Life of Liriope
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“I should have been more kind. That is something a person will never regret. You will never say to yourself when you are old, ‘Ah, I wish I was not good to that person.’ You will never think that.” — Khaled Hosseini, And The Mountains Echoed (via onbeautymylove)(via libbythelibertine)
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When the Park and Ride fails to give a ride.
My commute to work normally involves driving to a Park and Ride lot (15 minutes), catching the bus (half hour ride), then walking a mile to my office. Although time consuming, I don’t mind this manner of commuting as it’s relaxing and much more cost effective than driving the entire way.
I should say that I don’t mind the commute when it works well. Today, however, the bus arrived to pick me up and the driver informed the dozen of us waiting that he was having mechanical trouble. I watched as a handful of folks returned to their parked cars and, without a word, drove away. Their actions didn’t sit well with me. I kept thinking, “Aren’t we in this together?” Perhaps a better way to say it: “Shouldn’t we be helping each other out?”
I turned to the remaining four folks sitting at the bus stop. I knew they all needed a ride, so I asked if anyone wanted a ride. They all declined, saying they would wait for another bus. I started walking towards my car and met two more folks. I asked them if they’d like to ride with me and they happily accepted.
We passed the next half hour in relaxed conversation. One of my passengers was an accountant on her way to work and didn’t want to be late. The other passenger was a veteran on his way to a physical therapy appointment. I dropped them off at a bus terminal convenient to them both, and they offerred me gas money (which I declined, as I’d be paying it anyway). They graciously thanked me and promised to say hi if I saw them on the bus again.
I was pleased that an irritating travel setback ended up being not too burdensome for any of us. I was happy to hear some stories and perspectives which might’ve otherwise remained unknown to me. I was struck by one particular impression: the two folks who traveled with me were black. The folks who turned me down were white. This seems to be a repeated pattern I experience while using public transport: white folks keep to themselves, barely looking at anyone else. Black folks talk to each other, ask questions, and help each other out.
Why this pattern? Perhaps it’s just a small biased sample and doesn’t really mean anything. Then there are the stereotypical socioeconomic reasons: white folks have more flexible schedules and can wait, or can afford the luxury of driving themselves on a whim. But then why not offer to share with someone else? I’m more inclined to think it’s a cultural phenomenon: white folks often seem to lack a uniting sense of community, and dealing with other people seems to be more of a bother than anything. I saw someone mention on twitter the other day a stereotype that “white people are stuck up.” Yeah, maybe…
The moral of the story for me is that I should keep pushing myself, a little at a time, to keep remembering that we are all in this together. I felt a bit more justified in driving myself since I knew I was carpooling, and it felt nice that I helped out a few other folks in the process. Sometimes strangers are really fucking nice.
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(via sporeprint)
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Man when I rewatch this movie, it’s become: The Joker, Robert Baratheon, and Wash go on an adventure with the aid of JARVIS.
now i have to go watch this movie again.
(via ivyadrena)
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(via ilovecephalopods)
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I love waking up in the morning nauseous with a migraine because I know the day can only improve from there.
The day actually did improve, and quite quickly. I loaded myself up on pharmaceuticals and went back to bed. The boyfriend stepped into caretaker mode, closing the window blinds to relieve the throbbing in my skull, and removing himself (and his laptop for work) to the living room so I could try to nap off the discomfort. I awoke a few hours later to breakfast in bed (he knew exactly what I would’ve ordered had I been conscious), snuggles, and the self assurance I could make the drive to work without passing out or vomiting.
It’s been quite the rocky week for me. I spent most of yesterday cleaning out the room which will now be my office/craft space, and I’m afraid the dust and filth were more than my poor sinuses could manage. The upside is having space of my own now, a concept about which I could write several posts. I will continue to develop this space, though, and am looking forward to having a nice introvert area (with throw pillows! and blankets!) during the kinky sexy party we’re throwing this weekend, featuring black lights, UV-reactive body paint, and naked people.
The point of this rambling is that sometimes I feel shitty, sometimes I caused the circumstances leading to said crappiness, but I am working really hard to not get bogged down in the mire. My happiness quotient is increased by attempting to process, learn, and move forward…hopefully without puking.
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I dunno… I still think little kids are evil and dangerous no matter how you raise them. Frankly, they scare me and I’m not opposed to banning children across the world outright. Maybe we should just stick to cats and dogs after all, they’re much safer, more loyal, less expensive and just all around better.
(via lobot)
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tattoos come into my life a lot, but this one broke my heart open.
neil and i both see a lot of tattoos of our words and works on people’s skin, and we have lots of weird tattoo anecdotes. last night I signed the inside of a girls thigh at the littlefield show and recommended that she walk home bowlegged because seriously that shit will sweat right the fuck off on a hot New York night. neil proudly tells the tale of the time someone got his signature on their arm in a signing line and then returned to the same signing line three hours later with saran wrap covering the freshly inked proof.
some people get my face tattooed on them. that always feels surreally challenging, to look at my own visage staring back at me from somebody else’s arm or back, like knowing I have sister-spy-selves all over the world, hiding under hoodies in the deep winter.
if you hadn’t noticed, i’ve been battling a kind of depression for the last few months. circumstances make it pretty understandable, i’m facing some crushing personal and business problems and feeling lonely and at loose ends in pretty much every department. the last time i was this low i was in college - unable to get out of bed and skipping classes. it wasn’t until i escaped the setting that things turned around. maybe tour will help. it never does.
anyway, i’m not so fucking depressed that i couldn’t write a song, which was the saving grace of last week, and having the house party in nashville actually directly kicked my ass to finish what i’d started, which was a massive blessing because i have a bad habit of finishing songs 59% and then leaving them for years unless i have an active instant-gratification motivator (usually a show, and even better if its a show for 50 people in a house, where i feel safe to fuck it up).
so as i was writing and wandering from the verse into the first chorus, the words “i am bigger on the inside” spilled out and i thought…i can’t fucking use this. can i?
it had ricocheted from doctor who into my incredibly dark mood, and i felt conflicted…on the one side my little sobbing song and on the other side, hoards of people in tardis t-shirts. fuck it. yes.
and i used the lyric.
i played it, two hours after finishing it, for a teeny room of 15 people at the nashville house party and cried through most of the second and third verse.
a few days later i flew to milwaukee to play for pride festival. i was having a rough night. the darkness was getting the better of me. against all better judgment (it was an outdoor festival celebration of YAY) i stuck the song towards the end of my set - a quiet, 8-minute introspective and repetitive ukulele song that I couldn’t play through without my throat getting stuck because it was just too fucking sad.
the crowd had never heard the song, because it didn’t exist anywhere. i cried through verse two and three again and it was fine except that I went straight into the ukulele anthem afterwards and had a giant shiny glean of weeping-snot on my upper lip for the whole song. whatever. yes.
after the show i signed for a few hundred people. a boy asked me to write the chorus lyrics on his chest. the next day, he sent me this picture. he’d had them tattooed.
beat that, neil gaiman, i said, as i showed him the tweet, collapsing into a pile of useless blubbering on the floor of my mind.
but actually…there is no competition.
and this is what i see and understand about him, about me, about you, about doctor who, about coincidence, about the millions of ingredients and chances that lead us to this moment right here where we are facing each other (maybe through a screen, maybe not).
we are all connected - there is no way out, nor should there be.
say yes.
love
amandap.s. the body & the tattoo belong to gavin michael batker,
@shizaminnelli on twitter.p.p.s. i hope to record the song soon. stay with me.
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Hello tumblr allow me to present you the swedish vallhund
i´m VERY confused as you guys are not freaking out about these little guys yet since they´re basically WOLF CORGIS.
I swear to god, I thought it was a photoshop at first.
Oh my Glob, it’s “the little cattle dog of the Vikings”. Not only is it a wolf corgi, but it’s a Viking wolf corgi.
VIKING WOLF CORGI
VIKING WOLF CORGI
WANT PET SNORGLE PUPPY
(via karkat-in-the-tardis)
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It is a pretty funny looking piece of knitting.
- Him: What are you knitting?
- Me: A sock.
- Him: That doesn't look like a sock.
- Me: Your face doesn't look like a sock but I'd still stick my foot in it!