I wish I could favorite things a hundred times but instead I will do it once and then reblog it while crying.

ellievsbear
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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shark vs the universe
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Game of Thrones Daily
I'd rather be in outer space šø
YOU ARE THE REASON
$LAYYYTER

ā
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

if i look back, i am lost
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@coracias
I wish I could favorite things a hundred times but instead I will do it once and then reblog it while crying.

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[Text ID: Andrew Kozma.
Song of the insensible.
The world is an oyster, and I'm the grit. These are the boots my brother died in.
This city is a tongue, and I'm the bad taste. I'm the cicada inside the jaundiced pre-storm light.
Hello? You sent this to the wrong address. My brother is still alive. Still dead. Was brought back
with a lazarus shot and a slap to the face. I am the leaf litter, the headless roach.
I can walk between raindrops. I can be insensible. When visibility's poor, I am the blur on the horizon.
If my brother's dead, I am not alive. If I'm alive, my brother can't be dead.
No one owns the boots. The boots own no one. /End ID]
published in issue 72 of rogue agent journal
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZTdQuxw52/
I think I found my new favorite rabbit hole. This voice actor does Shakespeare scenes in a southern accent and I need to see the whole damn play. Absolutely beautiful
if you're not from the us american south, there's some amazing nuances to this you may have missed. i can't really describe all of them, because i've lived here my whole life and a lot of the body language is sort of a native tongue thing. the body language is its own language, and i am not so great at teaching language. i do know i instinctively sucked on my lower teeth at the same time as he did, and when he scratched the side of his face, i was ready to take up fucking arms with him.
but y'all. the way he said "brutus is an honourable man" - each and every time it changed just a little. it was the full condemnation Shakespeare wanted it to be. it started off slightly mock sincere. barely trying to cover the sarcasm. by the end...it wasn't a threat, it was a promise.
christ, he's good.
the eliding of āyou allā to āyāallā while still maintaining 2 syllables is a deliberate and brilliant act of violence. ābear with meā said exactly like iāve heard it at every funeral. the choices of breaking and re-establishing of eye contact. the balance of rehearsed and improvised tone. A+++ get this man a hollywood contract.
Get this man a starring role as Marc Antony in a southern adaptation of this show PLEASE.
This man is fantastic. š
The thing that just destroys me about this, though -- we think of Shakespearean language as being high-cultured, and intellectual, and somewhat inaccessible. And I know people think of Southerners as being ill-educated (which...let's be fair, most are, but not the way it's said). But that whole speech, unaltered, is so authentically Southern. And the thing is: Leaning into that language really amps the mood, in metalanguage. I'm not really sure how to explain it except... like... "Thrice" is not a word you hear in common speech...unless you're in the South and someone is trying to Make A Fucking Point.
Anyway. This was amazing and I want a revival of Shakespeare As Southern Gothic.
One of the lovely things about this, and one of the reasons it works so well, is that from what we can piece together of how Shakespeare was originally pronounced, it leans more towards an American southern accent than it does towards a modern British RP.
In addition, in the evolution of the English language in america, the south has retained many of the words, expressions, and cadences from the Renaissance/Elizabethan English spoken by the original British colonists.
One of the biggest examples of this is that the south still uses āO!ā/āOh!ā In sentences, especially in multi-tone and multi-syllable varieties. Weāve lost that in other parts of the country (except in some specific pocket communities). But in the south on the whole? Still there. People in California or Chicago donāt generally say things like āwhy, oh why?ā Or āoh bless your heartā or āOh! Now why you gotta do a thing like that?!ā But people from the south still do.
I teach, direct, and dramaturg Shakespeare for a living. When people are struggling with the āheightenedā language, especially in āOā heavy plays like R&J and Hamlet, a frequent exercise I have them do is to run the scene once in a southern accent. You wouldnāt believe the way it opens them up and gives their contemporary brains an insight into ways to use that language without it being stiff and fake. Do the Balcony scene in a southern accent- youāll never see it the same way again.
This guy is also doing two things that are absolutely spot-on for this speech:
First, heās using the rhetorical figures Shakespeare gave him! The repetition of āambitionā and āBrutus is an honorable manā, the logos with which he presents his argument, the use of juxtaposition and antitheses (āpoor have cried/caesar hath weptā, etc). You would not believe how many RADA/Carnegie/LAMDA/Yale trained actors blow past those, and how much of my career I spend pointing it out and making them put it back in.
Second, heās playing the situation of the speech and character exactly right. This speech is hard not just because itās famous, but because linguistically and rhetorically itās a better speech than Brutusā speech and in the context of the play, Brutus is the one who is considered a great orator. Brutusā speech is fiery passion and grandstanding, working the crowd, etc. Anthony is not a man of speeches (āI am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt manā) His toastmaster skills are not what Brutusā are, but he speaks from his heart (his turn into verse in this scene from Brutusā prose is brilliant) and lays out such a reasonable, logical argument that the people are moved anyway. I completely believe that in this guyās performance. A plain, blunt, honest speaker. Exactly what Anthony should be.
TLDR: Shakespeare is my job and this is 100% a good take on this speech.
definitely one of the challenges I have with reading Shakespeare is that it sounds so weird to me. āThe good is oft interrād with their bonesā?? Who talks like that?
Well,,, rednecks. Despite being Elizabethan English, none of this is really out of character for a man with that accent; southern american English has retained not only (I am told) the accent of Shakespeare, and the āOh!ā speech patterns, but also so many of the little linguistic patterns: parenthetic repetition (āso are they all - all honorable menā), speaking formally when deeply emotional, getting more and more sarcastic and passive-aggressive as time goes on, etc.
Look, itās spring. And last yearās loose dust has turned into this soft willingness. The wind-flowers have come up trembling, slowly the brackens are up-lifting their curvaceous and pale bodies. The thrushes have come home, none less than filled with mystery, sorrow, happiness, music, ambition. And I am walking out into all of this with nowhere to go and no task undertaken but to turn the pages of this beautiful world over and over, in the world of my mind. * * * Therefore, dark past, Iām about to do it. Iām about to forgive you for everything.
Mary Oliver, A SettlementĀ (via yesyes)
White-throated Sparrow
by Nancy Eimers
Made by trees tonight, under the care of invisibility, l am trying to ask my heart, oh why so knotted up? I hear that it is late and Canada is sweet and still so many days away, though it silvers now and then in marsh grass and the leaves. Darkening present, it is so beautiful to be out walking past blackbirds sailing to nowhere on their stalks, silver thread of a song about to be pulled through the eye of a needle if only I stay out here until itās dark enough.

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The Wife of Llew
And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring: "Come now and let us make a wife for Llew." And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew, And in a shadow made a magic ring: They took the violet and the meadow-sweet To form her pretty face, and for her feet They built a mound of daisies on a wing, And for her voice they made a linnet sing In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth. And over all they chanted twenty hours. And Llew came singing from the azure south And bore away his wife of birds and flowers.
-Francis Ledwidge
The Task
It is a simple garment, this slipped-on world. We wake into it dailyāopen eyes, braid hairā a robe unfurled in rose-silk flowering, then laid bare.
And yes, it is a simple enough task weāve taken on, though also vast: from dusk to dawn, from dawn to dusk, to praise, and not be blinded by the praising. To lie like a cat in hot sun, fur fully blazing, and dream the mouse; and to keep too the mouseās patient, waking watch within the deep rooms of the house, where the leaf-flocked sunlight never reaches, but the earth still blooms.
-Jane Hirshfield
The light has changed; middle C is tuned darker now. And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed. ā
This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring. The light of autumn: you will not be spared.
The songs have changed; the unspeakable has entered them.
This is the light of autumn, not the light that says I am reborn.
Not the spring dawn: I strained, I suffered, I was delivered. This is the present, an allegory of waste.
So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate: the ideal burns in you like a fever. Or not like a fever, like a second heart.
The songs have changed, but really they are still quite beautiful. They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind. They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.
And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly in anticipation of silence. The ear gets used to them. The eye gets used to disappearances.
You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.
A wind has come and gone, taking apart the mind; it has left in its wake a strange lucidity.
How privileged you are, to be passionately clinging to what you love; the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.
Maestoso, doloroso:
This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us. Surely it is a privilege to approach the end still believing in something.
- Louise Glück, October
Patterns
āOne Season,ā Tony Hoagland
That was the summer my best friend called me a faggot on the telephone, hung up, and vanished from the earth,
a normal occurance in this country where we change our lives with the swiftness of hysterical finality
of dividing cells. That month the rain refused to fall, and fire engines streaked back and forth crosstown
towards smoke-filled residential zones where people stood around outside, drank beer and watched their neighbors houses burn.
It was a bad time to be affected by nearly anything, especially anything as dangerous
as loving a man, if you happened to be a man yourself, ashamed and unable to explain how your feelings could be torn apart
by something ritual and understated as friendship between males. Probably I talked too loud that year
and thought an extra minute before I crossed my legs; probably I chose a girl I didnāt care about
and took her everywhere, knowing I would dump her in the fall as part of evening the score,
part of practicing the scorn it was clear I was going to need to get across this planet
of violent emotional addition and subtraction. Looking back, I can see that I came through
in the spastic, furtive, half-alive manner of accident survivors. Fuck anyone who says I could have done it
differently. Though now I find myself returning to the scene as if the pain I fled
were the only place that I had left to go; as if my love, whatever kind it was, or is, were still trapped beneath the wreckage
of that year, and I was one of those angry firemen having to go back into the burning house; climbing a ladder
through the heavy smoke and acrid smell of my own feelings, as if they were the only goddamn thing worth living for.

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Monet Refuses the Operation, by Lisel Mueller
Doctor, you say that there are no haloes around the streetlights in Paris and what I see is an aberration caused by old age, an affliction. I tell you it has taken me all my life to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels, to soften and blur and finally banish the edges you regret I donāt see, to learn that the line I called the horizon does not exist and sky and water, so long apart, are the same state of being. Fifty-four years before I could see Rouen cathedral is built of parallel shafts of sun, and now you want to restore my youthful errors: fixed notions of top and bottom, the illusion of three-dimensional space, wisteria separate from the bridge it covers. What can I say to convince you the Houses of Parliament dissolve night after night to become the fluid dream of the Thames? I will not return to a universe of objects that donāt know each other, as if islands were not the lost children of one great continent.Ā The world is flux, and light becomes what it touches, becomes water, lilies on water, above and below water, becomes lilac and mauve and yellow and white and cerulean lamps, small fists passing sunlight so quickly to one another that it would take long, streaming hair inside my brush to catch it. To paint the speed of light! Our weighted shapes, these verticals, burn to mix with air and changes our bones, skin, clothes to gases.Ā Doctor, if only you could see how heaven pulls earth into its arms and how infinitely the heart expands to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
Introduction to the Body in Fairy Tales by Jeannine Hall Gailey
New Year
Blue January light, cold, scoured, clear. From the Sandia foothills looking down and back to where I came from, and the town spread out below, then back to the past year,
or three or more years carrying this load, how do I feel unburdened: free and light? Unanchored, dizzy, my precarious tight- rope lowered to a mere terrestrial road?Ā
The blank new month requires divination. Sword, wand, ship, sandal: at the Flying Star (we talk our way along; improvisation), the cards laid out spell struggle, choice, and pain; also a white horse champing in a green meadow; a maiden moving down a long dark stair.
-Rachel Hadas
The Task
It is a simple garment, this slipped-on world. We wake into it dailyāopen eyes, braid hairā a robe unfurled in rose-silk flowering, then laid bare.
And yes, it is a simple enough task weāve taken on, though also vast: from dusk to dawn, from dawn to dusk, to praise, and not be blinded by the praising. To lie like a cat in hot sun, fur fully blazing, and dream the mouse; and to keep too the mouseās patient, waking watch within the deep rooms of the house, where the leaf-flocked sunlight never reaches, but the earth still blooms.
-Jane Hirshfield
Small Comfort
Coffee and cigarettes in a clean cafe, forsythia lit like a damp match against a thundery sky drunk on its own ozone,
the laundry cool and crisp and folded away again in the lavender closet--too late to find comfort enough in such small daily moments
of beauty, renewal, calm, too late to imagine people would rather be happy than suffering and inflicting suffering. Weāre near the end,
but O before the end, as the sparrows wing each night to their secret nests in the elmās green dome O let the last bus bring
love to lover, let the starveling dog turn the corner and lope suddenly miraculously, down its own street, home.
-Katha Pollitt

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Late Fragment
And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the Earth.
-Raymond CarverĀ
Catch a Body
Salinger, Iām sorry, but āDonāt ever tell anybody anythingā is a string of words I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract by laser from the ribcage of all of us who ever believed it, who felt afraid to miss someone, to be the last one standing. āTell everyone everythingā is not exactly right, but I do believe that if your mother looks radiant in violet you should tell her, or when a juvenile sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles and reminds you of a loverās eyelashes, you should say so. We are islands all of us, but we are also boats, our secrets flares, pyrotechnic devices by which we signal thereās someone in here weāre still alive! So maybe itās, ādonāt be afraid.ā We can rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers, wax that wonāt melt, I mean it, Iāll draw up a prototype right now, that burning ball of orange wonāt stop us, itāll be everything we dream the morning after, even if we fall into the seaāwe are boats, remember? We are pirates. We move in nautical miles. Each otherās anchors, each otherās buoys, the rocketās red, already the world entire.
-Ilse Bendorf