Latest Posts by libraryidealist - Page 3

please can people reply to this or send asks and tell me things that make them happy? i know it sounds really silly but ive been deeply depressed for over a month now and things aren’t getting better and it would be nice to hear what makes other people happy or smile or what keeps you going or motivates you

truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.

I don’t think I’m being a person correctly.

if there’s one wisdom i can leave you with its smoke weed, eat local, and fuck often

my husband was at a bar with friends tonight and apparently he was telling the regulars about how we met because they didn't believe in real life meetcutes and he needed them to know it's possible 😭

I love soulmates but also this-

obsessed with mass market paperbacks. their pleasing rectangular proportions. how they fit badly in a hoodie pocket so you can drag them around everywhere with you like a temporary little buddy. the way they fit in your hand because they're MADE for human hands and not as bookshelf decoration. the way the pages feel when you riffle them gently with your thumb. How pristine and crisp they look when you get them and how creased and folded they look when you're done, even if you try to be nice to them. how that wear is okay, how that's correct actually, because they're made with the philosophy that books aren't meant to be PRETTY, they're meant to be read. that little ripple new ones get on the left side from where you hold them when you're reading, the way the ripple only goes as far as you've read, because u change stories by reading as they are changing you. how you can find thousands of these creased and folded and loved little dudes in every thrift store and used book shop and neighborhood library and you can instantly see the ones that someone carried around in a backpack for weeks or read to pieces or gave up on halfway through because they wear being read like fresh snow wears footprints. I love these poorly made, subpar little rectangles so much. truly the people's books.

“I shall never forget the occasion when I was visiting a school as a writer and the whole place suddenly fell into an uproar because the school tomboy - a most splendid Britomart of a girl - had beaten up the school bully. Everything stopped in the staffroom while the teachers debated what to do. They wanted to give the tomboy a prize, but decided reluctantly that they had better punish her and the bully too. They knew that if, as a child, you do pluck up courage to hit the bully, it is an act of true heroism - as great as that of Beowulf in his old age. I remember passing the tomboy, sitting in her special place of punishment opposite the bully. She was blazing with her deed, as if she had actually been touched by a god. And I thought that this confirmed all my theories: a child in her position is open to any heroic myth I care to use; she is inward with folktales; she would feel the force of any magical or divine intervention.”

— Diana Wynne Jones (via joeyvermeil)

my aunt used to be a beauty pageant kid. had long, beautiful red hair with a curl pattern that made hairdressers jealous. her mother would pay people lots of money to spend hours styling my aunt's hair

predictably, as a young adult, my aunt cut all of her hair off. buzzed down to the scalp. she still keeps it pretty short- long enough for curls to develop, but only on the top of her head. she says she can't stand the feeling of her hair touching her ears or neck.

recently she's started collecting and styling wigs. she'll even wear them, occasionally, to a fancy event or if she just doesn't want to be bothered by distant family when she goes shopping. and she spends hours styling these wigs, even though she doesn't use them all that often.

i asked her about it. she said that sometimes, growth looks a lot like regression with a twist. that she's reclaiming something she enjoyed as a kid, and could have enjoyed more. she said she's practicing having agency, and that it's a skill that doesn't come very naturally for her. having agency, i mean. she's really good at styling wigs.

People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.

— Iris Murdoch, A Fairly Honourable Defeat” (Chatto & Windus in 1970) (via Thoughts)

What I love about theater — something one cannot get with movies — is the singularity of the experience and the absence of a final product. The "same" play can never be performed twice. Even if the actors follow the script word for word, letter by letter — even if they enter and exit the stage at precisely the same moment as before — a single breath taken differently will alter the performance.

And what about the audience? You can’t expect to have the same audience for different performances of the "same" play, and you certainly can’t expect everyone to behave exactly as they did in a previous one. A cough, a whisper, or even the disruptive ring of a phone — all of these ripple through the space, shaping not only the audience’s experience, but also the actors’ performance itself. The theater is an exchange, a living, breathing dialogue between those who perform and those who witness. As such, even if you watch the “same” play five times, you are, in truth, watching five distinct performances — five unique creations that will never exist again.

This singularity is not the only wonder of theater. There is also its lack of a fixed, final product. Each play leaves an impression, an aftertaste, a mark, so to speak, on the spectator, but that’s all you are left with. With cinema, the final product is the movie. With theater, there is no such thing. With plays, every minute is the product of itself. Its finality lies in its continuity.

Of course, some might argue that this notion collapses once a performance is recorded. But trying to record a theatrical performance is a futile pursuit; it’s like attempting to capture the moon and its light with an average phone camera. The essence slips through your grasp. The beauty of theater is that every second counts. There is no final creation because each second is a creation, constantly metamorphosing into the next, and the next, until the whole experience dissolves into memory, an aftertaste, a mark. The beauty of theater lies in its immediacy. Every second matters, for every second is a creation in its own right, an act of becoming that dissolves as it unfolds. In this way, theater mirrors life itself.

Both theater and life resist finality. Their "product" is their continuity. This is why theater so often serves as a metaphor for life. Both in theater and in life, every second matters because, at the end of it all, there is no final product. In the end, all that remains is a memory, an aftertaste, a mark left on those we have touched.

Man, don’t I love theater!

musings on theater

Transfiguration's gonna come for me at last And I will burn hotter than the sun

Save me warm toned lit windows of tenement blocks on a winters evening save me

truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.

weird unprompted opinion but i think out of all the storytelling mediums.....theatre best portrays loneliness

Desperately needed to have this on my blog

Hi. I finally finished the Spirk comic set to Johnny Cash's Hurt I have been working on for a month. If you want to, please enjoy and leave some nice words :) thank you.

CW for: blood, self-harm, spoilers for anything TOS, death

HURT

There is a part 2! Please consider reblogging and reading the whole comic :)

Here's the one piece of uni advice I'll ever give: enjoy something about everything you do. There's gotta be one aspect, one Thing you like. Make it. Create it. I myself really enjoy writing with my fountain pen. It's smooth and feels liquid as I go. Really improves this note-taking business. You might like listening to very specific music as you walk to lecture. Buy a fancy lipstick. Wear it to seminars. Bam. Better mood. Paint your nails before a presentation. Wear those uber-comfortable socks you have. Find nice background vibes. Remove layers of hate from something hateable.

loré pemberton

fish song

Anne of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery feat: Spring Flowers by Albert Émile Artigue

advice from dad

So, my Dad is a 73-year-old Mexican man who has lived here since he was 16. He was in Watts during the riots in 1965; in 1992, when I was in LA, as soon as the Rodney King verdict was announced, he called me, told me what was coming, told me how to stay safe. He has survived horrible living conditions, being kidnapped, physical abuse, prejudice, discrimination. He learned English, got his green card, pays his taxes, works hard, and has three daughters. 

I thought he would be devastated today.

But he wasn’t.

He saw that I was sad and angry, and he asked me why, pretending he had no idea. I almost started crying. And then he said, “no se me chicopale.” 

It means, don’t lose heart. Don’t give in to despair.

I asked him why he wasn’t upset.

He said, basically, “The world has always been this way. There are always people who are afraid, who are racist, who are awful. This is not new. And it will never go away. He won. We can’t do anything about that. All we can do is what we can do. Fight for what matters to us. Take care of each other. And don’t lose heart. And here, I got these unsalted cashews for you and a bag of jamaica drink mix and can you show me how to use the new washing machine because it’s not working.”

And, for reasons I can’t articulate, I feel a little better. 

I love this picture so much! Post it whenever I come across it.

i don’t know. i’m barely a person. i just want to be kind and hold someone’s hand. eat an ice cream cone. stare at the lake. feel the sun on my skin. lay in the grass. run through a sprinkler. it’s so easy to forget life is supposed to feel like a deep breath and not a gasp

I often find myself dreaming of my future house. The windows are open, the floor is clean, and dinner is made while music sings. I will have shed the resistant apathy of this life and the flowers of spring will have bloomed through the barren winter of my soul.

But today, I only dream.

Imagine sucking so much as a fellow politician that the guy known for having No Backbone™ snaps and develops one but specifically for roasting you on live television

YOU CAN MAKE THE WORLD A KINDER PLACE BY BEING KIND! THAT’S ALL IT TAKES!!