My 90yr Old Irish Catholic Grandpa Doesn’t Miss With My Gender. He’s Never Gotten My Name Wrong,

i. angels must think that love is one sided. angels do not understand love like we do, their languages are too dissimilar from our own. how can something with so many eyes only see forward. i think they like that we try, though. i mean, we do send them little gifts. poems and prayers and lonely mornings. they send us back coffee and cupcakes and a little hope under our tongue. in this way, we are both parts of the universe, trying to care for each other.

ii. i tell my dad i think angels are probably made from flowers. there's an angel in charge of every petal. angels are in toast. angels are in gasoline; it's why they burn with holy fire and why motor oil smells so good.

iii. to my dog i am an angel. he tells me he loves me in the language we have both decided is our code - he presses his head against mine, and we both sigh. i cannot love like an animal, which would be better for me - the unname love, without speech.

iv. i think my angel is plucking her feathers from stress. it must be very hard, to love something that is intent on destroying itself.

v. sometimes it is enough to love something, i mean. pressing our fingers to the mirror and breathing our little lives into the fog. today is a hard one, though. maybe tomorrow you and i can be an angel for the bird outside, and watch it take flight. we'll both know we love it, in our own private language - and give our heart into it. i'll be the angel of daybreak. you can be the angel of dawn. we can both collect the spray of the world and spin it into yarn.

answer some questions and I’ll tell you what kind of straight person you would be

Dmitry Shostakovich (1906–1975)

Shostakovich’s contemporaries do not recall seeing him working, at least not in the traditional sense. The Russian composer was able to conceptualize a new work entirely in his head, and then write it down with extreme rapidity—if uninterrupted, he could average twenty or thirty pages of score a day, making virtually no corrections as he went.

But this feat was apparently preceded by hours or days of mental composition—during which he “appeared to be a man of great inner tensions,” the musicologist Alexei Ikonnikov observed, “with his continually moving, ‘speaking’ hands, which were never at rest.”

Shostakovich himself was afraid that perhaps he worked too fast. “I worry about the lightning speed with which I compose,” he confessed in a letter to a friend. Undoubtedly this is bad. One shouldn’t compose as quickly as I do. Composition is a serious process, and in the words of a ballerina friend of mine, “You can’t keep going at a gallop.” I compose with diabolical speed and can’t stop myself.… It is exhausting, rather unpleasant, and at the end of the day you lack any confidence in the result. But I can’t rid myself of the bad habit.

- From Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey

#dailyrituals #inktober #shostakovich @masoncurrey

Me when I remember something I said ages ago that was wrong or my values no longer align with

A proper salad consists of three divine components:

ingredience (vegitable of all kin)

indulgence (dressing, oil, salt, croutons, cheese, etc)

violence (chopp and shred that shit asunder)

Throwing Children by Ross Gay

Last Week Tonight, March 16, 2022

oh to have nothing to your name but a rented apartment, and still be happy because you're with the one you love and you get to build a life with them.

[ID: two gifs of Mustafa and Sharjeena sitting in their new apartment. Mustafa is sitting against the wall with his knees pulled up, elbows resting on them as his hands clasp together loosely in the front. Sharjeena is sitting next to him, her cheek pillowed on Mustafa's arm as he watches her with a fond gaze. /end ID]

Hey. Why isn’t the moon landing a national holiday in the US. Isn’t that fucked up? Does anyone else think that’s absurd?

pink in the night