oh no man that would truly be my worst nightmare no thank you
My handbag is broken, has been for a while. It has two straps that used to meet in a buckle, but the buckle broke and fell off, losing tiny, vital pieces of metal that kept it together when it did, and I haven’t bothered to get it fixed. Instead, now, I tie the two straps together in a kind of shitty bow and I make do. I’ve got most of the buckle, I could take it to a shoemaker and get it fixed in an afternoon, but it’s been eight months, and I haven’t done that. Before it was broken, no one really noticed my handbag, but these days people compliment it all the time. I guess it does have a kind of bohemian quality to it now. Even so, I always laugh and explain it’s broken, and people always nod, unconcerned and say again, “well, it looks cool.”
It’s nice, if a little baffling to hear. To me, my bag looks broken, and the longer it stays broken the more it represents my ongoing failure to get it fixed. It’s a tired and bloated metaphor that many of the things in my life have taken on: the crack I made in my (rented) wall that I cover with a painting, the holes in the pockets of my favourite coat, the safety pin holding up the hem of one of my dresses. All of these things I mean to fix, but never do.
I sometimes read old journal entries and am upset to find that the problems I had five years ago are still the problems I have now. The self-destructive tracks my brain runs on are, it turns out, not a one way railway line. Instead it rattles and cranks over the same old patterns day in day out, rolling into station after station of the same familiar, well-worn problems. It’s hard not to start believing that this means I’ll never change, that I am immovably broken. Sometimes I think that the view from my own head is like the cheap seats, way up the back of the third mezzanine, squinting down at the stage, unable to tell the actors apart. I want to believe I’m improving, I think sometimes, that I am, but it’s hard to tell. Occasionally I find proof; a thought written down years ago that no longer feels familiar, a station that’s fallen off the map, and that feels like progress.
I’ve been seeing a therapist recently. She’s great, I’ve had more success with her than I ever had with the two others I have seen at different times in my life. I find her helpful because she rarely asks me specifics; she’s much more interested in helping me identify and break patterns, so that I can apply that thinking outside of our sessions. I’ve learned a lot about myself, and even though I’m not always able to reroute, I can see the old stations coming now. I can look down at the tracks that got me there, identify landmarks, and maybe one day, I’ll find a detour.
The other day, as I was leaving her office, she complimented my bag. I explained, laughing, that it was broken, and how useless am I that I haven’t got it fixed yet? She frowned at me and simply said, “how is that useless? It works, doesn’t it?”
And she’s right, it does.
Say what you will about Martha Jones, but the way she ended her run as companion was… iconique. With other characters they came up with these dramatic, emotional excuses to write them out of the show, but Martha was just like ‘you’re gross and a danger to me and my family and I look like a clown when I hang out with you, sorry bud, maybe let’s get coffee sometime?’ and just fucking LEFT his ass
some sketches of bri, havent drawn her in a while, miss her
I know I’m desperately late for good omens fanart but look, just cos i was busy doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about them for the last three months. Drawn without reference on a plane but frankly? Not a hardship
a sketch from the san francisco moma today
(lars and the) eel girl
“All fanwork, from fanfic to vids to fanart to podfic, centers the idea that art happens not in isolation but in community. And that is true of the AO3 itself. We’re up here accepting, but only on behalf of literally thousands of volunteers and millions of users, all of whom have come together and built this thriving home for fandom, a nonprofit and non-commercial community space built entirely by volunteer labor and user donations, on the principle that we needed a place of our own that was not out to exploit its users but to serve them. Even if I listed every founder, every builder, every tireless support staff member and translator and tag wrangler, if I named every last donor, all our hard work and contributions would mean nothing without the work of the fan creators who share their work freely with other fans, and the fans who read their stories and view their art and comment and share bookmarks and give kudos to encourage them and nourish the community in their turn. This Hugo will be joining the traveling exhibition that goes to each Worldcon, because it belongs to all of us. I would like to ask that we raise the lights and for all of you who feel a part of our community stand up for a moment and share in this with us.”
— Naomi Novik, Hugo Awards, 2019 (via runawaymarbles)
i got to see the mountain goats live for the first time last night, not only that, i got to see them for free on a beautiful evening on the banks of the east river amongst a whole host of lovely strangers. it’s hard for me to say what this meant to me — i’m not saying i scheduled my trip around this show, but i did significantly alter plans to accommodate it. even so, it felt like a miracle to go to a park on the lower east side and serendipitously, for the band to show up too. i came to the mountain goats later than most, when a friend played ‘linda blair was born innocent’ for me on an eight hour bus ride through spain when i was eighteen — six years ago now. from total bafflement at the boombox albums to manically listening to ‘song for cleomenes’ on repeat during a particularly dark and isolated time in denmark, my relationship with john’s music has been strange, stilted and then quite suddenly, constant. i usually say that when i first listened to the mountain goats i didn’t like them, but that runs contrary to the fact that i kept listening. i cried a lot at last night’s show, and i got to scream “i am a babbling brook” with a few hundred strangers, so it’s fair to say i do, actually, like the mountain goats very much, and probably also fair to say i always have. i hope very much to see them again, (and again and again) but am frankly, still immensely surprised and grateful to have seen them at all. hail satan, etc.
Hi! Mimon is still happening, yes, but after being on hiatus for a while I’ve decided to pop the blog on private for the time being while I revise and rewrite it. I will hopefully be able to give you guys an update soon, but for now it’s on temporary lockdown. Sorry about that!