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sometimes the knowledge you gain on twitter is both blessed and cursed

also his likes are sending me:

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just seen someone criticize the divine comedy by saying that it's not relatable which is of course incommensurably stupid because relatability should never be the only criterion through which one can judge the validity and quality of a piece of work &c but also. just because you tedious unimaginative losers have never been on a journey to hell and purgatory with your long dead favorite writer doesn't mean others haven't. happened to me

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the "came back wrong" trope except like... they didnt. like this mad scientists wife died, and so he studied necromancy, brought her back, and she came back and it all worked. like she came back exactly the same as she was before with literally no difference. but the scientist guy is like "oh no... what have i done.... shes Different now!!!! she came back Wrong!!!!" and shes just like. chilling. reading a book. cooking dinner. shes just so so normal but in the guys mind hes like "oh shes soooo weird" but shes just normal

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I work at a movie theater.

And personally? To be in the tickets booth, and see young girls, teenagers, adult women, coming in to see Barbie,

the most highlighter pink outfits, some of them coming in with the dolls they’re dressed as, laughing to each other, cheering for each other,

to see the men they’re coming to see it with, dressed in pink, cheering them on, taking their pictures with smiles and cheers in the lobby at the photo op

touches something so deep in me

I can’t say any nuances of the movie that haven’t already been said, but like, fuck man, love is so deep and so kind and to be able to see glimpses of it from behind my little ticket desk makes me a little less nihilistic.

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“on the train we swapped seats, you wanted the window and i wanted to look at you”

Mahmoud Darwish

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for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.

i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.

in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.

the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.

i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.

i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.

i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.

the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.

when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.

we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.

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i don’t care about straight actors playing queer people in media all i care about is if theyre going to put their whole pussy into it. tom hardy of course ive had gay sex im an actor. keanu reeves and river phoenix going to gay clubs in seattle and making out in public. heath ledger almost breaking jake gyllenhal’s nose because he kissed him too hard. when will actors do this again. 

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Barnard Bulletin, New York, December 20, 1935

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Knowing that “punk” was basically a synonym for “faggot” has me fucked up. Imagine the alternate timeline where they switched places and we have genres like “faggot rock” and “cyberfaggot”.

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So John met Adam for the first time when he was 12. That would be in 2002, basically around the same time Sam left for stanford.

Dean lost Sam to college and lost his dad to another family at the same time. He was completely alone.

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It's cold, and he shivers in his leather jacket. The sound of his clattering teeth echoes inside the car. His bone-deep tiredness has nothing to do with physical exhaustion, it comes from deep within and it doesn't go away no matter how much he sleeps. He's just so tired. Of himself. Of being alone. Of his whole goddamn life. He's a wreck and doesn't have the energy to care.

The human body can handle only so much pain before the heart stops. Is it the same with the soul? How much pain can the soul manage before it shatters into a million pieces? And is it possible to die from a broken soul? Dean is not even sure he has a soul. Maybe it burned away in the fire and left him a burnt-out shell of what he was supposed to be.

- Stanford era Dean excerpt by Sana @sobernatural

~

for tori @purgatorybfs’ birthday celebration ✨

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in my bloody valentine, dean wasn’t immune to famine. he wasn’t resisting any hunger. he certainly wasnt already dead. dean was hungering– for hunger. that’s what he was addicted to, that’s what he could let himself have. dean who grew up starving himself so sam could eat instead, who grew up feeling prouder of an empty stomach than a full one, because it meant he had done right by sam, he had taken care of sam. dean who kept himself from romantic relationships, from staying in one place, from voicing his feelings, from getting what he wanted. dean who conditioned himself to think that [jenny holzer voice] starvation is nature’s way. or rather, starvation is dean’s way. starvation means dean is doing his job right. because the people dean loves can be full, they can have what they want– but if dean gets what he wants, it means he’s been weak. he’s gone soft. dean can’t stop himself from wanting, but he can stop himself from having. and so when famine comes to town, dean stays out of the bars. dean pushes away his dinner. he gorges himself by hungering, not by satiating. he defers and he denies, and so the wanting grows. it’s a feedback loop that depends on repression. but that’s fine. that’s good. that means dean has control. that means dean is doing the right thing. hunger makes dean sharp, like the edge of a knife. hunger is right.

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katniss is so deancoded. dean would absolutely volunteer for sam assuming he’d die

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Starry

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I live for books that heavily radiate “how long can you keep listening to this...and not help me?"

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I could have parented him.... I could have made sure he was ok...... I could have.... I could have sent him to a waldorf school.... he didn't deserve it