she's hopelesse, baby

Well, I can't say I've proven myself to be much of a Dreamwidth user. I try my best, platform after platform, to find a new permanent home on the internet, but I haven't really settled anywhere permanent, although I'm certainly most active on Discord.

If you want to see me froth at the mouth about hockey -- by the way, I'm into hockey now, I'm surprised too -- catch me on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/sheshopelesse. I have a Twitter account, but I can't say I use it for much of anything beyond following sports reporters. (Like I said, being into sports is WEIRD.) I'm trying to cut back on my time on Elon's little hellhole, though, so it's probably for the best that we don't try to connect there.

To avoid having this whole post be "yo, uh, sorry I flaked, my b," I'll leave off with a poem, flavored by my new passion for, yes, ice hockey. The full poem is at the link; I'll post the part that's made my breath catch in my chest every time I've read it. I really didn't expect sports rpf to be a place I'd turn to and see people whose bodies had been shattered like mine, but in retrospect I don't know what else I expected. What an unexpected welcome.

Hopefully we'll talk sooner next time.


The Old Catcher Considers The Failing Of His Knees, by Devin Kelly

They pulled the chips from my joint & I kept them
in a glass. Look, I know. What isn’t broken
just isn’t broken yet. Jesus, I know. & someone
can spend their whole life hiding away their grief
& then find themselves crying in the dairy aisle of a store
while they hold the mint chip & vanilla,
because the mystery is gone, & with it, hope,
because someone said you don’t have a choice, said
you have to stop, & they were right, & you thought
they were wrong, & you spent your paycheck on tiger balm
& beer, rubbing each into your body until you felt
like liquid poured from a kaleidoscope.
I don’t get it. How what you love can kill you,
even if you spend your whole life loving it.
Even if you love it small. Even if you curl up in its palm.

Y'ever think about the dumb gay nonsense you've done in the past week and just sigh?

Recent displays include: 

• Took a literal full 3 minutes to come up with a single man I find attractive (Manny Jacinto) (but it was really fkn hard) (note to self: remember this when your brother inevitably has a bisexuality crisis in 3-5 years)
• Got a Chromecast and have used it exclusively to do crosswords with my wife on the TV and to show our cats videos of birds and fishes
• Absolutely losing it over Gideon the Ninth's big butch himbo energy
  • Yes, of course I made a playlist, it's here but it's not ordered nicely at all, just a bunch of songs about hot messbians
• This tattoo (NSFW)
• Very seriously made plans to go to fabric row to get some materials to make a shirt for a former foster cat who overgrooms due to allergies. Plans on hold while the adopter contacts an Etsy shop with some questions about customization

In other news, Iso and I successfully made it to my ancestral homeland (Chicago) and back for Thanksgiving without any unseemly murders at all. We traveled by train, which was honestly pretty restful? Or, as restful as a 20 hour ride can be. It was surprisingly roomy, and literally half the cost of a plane ticket. Plus, the trip back was pleasingly surreal: we were surrounded by Mennonites in full dress (bonnets and beards and all) speaking Pennsylvania Dutch except for one man resolutely streaming Game of Thrones on his laptop while the dismal spread of eternal Ohio at dusk sped by.

Do you ever think about flavor combinations? It's one of my more pleasant pastimes. I used to badger <user name=isozyme> into making fuss-fuss macarons when she wanted a baking project so I could choose the flavors. (I adored the black tea and lemon curd ones, even if <em>some people</em> didn't like the texture.) But ever since r. kindly let me play amateur bartender at her parkside event, I've humming with ideas for silly simple syrups. So, in the interest of having these written down somewhere: a list of simple syrups that I'll make one day, definitely, and won't get lazy or distracted.


Fruit based:

• Apricot and lemon (done, with bourbon)
• Rhubarb and coriander -- mix with campari, angostura bitters? grapefruit bitters maybe?
• Peach, basil, and lemon  (or peach, ginger, and mint?  both?)
• Blackberry and tarragon

Herb based:

 

• Rosemary, grapefruit, honey, and peppercorn (done, with bourbon)
• Rosemary, cinnamon, and orange peel (done, also with bourbon. i should start buying different kinds of liquor one of these days...)
• Sage, brown sugar and lemon
• Earl Grey and honey + some warm citrus

Spice based:

• Ginger and cardamom (done, with bourbon)
• Cinnamon, cloves, and honey + mild stone fruit? Plum/apricot?
• Anise and mint/hyssop

If anyone wants to play along, lmk what flavors you like to mix.  I'm always happy to hear about ppl's fave cocktails :3

God, how did it manage to get this late? I've been neglecting DW terribly. (Un)fortunately, part of the reason for this is that.....I just haven't been doing all that much that's hugely exciting! I've been to the Midwest and back. I'm doing some paid writing for Bougie New Job, which is a first for me. We're in the middle of rehoming Sweet Foster Scab-Cat, but still have to iron out the last bits of his medical care first.

Mostly what I've been doing is continuing to lose my mind over Good Omens. I'm really relishing the new-old fandom feel. What can I say, I'm having a good time.

I've been reading just. An astonishing amount of fic. I should probably pull that into a reclist of sorts at some point. I'll stick a pin in that.

I've also made a couple of playlists because What Else Is New. I'm still refining them, but progress is being made! (Is there a "Songs from Aziraphale to Crowley" playlist called My Dear Acquaintance? Shut up is the answer to that question. At least it's an excuse to play with celesssstial harmoniess.)

This morning J decided to share a poem with me, which means that I'm inflicting it upon everyone. Sharing is caring, after all.


Excerpts from Hangman's Tree by Monica Youn, 2016

But then there is
this olive tree—
if tree is still

the word to describe
this improbable
arrangement

of bark and twig
and leaf—this tree
ripped in three pieces
( cut for length )

Like many on the internet, I started watching Good Omens over the weekend. (Short version: I love it! The retro-effects, the more centralized focus on Aziraphale and Crowley, the Frances McDormand of it all.)

So instead of finishing the series -- I'm 3 episodes in, which for me is incredibly fast television watching -- isozyme and I decided to make a playlist about it. Part Aziraphale/Crowly, part the Them, and part just trying to capture the feel of the thing.

(Playlist, as always, is subject to change as I fuss around with it.)



slouching towards tadfield

( Track list & excerpted lyrics under the cut~~ )

After two days of reading circular, near-frantic essays about the nature of camp, I still don't feel positive that I know what it is. However, isozyme and I hit on at least a few potential Met Gala looks that would have been superb, had we been invited.

In drag as Nancy Reagan

Hyper-masculine cowboy pastiche while hanky-flagging

Head to toe in visibly knock-off luxury brand clothing

High-fashion take on a lesser-known or very old superhero costume (e.g., 80s Ms Marvel, 40s Superman)

LITERALLY ANY DISNEY VILLAIN ICONOGRAPHY. CRUELLA DEVILLE, URSULA THE SEA WITCH, AND MALEFICENT ARE CAMP ICONS AND NO ONE EVEN TOUCHED THEM, GOD

In a brocade housecoat over a slinky dress, coquettish fan in hand. Stocking feet and loose, naturally-frizzed hair. Smeared, too-orange lipstick and mascara smudged under the eyes. Your Girl has been partying all night and now she is, extravagantly, home

The Tradition by Jericho Brown, 2015

Aster. Nasturtium. Delphinium. We thought
Fingers in dirt meant it was our dirt, learning
Names in heat, in elements classical
Philosophers said could change us. Star Gazer.
Foxglove. Summer seemed to bloom against the will
Of the sun, which news reports claimed flamed hotter
On this planet than when our dead fathers
Wiped sweat from their necks. Cosmos. Baby’s Breath.
Men like me and my brothers filmed what we
Planted for proof we existed before
Too late, sped the video to see blossoms
Brought in seconds, colors you expect in poems
Where the world ends, everything cut down.
John Crawford. Eric Garner. Mike Brown.

Say his name. Hell you talmbout.
<3 H

The Trouble With Love Poems about Men by Beth Gylys, 1997

They're not of curves and shadows made.
They don't wear skirts to swoop and tease
the eye, nor toss their hair, nor sway.
So arduous to package men to please:
a slant of hip, or buttocks tucked in faded
jeans—they lack aesthetic flair. A spray

of curls might fan their brows, or bellies bloom
above their belts. To paint men in the best
of light, requires certain skill. The groom
looks better if he's built. He'll fill
his tux with sculpted flesh. His chest
will taper to the cummerbund. Still,

what work to capture men's appeal!
A rise between the legs will also shade
and shape their usual lines. Alas, revealed,
the bulge is but a stick. We live dismayed.
It's difficult to bring men warm regard.
We try. Their love is always hard.

Me trying to describe the appeal of a supposedly attractive man^

Sometimes I'm just an utterly hopeless lesbian.

Fuck the men, let's drink to us
<3 H

The Problem of Hands by Louise Mathias, 2013

And how to fill them
is the problem of cigarettes and paint.

First time I felt my undoing
was in front of

a painting—Sam Francis, I believe.

Oh, his bloomed out, Xanax-ed California.

I liked the word guard, but you know

we made each other
nervous, standing too close

for everyone concerned. All art being

a form of violence
as a peony
is violence.

Here you come

with your open hands.

My relationship with art is complicated. I've never been a "creator," and that used to eat at me. Where was the missing part of me that seemed to drive so many of the people I find important? I still don't know where that drive to make is, but I've more or less found my peace. Even if I never write a creative word, the violence of art can still reach me and, for now, that's enough damage.

I don't know how to fill the space
-H