Horf Horf

Tormentil (Potentilla erecta)

No one actually works in PPG Place.

City roads wind and twist through the hills. Some are tree lined, with no shoulder. Others lead you around blind turns or cramped alleyways. They turn randomly into one-way streets, or a bus lane, or a turning lane. You wonder where they’re leading you. It is not to your destination.

The rivers keep secrets. Sometimes when you cross a bridge you feel something stir inside you, but once you get to the other side you’ve already forgotten. You’re one of the lucky ones. Most people can’t remember what the river whispers. Some can’t forget. (“RIVER RESCUE RECOVERS BODY”)

The city is gray most of the time. In the summer, when the years of winter slush and spring rain are a distant memory, sunlight feels glaring and unnatural. The buildings crowd together, shielding one another from light it was never meant to see. Everything is exposed. Everyone is too pale.

There are entire roads you’ve never driven on. They’ve always been under construction. “LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY” they declare. “DRIVE AT YOUR OWN RISK.”

The houses spread like cancer, rising improbably through the hills, interconnected and rickety, strewn along one way streets with no entrance or exit. There are no numbers on the houses, but there are Christmas lights.

Go to the Southside on a Saturday night in the middle of February and marvel at the drinking college students. The girls are wearing miniskirts. The boys are wearing t-shirts. Nobody is wearing a coat. Nobody has noticed the cold.

There are old churches littering the city, steeples rising like beacons. You see people trickle out after Sunday service, but you’ve never seen anyone go in. On Lenten Fridays they advertise “FISH FRY” on large handmade signs lettered with childish handwriting. On Easter, banners proclaim “HE IS RISEN”

You’ve seen entire cars swallowed by potholes.

People get stuck in time here. You can tell where they’re stuck by which sports stars they’re picking apart and discussing. You overhear snatches of conversation: Bill Maz, Lemiuex-as-a-player, Chuck Noll, Roberto Clemente, Lemiuex-as-an-owner, Tommy Maddox, Cutch.

You have memories of being small, of sleeping in the car and driving through the tunnels. Once you cross the threshold all the noise mutes to a dull roar; nobody speaks. Lights flash behind your closed eyes. The lights stretch longer than the tunnel. If you close your eyes right now, you can still see them flashing.

You’re waiting for the 61D. A 61A goes past. A 61A goes past. A 61A goes past. A 61A goes past. 

The closer you get to the Squirrel Hill tunnel, the slower everything moves. Cars. People. Particles. It’s cold. Oh god, you’re so cold. 

It was raining this morning, now it’s sunny outside. You check the thermometer, and it reads sixty. Better salt your sidewalk, gonna snow tonight.

You dropped a rock in that pothole on Brookline, and waited to hear it hit the bottom. You’re still waiting.

The sidewalk is getting steeper and steeper. Now there’s stairs. You climb and climb and climb. Look, a mountain goat. 

Your GPS tells you to take a sharp right to stay on Forbes. Your GPS tells you to take a slight left to stay on Forbes. Your GPS tells you to hit the man in the suit to stay on Forbes. Hit the man. Hit him. 

No one goes to Carlow University.

Bleeding? Buildings don’t bleed, don’t be silly. That’s just the steel rusting.

An orange sign just ahead of you reads “End Road Work.” You laugh, and see another sign. “Please. Please, I have children. End it.”

They built a bridge under the bridge to keep the bridge from falling on the other bridge under that bridge. The trolls are confused. Where can they live?

Someone said that if you fall in the Mon, when you climb out, your skin will peel off. Ridiculous. No one escapes the Mon. 

You’re trying to get home, but every single street is a one way that takes your further and further away. Where is home? What is home? 

They say the steel mills poisoned the air and killed the sky. Is that why it weeps? Whenever thunder roars, you swear you can hear a sob. 

A man is stabbed with a bottle outside the bar, and ichor the color of tar drips from between his fingers, flecked with gleaming yellow. He bleeds black and gold. The gutters overflow with black and gold. Steelers going to the superbowl.

You woke up and found U P M C etched into your wrist. You went to UPMC physician, and he sent you to UPMC Shadyside. They checked you out and said it’s nothing serious. Good thing you have UPMC healthcare, could have been pricey otherwise. 

The guy at Phipps laughs when you ask him what they use for fertilizer and shows you big bins of mulch in the back. Pitt students keep disappearing. The bins are never empty for long. 

If you go alone, don’t bring a flashlight. You’ll see things you don’t want to.

Don’t bring groups bigger than 12.

Bring water and some snacks, but no wine.

If you have to sleep there, sleep in the sanctuary, but not on a pew.

If you try to read the hymnal, the words won’t be english anymore.

The Bibles will be blank until you confess.

Don’t go into the confession booth. The man talking to you is not the priest, and you don’t want to know what he really is.

The cross on the wall changes locations, don’t look at it for too long.

If you see someone praying at the altar, don’t approach them. If they approach you, don’t talk to them. Leave immediately.

If you hear the organ playing while you’re in the basement, know that your time is running out.

If it plays while you’re in the sanctuary, your time is up.

Take whatever you want, but if you find that one of your possesions is missing, don’t look for it. Let them have it. It’s not worth your life.

If you find a rosary, don’t put it on. It won’t help.

The water isn’t holy anymore. Throwing it on the demons in the shadows won’t work.

Drink the wine if you wish to never leave.

Don’t get seperated from your friends.

If you spend the night, leave at sunrise otherwise you’ll enter another plane of reality with no way back.

If you don’t spend the night, leave through the doors you came in.

You might look behind you after leaving and see that the church isn’t there anymore. It means that they took what they wanted.

As this ask suggested: a calendar showing which shows occurred during the first/second half of the month and who would have additional therapy at each show.

She then made a public apology stating the fbi letter was a hoax, telling people to stop defending her for it. Then she posted a new letter on her announcements on her instagram, claiming that was the real letter, saying it was probably from a stalker. This letter was dated January 11th, while the original claim was made on January 6th. Additionally it had clearly never been folded like a piece of mail would be and contained none of the original threats, namely to cease publication of her book, and delete her writings on Substack. The response from her audience was disbelief, and was subsequently called out by her friend Rose161 for lying again. They had a public argument via their respective instagram stories, subsequently they both deleted all of these stories, and Tara deleted her latest claim of a new letter. She then finally took a break from instagram, and migrated to tumblr where she has been denying any accusation of lying, and painting herself as a victim of a hate mob. Most of the comments and replies I saw expressed frustration, confusion, and disappointment. Many people giving her the benefit of the doubt that she was sent a threatening letter, no matter how suspect her claims or behavior.

I followed her following the original claim of a threatening letter earlier this month. I had never heard of her before, but quickly muted her account finding something to be fishy but unable to put my finger on it. I’ve attached the letters below for reference, the first is the gen ai letter referenced by the needle, the second is her most recent claim, the third is one she sent privately to her own friends. I’ve also included her apology admitting to the threat being a hoax, and the closest thing to an explanation she has given.

Ultimately I think this destroys her credibility as a writer and voice within the community. She doesn’t deserve hate, certainly doesn’t deserve racism. Sending mean anons will only reinforce her victim mentality, and provides fuel for her blind followers to believe her more. However I think a public lie like this that she used to grift money from her own largely trans following is bad, and requires public awareness.

morpho books

figure drawing for all it's worth (+ creative illustration)

framed ink

will eisner comics and sequential art

will eisner graphic storytelling and visual narrative

understanding comics (+ making comics)

folder of various animation production art

burne hogarth drawing dynamic hands

perspective for comic book artists

michael mattesi force drawing

the animator's survival kit

color and light james gurney