oh, to be in love with life. oh, to be in love with love.
[angels in america, tony kushner || rainer maria rilke || jojo rabbit, dir. taika waititi || the thing is, ellen bass || joseph campbell || enough, ellen bass || andrew garfield || agatha christie || fleabag, phoebe waller-bridge || the deepest sighs, the frankest of shadows, gang of youths || the heart is a muscle, gang of youths || andrea gibson]
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In Memoriam: the great outsider queer Swiss photographer and committed aficionado of firm male flesh Karlheinz Weinberger (10 June 1921 – 10 December 2006) died on this day. He specialized in documenting Elvis-worshiping rockabilly and motorcycle gang subcultures in the sixties and seventies, taking smoldering homoerotic portraits of sullen leather-clad thugs posed like defiant peacocks. It was reading John Waters’ voluble praise that turned me on to Weinberger’s work in the first place, and I am eternally grateful. One regret: I wish I’d snapped up the 2011 coffee table book Rebel Youth when it first came out. It’s slipped out of print since and copies now go for over £100 on eBay! Pictured: portrait of a young greaser punk by Karlheinz Weinberger, 1962.
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(through gritted teeth) life is a worthy opponent . . . life is a worthy opponent . . . life is a worthy opponent . . .
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okay can we talk about 'achilles come down' by gang of youths
it sounds like it's from patroclus' perspective. firstly the music itself is godlike. it is so beautiful that it makes me want to cry in itself. and then the lyrics come along and punch me in the throat, then kiss me while i'm wheezing
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you're scaring us and all of us, some of us love you
achilles, it's not much but there's proof
The boat is moving before he can fully process it.
He’s moving before he can fully process it.
(They can’t leave without him.)
His legs move on their own desperate accord, and he’s only vaguely aware of two pairs of hands, one pair gripping each arm and stopping him in his tracks.
“Roier!”
“Roier, stop it!”
He struggles. Fights for his life.
(His life isn’t on the boat.)
(They can’t leave without him.)
Voices plea, but he can barely hear them over the sound of someone else yelling.
(“No! No, no, no! Cellbo! Cellbo!”)
He’s yanked back, away from the railing.
(“Cellbit! Cellbit!”)
It’s him yelling, he realizes, as his legs give out. The hands can’t catch him and he falls to the deck, communicator clattering out of reach.
Everything is blurry. So blurry. Fuzzy. He thinks he's crying. Thinks he can feel hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
But it's hard to think. Hard to hear. Hard to see. His voice goes hoarse. It cracks, breaks. His hands curl into fists in his lap as he hunches over himself.
"Mi esposo..!"
Someone crouches beside him. Maybe two people. He isn't sure. There's a hand on his back, one on his shoulder. They're saying something, but it sounds like it's underwater.
(He feels like he's underwater. Like he's drowning.)
(They're leaving without him.)
"Mi amor..."
today, of all days, see
how the most dangerous thing is to love
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