#archaeos

How we present information. There’s a world of difference between information presented in a thoughtful way vs information presented carelessly. This is especially important when it comes to our history and remembering past injustices.

What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on the Henry Ford museum...

His train began to move, rolling slowly out of the station. He did not look at me, only stared straight ahead, his visage like iron. I watched until he was out of sight.

I stood there for a long while after Holmes left. Above the train station, positioned at the back of the cove that held the little village of Fulworth, the land rose gently to the waving grass of the Downs. Holmes' cottage -- our cottage -- my cottage now, as much as I hated the thought -- lay a little beyond the crest, in a hollow that made it quite private from the village. Below the train station lay the the bulk of the village, the pier, and the sea. The bathing machines sat high on the beach in tidy off-season rows, their summer colours muted in the April rain.

I stood on the empty train platform and surveyed it all, this little seaside village where Holmes had chosen to make his life -- where he had hoped to make a life for us -- and thought on the gods who laughed at the plans of men. I was chilled from the breeze and the rain, that indeterminate seaside rain that never seemed to properly fall, that only filled the air with suspended water until the air matched the sea for wetness, but I could not stir myself to move.

* * *

The bees must have objected to my agitation, for that was the first time I was stung while working with the hives. I swore vociferously and stalked off beyond the edge of the copse, yanking off my gauntlet to get at the welt on my wrist, lifting my veil and twisting my arm this way and that against the sky in an attempt to see the stinger. My arms were not long enough to see the stinger without a glass, but I duly retrieved my knife and scraped at the wound anyway. But by then it was too late: it had clearly pumped its full load of venom into me. Holmes would have pitied the bee who had died for my sins, perhaps even said a few words of sentimental eulogy for it, but I could only summon up a hatred for the wretched creature and all its brethren.

All seemed futile in that moment. I lay back in the tall grasses of the Downs, just below the lip of the hollow that cradled Holmes' apiary, and sucked at my wrist in hopes of drawing the venom out. When that proved useless, I bit at it viciously, so that one pain might supersede the other. I should have gone back to the cottage for a chip of ice for my wound, or barring that, back to the apiary to close up the hive box and retrieve my beekeeping equipment, but I did neither, laying back and watching the clouds scuttle across the sky while I chewed at my wrist.

But still, as I gazed upon the warm blue sky: Holmes, somewhere quiet and private, momentarily laying aside his false persona and Irish accent to write about his beloved bees. Perhaps he was doing so even now, in the pink, cold light of an American dawn, while all his criminal compatriots still slept. Was he lonely? Did he miss Sussex? Did he wish the opportunity to lay here beside me near his apiary, the both of us watching the clouds together? Would he have teased me for my first sting from working among his hives, or earnestly scolded me for it? Would he have tended to my wound? Would he have treated it as a badge of honour?

I tried to summon the bitter thought that if he was lonely in America he had no one to blame for it but himself -- but I knew that to be a lie. He had never wanted this case; I had pressed him to take it. His preference would have been to bask in his retirement, with his bees before him and me at his side, as we had done the long summer before.

ok now I really want to know about the history of clowns

Isn’t it just?  Augh, that play wrecks me like nothing else.  The dialogue is brilliant.  I mean:

“Where in the Middle East?”“Oh, all kinds of places.”“You seem very vague about it.”“It was rather a vague kind of job.”“For heaven’s sake, man, you must have known what you were doing!”“Not very often, sir.”

This meme is dedicated to every traffic jam I’ve ever wasted my life sitting in.

“Loves” marine archeology and yet is STEALING pictures of sunken boats from NatGeo instead of GOING TO THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN and TAKING THE PICTURES HERSELF

Is so obsessed with Tomb Raider that she became an archeologist at the best university in the world. Yet has still not raided any tombs??? smdh

Repeatedly insulted and degraded my self insert fanfiction where I kicked Harold Bloom’s ass in a fist fight behind a Wafflehouse, the ONLY fanfic brave enough to call Bloom out

Repeatedly degraded my history theories that Christopher Marlowe and Oscar Wilde are the same time traveling man, claiming “you’re a fucking idiot” when they don’t conform to her beliefs or research

Repeatedly insulting law students and their degrees

Repeatedly stealing ideas from and literally plagiarizing people who have been dead for 2000 years to make jokes about Alexander the Great

Neglecting to research a joke about history that I made before confronting the maker of the joke (me) on being wrong. Quote: “I am not going to read your 2000 word essay arguing that Nero actually played the saxophone while Rome burned, Erin, I KNOW you’re wrong”

Leaked her private information onto public domains despite having a boyfriend that is probably distantly related to the British royal family. I don’t know how this is a crime but she should be CANCELED.

Has literally talked about historical ships for 40 minutes straight. No not the relationship kind - she explained fighting formations of Greek Ships to me and I’m angry that it was so interesting