kaigou: I am zen. I am BUDDHA. I am totally chill, y'all. (2 totally chill)
My dad's not one for effusive shows of emotion, and while he's mellowed since retirement, all my childhood he was relatively intellectual, not emotional. Except for one time (as I found out, years after the fact) when we were stationed in Montgomery, and Grace Hopper was coming to speak. The role of her driver had been assigned to some low-level enlisted man, and when my father found out, he pulled rank. Or, as he put it, he pulled rank like nobody's business and like he never did before or after in all his twenty-year career. He had to beg his boss, his boss' boss, and a few other people, but when the dust settled, he was the assigned driver and probably the entire base knew that this Major with the PhD from GA Tech was an Amazing Grace fanboy of the penultimate level.

I asked him if he told her that he'd worked on systems at the Pentagon that were directly derived from her work. He said it took him all day to work up his nerve to mention it, and even then he stumbled through it, all tongue-tied. (She was apparently quite gracious and complimentary, and encouraged him to continue in the field.) He did not, however, manage to work up the nerve to get her autograph.

Yep, Dad, the shy egghead fanboy.

Now I know where I get it from.

(As a side-benefit, it probably says a lot about the lengths to which my father always encouraged me intellectually, knowing that one of my father's greatest heroes was a woman.)
kaigou: this is what I do, darling (Default)
For some inexplicable reason (as in, no idea how I followed whatever links to end up there), this evening I ended up on a wiki page about the film, Mary Poppins. I have never liked this film, although as a kid I liked Julie Andrews well enough that she often saved films for me that I'd otherwise detest. But Mary Poppins, hm. And although CP calls this an example of a severe reinterpretation of the text (and one mostly unsupported by the text), it's still there, in my head, all these years later.

First, let's get this out of the way: Dick Van Dyke does the worst Cockney accent. Despite being born-and-raised American, when I finally saw Mary Poppins, I assumed he was from somewhere else in America, and not British (or Cockney, allegedly). This is because I'd already been to England and met several lovely elderly Cockneys while we were in London, and Dyke didn't talk anything like them. Plus, he was completely comprehensible, and right there, I knew he couldn't be really British, because you had to listen hard when someone from London spoke or else you couldn't figure out a word of it. Even the people in Aberdeen were easier to understand, with a little work, than the taxi drivers and bed/breakfast keepers we met in London.

So there's that level of a wrong note (so to speak), but there are deeper levels. One is that before I ever saw the film Mary Poppins, I'd read Kingsley's Water-Babies. (Later I saw some of the so-called filmic/animated adaptation of the book, and was disgusted with the fact that it was nothing like the book.) Water-Babies made a huge impact on me; while I was used to Dickens and his thorough applications of bathos for the sake of making his young protagonists (ie Oliver) sympathetic, Dickens also had later movies to deal with where Fagin and his crew were iffy and dirty but hardly, y'know, freaking terrifying like Oliver Reed. But Water-Babies pulls no punches about the life and tasks of its chimney sweep protagonist, and at the young age of maybe six or seven, trying to imagine a life of a chimney sweep came very close to giving me nightmares. If there is anything on this planet that I would never, ever, ever wish upon any child, it would be cleaning chimneys.

And then there's the song by Mrs Banks, about being a suffragette. I guess I was maybe nine or ten? when I finally saw Mary Poppins, and I already knew what suffragettes were. (Thank you, Mom, the feminist.) Except that in the movie -- relatively straightforward and crowd-rousing lyrics aside -- the movie-Mom wasn't treated like a hero. She was treated like a ditz who, I don't know, did suffragette-ing on the side, on Sunday afternoons, like a weekly hobby to keep herself busy between doing wash on Tuesdays and having other ladies over for high tea on Thursdays. And maybe some silver-polishing on Saturday morning. Or whatever upper-class British ladies did, which (in my admittedly young and inexperienced opinion) seemed to amount to a lot of dabbling. And looking ornamental.

But the film's pivotal role -- and the real bearer of any moral message -- is Mary Poppins herself, and she seems to treat (or so I recall) Mrs. Banks as though Mrs Banks is little more than a twittering ditz, and mostly useless. I knew my American history and that women fought for a long, long time before they got the vote, so I figured in Britain it was probably similar, and that (at the time) a lot of men saw women wanting the vote as something that should never happen, and would never amount to any good. So I completely expected Mr Banks' dismissive reaction to his wife's activism; it was Mary Poppins' dismissiveness that really baffled me, and then annoyed me. I mean, if Mary Poppins is supposed to be so smart, why would she a) treat another woman like she's stupid, and b) not respect and support a woman trying to make life better for all women?

Thus I was already a bit iffy on the film, first time I watched it, but the clincher was the song, Chim Chim Cher-ee. )
kaigou: Edward, losing it. (1 Edward conniption)
Ended up perusing my way through various ghost-hunting sites this afternoon (hell if I know why), and ended up reading about a house that's supposedly a hotspot (cold spot?) for ghosts, a few hours' drive from here.

Looking at the pictures of the house's various rooms... my first (and consistent) thought was: hell, if I were a ghost and stuck somewhere that no one had painted, dusted, or even just mopped -- I'd be cranky, too! And if one set of curtains seem to repeatedly fall on their own, and you can't fix them, ditch 'em! They're ugly. I wouldn't blame anyone else for thinking they need to be booted, either. Even someone dead.

Geez, people. Sometimes a bit of housecleaning can make all the difference.
kaigou: I knew it! not in the sense of knowing it, but I knew there was something I didn't know. (3 knew it but didn't know it)
I was never into superheroes, outside the exposure to the Wonder Woman television show and a handful of Saturday morning cartoons -- which I didn't much like, seeing how in her own show, Wonder Woman was pretty awesome, but in the Justice League getup, she mostly just flew around in her invisible/glass helicopter and, I don't know, made coffee the rest of the time. (At least, that was my impression as a kid.)

Awhile back CP and I were talking about one thing and it led (as it always does) to something else, and I finally confessed that for the majority of my childhood, I was convinced there was a really awesome superhero out there... but that not being very knowledgeable about superheroes and all that (and it didn't help that my parents discouraged comic book reading, and besides, the library didn't carry comic books), I never could find out where to read the superhero's stories.

See, at some point in 2nd or 3rd grade, I happened to see a poster, probably at the mall or something, at one of those shops where you could get everything from old posters to lava lamps to whoopie cushions. Bookending this particular poster was another I already knew:

This poster, along with posters for Superman, Batman, and even the little-known Captain America, all taught me How To Identify Superheroes: they were usually the ones standing front-and-center, and almost always had their legs shoulder-width apart, or wider (per Luke in the poster above). Superheroes didn't kneel at anyone's feet, and they didn't sit, either. The superhero's hands would be on his hips (or one hand, with the other holding his weapon of choice or brandishing a fist). Every now and then a superhero might have crossed arms, like Batman's laconic pose, or Wonder Woman showing off her bracelets.

But generally speaking, you knew it was a superhero if the character was larger than everyone else, and looked like someone who could hold their own, possibly even spell trouble for bad guys.

Thus it made perfect sense to me, at that young age, that this was also a superhero. )
kaigou: this is what I do, darling (5 bookstack)
A bit ago I posted a link to an author's advice on Trying to Write the Southern Accent, and one of the comments reminded me of one of my favorite childhood stories... and its problematic representation of Southern Black American (and former-slave) speech. I quote, from the original:
"Didn't the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?" asked the little boy the next evening.

"He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you born--Brer Fox did. One day atter Brer Rabbit fool 'im wid dat calamus root, Brer Fox went ter wuk en got 'im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a contrapshun wat he call a Tar-baby, en he tuck dish yer Tar-Baby and he sot 'er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer to see what de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn't hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin' down de road--lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity--dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin' 'long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like he wus 'stonished. De Tar-Baby, she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"Mawin'!" sez Brer Rabbit, sezee--"nice wedder dis mawnin'," sezee.

Tar-Baby ain't sayin' nothing', en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"How duz yo' sym'tums seem ter segashuate?" sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nothin'.

It's much easier to find revisions of this text than the original. One of those revisions posted online has a forward that says, "Harris retold the fables in the dialect used by the African slaves. Later retellings, such as the version of the story given here, have been in standard English, which makes the tales easier to read but takes away the charm of the original."

If you read the revised versions (behind the cut), you'll see what I mean: I don't think they realize where the so-called charm comes from. I do think it's true that the original exoticizes the slave dialect a great deal. It's so extreme, it alienates the reader, like it's letting you in on mysterious (getting near on Magical Negro territory, here) Other-stories, and your ticket to play is paid by the time you spend parsing out this unfamiliar not-English... but the exotic is not the source of the story's charm.

[That said, I should also note that while Harris may've propagated the image of the former slave as somewhere between lyrical and illiterate, he did also do a great service for later linguists, in putting so much effort into authentically and faithfully recording the actual speech. Even if he did do it via phonetic spellings, some of which are just plain baffling (I never have figured out what 'segashuate' means, but I think it might be 'suggest') -- he still managed to notate historical and actual speech patterns. Before him, most had discounted slave-speech as just Bad English, instead of understanding it as a communicative and evocative language in its own right. Some of the linguists even imply that had Harris not set the precedent, it might not've been until the WPA Historical Records Survey that anyone would've captured a contemporary speech record. In that sense, as difficult as the text is to read, to linguists and historians looking for long-standing patterns in the African-American creole, it does have value as a kind of historical record.]

Two edited versions, a few explanations of some of the phrases/words, and childhood memories of a Georgia storyteller. )
kaigou: I am zen. I am BUDDHA. I am totally chill, y'all. (2 totally chill)
This is for [personal profile] taithe's amusement, but the rest of you are welcome to join in. Just imagine that the older half of the conversation is speaking in a coastal Mississippi accent. If you're not sure what that is, think something close to Holly Hunter's (Georgia) accent, but slower, and farther back in the throat. It's really a rather gentle accent, and for all that we fuss about non-Southerners thinking Southern accent means stupid, the Delta/coastal accent has definite connotations of elegance, if a friendly kind.

Anyway, in talking of the Civil War and Reconstruction, I was reminded of one of the few family stories that... well, it remains a mystery. My grandmother was, as befit many Southern women of her era, big into genealogy. Come to think of it, it's still a big thing, but we've got that whole thing about family, anyway. I grew up with stories of various people in the family, like the time she told me I had a however-many-greats-aunt who was -- drumroll, please -- Abraham Lincoln's stepmother.

Me, at tender age of ten: wasn't the reason Abraham Lincoln left home really young because he hated his step-mother?
Gramma: *handwave* Dear, we don't speak ill of the dead.

[ETA: many many thanks to [personal profile] wordweaverlynn (see comments) for enlightening me on this childhood misunderstanding, that childhood-me had it Completely Wrong. Wah!]

Anyway, the only other Civil-War related story of unexpected relatives was about a Southern General. When the South decided to secede from the Union, all ranking military officers who were residents of a seceding state were contacted by the newly-formed Confederacy. Each general was asked to convert his commission from the North/Federal govt to the South/Confederacy. Many didn't, many did. And then there was one general -- the one in my family -- who regretfully replied that he had -- really! -- only just discovered, like, within minutes of getting the invitational letter -- that he had inherited some form of madness.

Terrible, terrible thing, them late-in-life unexpected insanities. Kill you right off, if you weren't careful. Naturally, he had to listen to his doctors' advice, and promptly packed up his entire family and off they all go to a sanatorium in the South of France in hopes he might live out that what's left of his life, in peace. And, y'know, hope for a cure.

Me: What happened then, Gramma?
Gramma: Remarkably, he was only ill for foueeah yeeaahrs, and the sanatorium cured him completely, just in time for him to return home, on the tails of the South surrendering.
Me: ...
Gramma: *completely deadpan* The nick of time, really.
Me: That seems awfully convenient timing, Gramma.
Gramma: Gracious, I'm sure it was just a coincidence.
Me: Unh-hunh. So what was his name? Who was he?
Gramma: *handwave* Dear, it's not polite to speak ill of the dead.

(Like she didn't do it all the time. She just figured if she didn't name names, it wasn't really speaking ill of the dead because you hadn't said who exactly they were. At least, that's what I think she was thinking. She never did explain why not, only that... well, she had plenty to say about plenty in the family. Now I've got plenty of stories and no names to go with them. Except for the stories about my grandmother's step-grandfather's younger brother, who -- according to my mother -- really did run that wild. Not like running wild was all that much, considering my grandmother's aunt ran a boarding house, threw parties where the bathtub really was filled with gin, and had three pet house-pigs.)

I guess this just means temporary insanity runs in my family, or maybe -- to not speak ill of the dead -- just really good survival instincts.
kaigou: this is what I do, darling (4 no sacrifice)
I've been sitting on this rant for awhile, but what-the-hell, I'm going to post. If you like to play the oppression olympics, don't read this. If you react favorably to the following statement: "immigrants have it the absolute worst in the US," then you probably won't want to read this, but maybe you should anyway. Just consider it walking the length of this post in my shoes, with citations.

Clover, Carol. Men, Women, and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey, 1992.

One of Clover's chapters, Getting Even, discusses a concept she calls "urbanoia". She defines it loosely as the (horrorific/horror) archetype of the civilized city-dweller's feelings against/about the uncivilized (savage, primitive) country-dweller.
An enormous proportion of horror takes as its starting point the visit or move of (sub)urban people to the country. (The eternally popular haunted house story is typically set, if not in the country, then at the edge of town, and summer camps set in deep forests are a favorite setting of slasher films. ...) ...That situation, of course, rests squarely on what may be a universal archetype [in which the non-city] is a place where the rules of civilization do not obtain. People from the city are people like us. People from the country (as I shall hereafter refer to those people horror construes as the threatening rural Other) are people not like us.

She gives several examples of just how the rural Other is different: adult males with no immediate family connections, or extreme patriarchal rulership (with the occasional extreme matriarchal rulership), and abnormalities like "psychosexually deformed children", with "degenerate specimens [as] the material expression of family wrongness..."

She goes on to summarize the basic appearance of the rural Other, in terms of the standard elements of the genre convention:
...country people live beyond the reaches of social law. They do not observe the civilized rules of hygiene or personal habit. If city men are either clean-shaven or wear stylish beards... country men sport stubble. Likewise teeth; the country is a world beyond denistry. The typical country rapist is a toothless or rotten-toothed single man with a four-day growth. ... As with hygiene, so with manners. Country people snort when they breathe, snore when they sleep, talk with mouths full, drool when they eat. The hill people of The Hills Have Eyes do not even know how to use knives and forks. Country people, in short, are surly, dirty (their fingernails in particular are ragged and grimy), and slow ("This ain't the big city, you know, things take time," a local handyman drawls to our city heroine in The Nesting, and the city invaders of Pumpkinhead refer to the locals as "vegetables"). What is threatening about these little uncivilities is the larger uncivility of which they are surface symptoms. In horror, the man who does not take care of his teeth is obviously a man who can, and by the end of the movie will, plunder, rape, murder, beat his wife and children, kill within his kin, commit incest, and/or eat human flesh... No wonder, given their marginal humanity, country people are often nameless or known by cognomina only.

CP brought this book to my attention after I spent one dinner ranting -- and I don't mean the usual annoyed complaint-airing, I mean truly angry ranting... about a map. There are weeks where I should know better than to follow links, but I was curious, and that right there should've been a sign, but still: a map that assigns movies to states based on "one movie set there that seemed reasonably typical". (h/t: [personal profile] wordweaverlynn)

Some of them are relatively obvious: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Raising Arizona. Some of them require you be aware the filmmakers would be State Cultural Treasures (if there were such a thing): Maryland has Jon Waters (Pink Flamingos), Rhode Island has the Farrelly Brothers (There's Something About Mary), New Jersey has Kevin Smith (Clerks). Others have region as distinctive aspects of the film, like The Wizard of Oz for Kansas, Dances with Wolves for South Dakota, and A River Runs Through It (in which Montana should've gotten top billing, if you ask me, for providing such backdrops). A few make no sense to me at all, like Glory for South Carolina, a film that's about the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. So a big battle takes place outside Charleston... it strikes me as odd that a film "reasonably typical" about South Carolina would star, well, yankees. But anyway.

I didn't expect that many surprises, and you probably won't see too many yourself, if you go look at the map. While you're there, take a look at the state that's down near the bottom-right, in orange. Go ahead, I'll wait, just making conversation over here while you go see. )

NOTE: if you are considering a comment in which: you say that you, personally, have Southern friends and they make jokes like this all the time, I won't reply because (a) this post is NOT ABOUT YOU and (b) you're blurring ingroup/outgroup humor and maybe you need to think about that more. If you raise a defense via attacking on the topics of slavery, slave-ownership, redneck-analogies, or how Others have it worse, I will DELETE your comment as oppression olympics and/or derailing.
kaigou: Edward, losing it. (1 Edward conniption)
Jump forward to about 3:30 and watch. The entire scene had me in hysterics. Exchange "frogs" for "pigs feet" and that's me and my sister on a family-visit when we were younger. Nothing like elderly cooks with good intentions to take years off your life. (Which, when you're 14 and 11, as we were, there aren't that many years to take.)

Watch Sweet Relationship Ep 6 [3/3] in Entertainment  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

(It's the younger girl, on the left, waving the food around as preface to not-so-stealthily trying to slip it into the older girl's rice bowl that really did me in. My sister tried that trick at least once every family visit.)
kaigou: organizing is what you do before you do something, so that when you do it, it is not all mixed up. (3 fixing to get organized)
Come to think of it, there are little stories in everything, aren't there, if you think about little stories as containing advice (that may or may not have use in the real world, or your world) that was considered useful to someone, somewhere.

Like for instance, the fact that my sibling and I both wear watches with the face on the inside of our wrist (that is, not the back of the hand). I rarely wear a watch these days, but I wore one regularly for years, and face was inside the wrist. The reason isn't only because that's the way our father always wore his watch -- our mother wears her as most people do, on the non-writing hand with the dial-face across the back of the wrist -- but because of why our father wears his watch as he does.

When he was fresh out of OCS, one of the upper-level officers on base was a veteran of the Korean conflict, and had spent significant on the front lines. He gave my father the advice to wear his watch on the inside because that way, when you go to check the time, you're flipping your hand outward (from palm sideways to palm up) -- and it won't catch a reflection from the sun to alert any enemies. Although my father never saw frontline time in Vietnam, he still took the advice to heart and ever after, wore his watch with the dial-face on the inside of his wrist. (It had saved that officer's life several times, and as an officer in wartime himself, my dad said he saw no reason to tempt fate.)

Try it: with your hand at your side, raise your arm like you're going to check your watch, and notice how the swing of arm + dial-face means any light would hit the dial-face and create a quick glare, and glare is the indication of reflection. Do it again, but this time check as though you're looking at the inside of your wrist, and there's no glare. (When I spent hours on the water, this also incidentally saved me from repeatedly flashing sun in my stroke's eyes.)

It's possible that most advanced watches these days come with some kind of anti-glare that prevents such reflection, and maybe eventually there'd be no reason at all to care one way or another whether the dial-face is inside, outside, or upside-down. It'd become a little story with no apparent usefulness other than trivia about my father's former commanding officer, but it's a military-style little story all the same.

Honestly, when you start thinking in terms of little stories, you realize they're everywhere. Chimamanda Adichie warns against the 'danger of the single story' (link goes to video of Adichie's speech; if you haven't watched it, you should) and I think an unseen damage in the single story is that its creation is simultaneously a destruction of the little stories.

More shortly, once I finish watching Skycrawlers and manage to figure out why Japanese animators are so freaking fascinated with emmelman turns.
kaigou: this is what I do, darling (W] vortex of stupidity)
Remember when I ranted about that horrendous adaptation butchering of Cooper's The Dark is Rising?

Sometimes I wonder where they grow the people who power the money that makes our movies and television and general pop culture. I mean, if you listened to these people, they'd have you convinced that if you are American, anglo, middle class, and raised in a generally suburban environment (give or take a few cows or transit buses), that you couldn't possibly ever want to spend money to look at someone who isn't also... American, anglo, middle class, and generally suburban.

Is this why we import so many actors from Canada, because they don't sound like they have an accent at all, to American ears? Because dogs forbid that the character have an accent, damn it, because that would be a strike-out on the first go-round. OMG, he's british! Oh, noes! Because apparently a mediocre American, white, middle class, suburban actor is way way better than a really awesome, NOT-American, possibly accented, non-Anglo*, and who knows for class or regional upbringing. Nope, let's go with the safe mediocre actor, because then the viewers can relate! Especially the children. Think of the children!

*shoots someone. possibly self*

I could ask, at what point did you realize people have different color skin, or speak with strange accents, or aren't all from the same place/culture as you, but it's not something most of us ever think about. )
kaigou: this is what I do, darling (x offering bowl)
And a true one -- yet another fond memory of the years owning a bookstore. Since it's halloween, I figured no time like now for amusing folks with this recollection.

A and my business partner were evening-shift cooks in the two most popular restaurants in town, and she started coming by the shop to visit before work. She was a few years younger than me, and living in the house her great-grandfather built; her grandfather and her mother had been born in the house. When A was in her early teens or thereabouts, her mother died, and A's family moved out of state. An aunt was ostensibly the house's caretaker but for all practical purposes the house was abandoned, empty.

When A turned 18, she elected to come back. The house had been badly vandalized, and A and her aunt spent hours cleaning up and painting over graffiti, replacing busted-out window panes, getting working light fixtures.

The house was wrecked except for one room which had a few broken windows but was otherwise untouched... and that's where this ghost story begins. )
kaigou: this is what I do, darling (x ganesha no obstacles)
Well, stories are being shared here & there on the net, so, hey, here's one as well. I've got plenty of memories from the bookstore, but this is one of my fondest.

Back then, I got used to having the various teenagers in town wander in and out. (Mostly, I suspect, because I didn't get on their case for 'loitering' so long as they told me what they were currently reading.)

One day, two boys -- who I'd guess were HS sophomores or so -- came by and sat on the sofa to chat with me for awhile. We covered the weather, the latest on main street, the last football game, the usual Southern pleasantries required before you can get down to business. Both boys looked rather nervous, though one far more than the other; the nervous one, I recall, had ended up with his baseball cap in his hands, twisting it around before straightening it, then twisting it again. His friend would kind of nudge him a little, and he'd do a strange torso-twist like he was saying no without actually saying so. I'm sure you've seen that odd move.

The obligatory pleasantries wound down, and eventually conversation came to a lull. Baseball-cap boy twisted his cap one more time, untwisted, then his fists clenched around it and he looked right at me and mumbled something, made a face, and said louder, "I'm gay."

I think I blinked at him, once or twice, before half-shrugging and saying, "that's cool."

Longer pause, and the boy seemed to register what I'd said. He got this scared-happy grin growing across his face, but his friend was already grinning like a loon -- and not at me, but at the other boy. It was the kind of thrilled expression a friend might have if you'd just knocked it out of the park, won the race, bested the record despite being convinced you couldn't and wouldn't, and were only trying because your friend knew with such certainty that you'd not just do fine, you'd nail it -- and then you did. That kind of thrilled, proud, glorious grin.

I gave the friend a curious look, not entirely certain what I was missing in the usual silent-language good friends can share. I didn't mean to imply that they were a couple, so much as just wondering if I had to brace for another announcement (and I do recall, even at the time wondering whether I should be saying something else, y'know, reacting in some more dramatic fashion equivalent to the boy's obvious expectations.)

But no... even with that rather pointed-curious look from me, the friend just laughed and said, "oh, not me, I like girls. I'm just here for support."

And then the two grinned at each other, really widely, and it was obvious they were best friends, and I knew exactly who'd been the first person that kid told. Regardless, I guess I was the practice round for the Coming Out To Adults Announcement, which will always remain a flattering memory, if you ask me.

Years later I remain impressed by the memory of that boy saying so casually -- without even an iota of tension I would've expected at all of maybe fifteen, sixteen? -- that he was there for support; that's a security you rarely see in a boy that age. But what I most cherish is the way the two grinned at each other so freely, so secure in friendship's greatest truth, and one too many of us take for granted: victory shared is joy doubled.

This world could use more friends like that.
kaigou: this is what I do, darling (Default)
I have just returned from a part of which I was the life
and soul; wit poured from my lips, everyone laughed and
admired me — but I went away — and the dash should be as
long as the earth's orbit —————————————————
————————————— and wanted to shoot myself.

~ Søren Kierkegaard, 1836


kaigou: this is what I do, darling (Default)
锴 angry fishtrap 狗

to remember

"When you make the finding yourself— even if you're the last person on Earth to see the light— you'll never forget it." —Carl Sagan

October 2016

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