Oh Hey, You Just Followed Me. Which Means You're Online When You Should Be Working On Your Novel :) I

Tag meme!

List 5 topics you can talk on for an hour without preparing any material.

Not including the obvious "my OCs/original works" and only allowing myself ONE video game for fun haha.

Disability activism

Music history (US centric admittedly)

Film production

Undertale/Deltarune

Doctor Who

Tagged by: @inspirationallybored, thank you ^_^ Tagging: @blissfullyunawares @daisywords @winterandwords @lazybats4wve @lamb-of-wrath @penpaperponderings @storyteller-kara

nobody is thinking about princess dick enough these days. have you noticed this

some of my favorite woven tapestries, by Cecilia Blomberg:

Point Defiance Steps

Mates

Rising Tides

Vashon Steps

Geocentric

Indecent, self-soiled, bilious reek of turnip and toadstool decay, dribbling the black oil of wilted succulents, the brown fester of rotting orchids, in plain view, that stain of stinkhorn down your front, that leaking roil of bracket fungi down your back, you purple-haired, grainy-fuzzed smolder of refuse, fathering fumes and boils and powdery mildews, enduring the constant interruption of sink-mire flatulence, contagious with ear wax, corn smut, blister rust, backwash and graveyard debris, rich with manure bog and dry-rot harboring not only egg-addled garbage and wrinkled lip of orange-peel mold but also the clotted breath of overripe radish and burnt leek, bearing every dank, malodorous rut and scarp, all sulphur fissures and fetid hillside seepages, old, old dependable, engendering forever the stench and stretch and warm seethe of inevitable putrefaction, nobody loves you as I do.

Geocentric: Poems - Pattiann Rogers

I've been writing more at work in-between customer interactions. Upside is that I can hit my daily goal before I'm even off for the day (and I technically get paid to do it!). All I gotta do is transcribe it into Obsidian when I get home. The downside is I get interrupted often and keep losing really good lines x_x Poor one out for all those bursts of inspiration that get squashed before they make it onto the page

Rites of Winter

We’d been feasting on the famous foods of winter: squash, potatoes, a steamed pot of dark greens. And after, we danced in Glenn’s living room above Crystal Creek, barefoot on the Persian rug, eating chocolate cake, and almost knocking over the candles. So when the frogs in the pond out front began to sing—a bass note followed by a high-pitched exclamation—we slid out the door and past the tall clusters of bamboo, over the wooden bridge, moving to the frenzied rhythm of the frogs, who—it seemed— grew louder and more intent the more we rocked to their cacophony. So it was frogs and moonlight and dancing under the bare bones of the trees, the creek suddenly swollen after six years of drought. And Glenn—one year older and nearing (though he didn’t yet know it) the end of his greatest love. And we were calling out to the frogs, who called back to us as we stumbled, nearly into the bracken water, and leapt up onto the pond-side boulders, hands in the air, a light mist falling on our arms, our upturned faces. And I couldn’t decide: was the world enamored with itself?— all this riotous back and forth? Or had we only invoked alarm, amphibian for get-back! get-back! I didn’t know. But how happy we were, for that hour, to believe we were one marvelous body, in our smooth and slippery skin. Even if the frogs did not want us. Even if our joint fates are written, already, in the tainted water, the dark and opulent mud.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

Service Station

You’re beautiful, sister, eat more fruit, said the attendant every time my mother pulled into the 76 off Ashby Avenue. We never knew why. She didn’t ask and he didn’t explain. My brother and I would look at each other sideways in the back seat, eyebrows raised— though lord knows we’d lived in Berkeley long enough. He smiled when he said it, then wiped the windows and pumped the gas. I liked the little ritual. Always the same order of events. Same lack of discussion. Could he sense something? Attune to an absence of vitamin C? Or was it just a kind of flirting— a way of tossing her an apple, a peach? It’s true my mother had a hidden ailment of which she seldom spoke, and true she never thought herself a beauty, since in those days you had to choose between smart and beautiful, and beauty was not the obvious choice for a skinny bookish girl, especially in Barbados. No wonder she became devout, forsaking nearly everything but God and science. And later she suffered at the hands of my father, whom she loved, and who’d somehow lost control of his right fist and his conscience. Whose sister was she, then? Sister of the Early Rise, the Five-O’Clock Commute, the Centrifuge? Sister of Burnt Dreams? But didn’t her savior speak in parables? Isn’t that the language of the holy? Why wouldn’t he come to her like this, with a kind face and dark, grease-smeared arms, to lean over the windshield of her silver Ford sedan, and bring tidings of her unclaimed loveliness, as he filled the car with fuel, and told her— as a brother—to go ahead, partake of the garden, and eat of it.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

Scrub Jays

All morning they’ve been screeching back and forth between the oak tree and the roof, bickering over bits of cat food pinched from the metal bowl by the door. When song was handed out, the lark and nightingale got there first. Who can blame the jays for raiding the robin’s nest—its pale and delicate eggs— for tearing the dark red plums straight from each other’s beaks. Who can blame the ear in its ignorance, for wanting music and failing to hear it?

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

sometimes a theme recurs in your work without your permission. and sometimes it reaches a threshold where you're like. well now i think this is saying something about me against my will. don't know what though

kind of obsessed with the idea of the rest of the gaang leaving Toph and Zuko to watch over some cooking food and when they come back its burned and Katara starts fuming but Toph and Zuko are like “we’ve never stepped inside a kitchen in our lives and only have one eye between us, if anything it’s your fault”