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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This post is your reminder that you are not obligated to blog about current events.
Things are bad. Really bad. Do not let people guilt trip you into tormenting yourself even further over the fact that things are bad. Doomscrolling is not activism.
If you're just on tumblr to blorbopost or reblog pretty pictures, you are not harming people by inaction.
You are not a bad person for not dedicating every aspect of your life and leisure space to whatever disgusting mask-off attack on human life and dignity some government has decided to enact.
Take action where you can, but don't confuse doomscrolling and digital self harm for action.
If you need to lose yourself in blorboposting, go for it.
If you need to log off for the day, whether it's to take irl action or to protect what little sanity any of us have left over the past 7 years, then by all means, do.
Morale is important. Hope is important. Small joys keep us from burning out completely in times like this. Do not let any "if you don't reblog this I'm judging you" guilt trip convince you otherwise.
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reminder to writers/self
its ok to write shitty poems
its ok to write shitty song lyrics
its ok to write shitty stories
its ok to be unoriginal
its ok to reuse a line from something else you wrote
its ok to reference other works
its ok to be proud of shitty writing
its ok to be proud of great writing
its ok to be proud in general
its ok to not use overcomplicated intricate wording in writing
its ok to write about dumb shit
its ok to write about fictional events
its ok to write something awesome but have one weak line you cant really fix
its ok to write something terrible but have one amazing line that doesn't fit
its ok to write about emotions you don't really grasp
its ok to write
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my favorite part abt sexting is when my partner start horny wordvomiting, like throwing every keyword from like 5 different kinks into their messages because the Big Horny is making their brain melt
like its genuinely so hot seeing their messages get all raw like that, pulling from everything that makes them horny even if it barely makes sense cuz they're feeling so good and just want more
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and lemme touch y’all’s hand when I say this…when I say you are not special, I mean that. Meaning I don’t write or reblog with ur feelings in mind. This is my blog where every insane, intrusive and inappropriate thought can come spewing out at any given moment. Where my stories are a love letter to myself and the other blk women I write for. I am not a machine meant to constantly pump fics out for your enjoyment. I am a regular girl who uses this as my lil safe space of the hellscape we call the internet. Some of y’all got the game fucked up in thinking that being a writer is who we are and not just something we do. If you don’t like the way I or someone else uses this space, then leave the same way you came. I suffer from ADHD burnout horribly and I may go for days at a time without posting actual work bc my brain is in a fog and I can’t focus. When it begins to feel like a chore, I back out for a few days and if that’s not acceptable, then I truly don’t know what to tell you. Not apologizing for that shit.
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Astarion: *rolling dice sound* Hm. That looks worth checking out.
me: *blind as a bat, had a menu open, frantically searching* WHAT DO YOUR ELF EYES SEE?
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its important to analyze why you feel comfortable or uncomfortable sometimes. if you actually sit back and think about these things you can often uncover prejudices that you subconsciously hold on to.
for example, a someone might say they "get bad vibes from lesbians" and leave it at that. if they sat down and thought about why they feel that way, they would likely uncover that these "bad vibes" are actually their own lesbiphobic ideas projected onto other people.
you see the same kind of phenomenon when a white person says they "get bad vibes" from a group of POC. being vague about how and why you feel the way that you do because deep down youre afraid of realizing that you are the intolerant asshole instead of the innocent victim you act like you are.
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okay sometimes.... sometimes I'm not the brightest..... I spent so much time these past days trying to rack my brain to find some plausible reason for why Wille would be at a club and it not be a huge deal for this one shot I'm working on and I was like "oh I need to make it exclusive but also not /too/ exclusive" and "do I need to explain how they vet the place?" and many many many more pointless thoughts because uh.
I forgot that that mf literally went to a normal-ass club and got into a fight there. In the first episode. I forgot the whole-ass fucking starting point of the entire show.......
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