, that kills
I observe degrees of this in myself and in virtually every trans woman I meet, and I've developed the phrase "you apologize for the sun shining" to respond to women who apologize for wanting to exist around me, for wanting to be known, for wanting to be seen and heard and loved and understood and treated like humans
these women do not need to be told what they have already been told every minute of their lives. they need to be told that they can love and be loved, that their mere touch is not poison, that they can take a deep breath
do not forget the patron saint of these weeks that we celebrate ourselves proudly and openly in the streets
her name was Marsha P Johnson, and we have her to thank for so much.
remember, the first Pride was a riot, and she was one of the brave souls who endured it to help carve the path which so many of us walk today. she helped found several activist groups regarding LGBT safety and wellbeing. and she was absolutely radiant, too.
thank you, Marsha. we remember you.