Musings of the vaguely philosophic kind.
Look what came in the mail today! There’s a very strong, sweet fruity smell that I could smell even through the shipping box. I think it might be Captain Jack Harkness (appropriate).
Of course I know about these. I just haven’t seen them for a while and just assumed your fantastic fox paintings…
Painting takes too much unjustifiable time/effort :(
is this what you do instead of work??? #secretlyapproves…Maybe. This definitely wasn’t what I did instead of job applications during Thanksgiving, and absolutely is not the only reason I keep a sketchbook with me at university.
I’m coming home
I’m coming home
tell the world I’m coming home
let the rain wash away
all the pain of yesterday
I know my kingdom awaits
and they’ve forgiven my mistakes
I’m coming home
I’m coming home
tell the world I’m coming .. home
Somewhere out there, there’s a crazy man. He’s got two hearts and a blue box that’s bigger on the inside. He looks young, sometimes, but he’s hundreds of years old. And he’ll have stories— stories you wouldn’t believe.
He’ll make you believe in the best of people when it seems like humanity’s at its worst. He’ll show you beauty in the little things, the ugly things, the things that no one else pays attention to. He’ll remind you that you— little, ordinary, plain old you— are as important as the biggest planet in the galaxy. He’ll remind you that there are bad days— days where not everyone lives, days where there’s no right choice— but they don’t make the good days less fantastic.
So if you hear the weird wheezing sound of a time machine with the brakes on, follow it— because it’s full of hope.
On this day set aside for Thanksgiving, I mark twenty years of having lived on this planet. Twenty years is a lot to be thankful for, when you have had the great fortune to have never lacked food or shelter or friendship in all those years.
I raise a proverbial glass to everyone and everything that has made my life a better one this year, and for all the years to come—
to growing up, albeit awkwardly, from soda to vodka; to mashed potatoes and pasta dinners; to being bunk buddies and making terrible decisions; to the city that caught my heart; to that study lounge and nutella on toast at midnight; to the desert; to tea in the day and cheap gin at night; to sticky hot new york summers; to still making me the girl that waited; to saying what I didn’t want to hear so I couldn’t be; to sticking up for me when I’m still in denial; to high-fives and bad selfies; to lazy evenings and crappy takeout; to crappy evenings and bad liquor—
to having too many things to be thankful for, and to always keeping that knowledge in my heart.
In the dull weight of a bland winter night, the harsh white plastic fluorescence of some cheap tacky hot dog shop spills violently onto the sidewalk. It always seems like colours are sharper in the biting cold, like the same wind lacerating your cheeks is the one that cut out the thin tubes of neon above the corner bodega coffee shop. There are too many low buildings here— one storey discount shops and hole-in-the-wall dry cleaners and twenty-four hour delis— and above the small storefronts rusted fire escapes cling precariously to the old stone walls.
Despite the wide sidewalks the streets here are always hard to cross; two-way traffic in this obsessive grid city is almost too much handle. Outside the pools of runaway light the night patrols its territory with full vengeance, like two beasts circling each other with hackles raised and teeth bared, ready to pounce for domination of the street.
That awkward moment when a Midgardian consulting detective sees you for the overshadowed, underappreciated, really-just-wants-to-be-loved little brother you really are.
Bringing this back for my 600th post, because the amount of notes on it is ridiculous. <3.
Start at the mountains. Find a little cliff, pinch its peak between your forefinger and thumb, dig your nails into the bumpy terrain and watch the ridges and valleys uproot themselves, stretching out of proportion. Beneath dull rough shells, between jagged edges, you can see the heart of this misshapen landscape, flawlessly marbled in twisting colours and glossed time. Gently, now— don’t tear this pliant world— pick at the stubborn patches that cling like lichen, peel it back like skin to expose the white blank slate beneath.
Hold these crumbling pieces of once-delicate brushstrokes, the trailing echoes of a brilliant genesis. Admire that speck of white in the red. Scratch off that blue stain that marked a drop too young to let go, that threw itself against these prying hands pulling it away. And let it all fall, this collateral price of magnificent creation.