The tumblog of a sci-fa novelist.
I am Italian, goth, working-class, scientophilic, transgenderqueer, and blissfully in love with my husband.
I grew up in the South, and was always hearing about the moonshiners up in the mountains. As a kid, not knowing it was alcohol, and knowing a lot of sad songs with the moon in them, I thought ‘moonshine’ was a metaphor for isolation and depression. (I was a weird kid.)
This song started out as a slightly-different poem, which I wrote a couple of years ago, about how difficult it is to carry on living with things like depression, self-injury and/or hopelessness when one wants to hide negative things about oneself (often foolishly and at one’s own expense) so one don’t hurt other people who need support. The tune and style were heavily influenced by The Mountain Goats; they’re masters of that lyrically desperate/musically chipper combination I favour so much.
Here are the lyrics:
I bottle the poison I weep at night,
Weep from the still in the hills of my mind.
It burns my throat, stings cuts on my hands;
Clear death by the ounce, by the gallon
Rots my insides, rots my insides.
I keep it all in mason jars
Under the bed, safe under the floor.
No one will find it, I tell myself,
No one will look.
But I feel the weight of it,
Quiet and heavy like mud on the riverbed
Fogs my insides, fogs my insides.
One day I will burn this still-house to the ground,
Watch my pain go up in a shock-blue pillar of fire;
Then I will never come here again,
This wood won’t feel the burden of my steps.
But I can’t just stop—god, I wish I could—
I have a run to finish, full of eager mouths
Compliments, good money—and fools are proud.
I bottle the poison, my sweat and blood,
Fresh from the still in the hills of my heart.
It burns my throat, stings cuts on my hands;
Cheat death by the ounce, every gallon
Rots my insides, rots my insides
Rots my insides, rots my insides.
I'm tweeting again.
I always saw twitter as a way to text people in other countries, more than anything else. XD
fyeahhistorymajorheraldicbeast:
So walls were like sleeves, then? I remember coming across the idea that the Ancient Greeks thought sleeves were effeminate too.
Goth Parasol Protectorate. Idk why that was my first thought.
You must go where I can not,
Pangur Ban Pangur Ban,
Nil sa saol seo ach ceo,
Is ni bheimid beo,
ach seal beag gearr.
Pangur Ban Pangur Ban,
Nil sa saol seo ach ceo,
Is ni bheimid beo,
ach seal beag gearr
Literal Translation:
You must go where I can not,
Pangur Ban, Pangur Ban,
There is nothing in this life but mist,
And we are not alive,
but for a little short spell.
Pangur Ban Pangur Ban,
There is nothing in this life but mist,
And we are not alive,
but for a little short spell.
c.1890
Library closes the minute I get off work today. And tomorrow.
LIBRARY CARD
I don’t think it’s really spoilery, but just in case for the last panel, I will just throw this out there so you can’t get mad at me if you think it’s spoilery ; )
Just a doodle idek
Awwwww~. I don’t know what’s more precious - Barton gushing over Tasha, or the facial expressions from him and Loki. xD
SO I WASN’T THE ONLY ONE WHO THOUGHT THIS. GOOD.
~ Correct Social Usage: a Course of Instruction in good Form, Style and Deportment, by Eighteen Distinguished Authors, 1906
Fuck you I eat peas in the most efficient way possible. I WANT GODDAMNED PEAS IN MY GODDAMNED FACE, EIGHTEEN DISTINGUISHED AUTHORS. IN MY FACE.
