the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.
three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.
two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.
their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.
one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.
i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.
i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.
and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?
you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.
a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.
someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.
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"Why do you care so much about accidentally leaving people out?" Because I've had friend groups where they were the planets and I was their Pluto.
I've had friend groups where our dynamics revolved around a Sun, with everyone vying for their attention if only to bask in their light for a mere moment. Where our thinly strung bonds collapsed the second our Sun left.
I've had friend groups where they bonded as Saturn's rings, finding solace in their shared shortcomings while isolating those more talented than them.
But I've also had friend groups where we bond as Neptune and Uranus—so similar we could be known as twins. Friend groups like Venus and Earth: so awfully different, yet it was those differences that kept us together.
And I would rather create a social system like the latter than the former.
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"Hey, baby," Tommy's voice carries through the apartment, "have you seen my shirt?"
Buck's standing in Tommy's bedroom, pulling said shirt over his head and ready to reply that yes, he has in fact seen his shirt and no, Tommy can't have it because Buck's already wearing it, when he pauses. Baby. That's- that's new.
It's just a word. It shouldn't make Buck's heart speed up or fill his belly with far too many butterflies for it to count as healthy.
Baby.
He closes his eyes and lets the word, that tiny little four letter word, echoe in his head. The memory of Tommy's voice repeating it over and over again, until it eventually ends up in Buck's own mouth before falling out as nothing more than a soft whisper.
"Are you okay?"
Buck blinks his eyes open, mouth still open around the word, and when he is met with a half-naked Tommy who is looking at him with a bemused expression, he all but melts.
"You, uh, you called me baby." Buck offers, as if that's an answer to Tommy's question. Maybe it is. "You've never- you haven't called me that before."
Tommy's face softens at that, his eyes dropping down to Buck's chest before finding his eyes again, eyes sparkling. He steps closer, until he can reach out and grip Buck's waist, the warmth of his hands noticeable even through two layers of fabric. Buck's own hands find their way to Tommy's arms, slowly sliding up until they rest at the soft curve of his neck, thumbs barely brushing the underside of his jaw.
"Well, you are my baby," Tommy says then, matter of factly, gently pulling Buck closer. "Aren't you?"
"Y-yeah?" Buck swallows, eyes dropping down to Tommy's lips for a moment. "I- yeah, I-I am?"
"You are."
Tommy just... looks at him, eyes so incredibly fond that Buck can barely breathe with it, before leaning in to press a soft kiss onto Buck's lips. He doesn't protest too much or at all, actually, when Buck immediately deepens it. Eventually, though, Tommy pulls away, panting just enough for Buck to feel a bit proud in a I did that to him kind of way.
"I'm really your baby, huh."
"Very much so," Tommy hums, one hand leaving Buck's waist to over his belly, up his chest, and then down again. Buck wonders, for a moment, if they're going to be late for work, which- he wouldn't be opposed to that. But Tommy simply pinches the loose fabric of the sweater, pulls at it a little, and says, "you're a thief, too."
Buck opens his mouth to protest, but Tommy just gives him a look then, as if to say try me. A smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth, though, and his free hand gives Buck's waist a small squeeze.
"I mean," Buck starts, heart pounding in his chest. "What's yours is mine, right, babe?"
"Babe, huh?"
"Darling?" Buck tries, knows he probably looks like a fool from how big he's grinning. "Sugarbuns? Pookie? Hot stuff?"
Tommy kisses him then, and Buck lets himself get lost in it again. When one of his hands slips down from Tommy's neck, Tommy's quick to reach up and take hold of it, pressing it against his own chest. He presses another kiss onto Buck's lips, hot and searing, as if he's pouring his entire being into it. When he breaks away, he doesn't go far, his forehead resting against Buck's. They stand like that for a moment, breathing each other in.
"You're still a thief, though," Tommy says eventually, voice low and rough, as he taps his fingertip against the back of Buck's hand where it rests just above his heart, and Buck wonders of Tommy's still talking about the shirt when he whispers, "you can keep it."
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