Reblog To Kill It Faster

looks like october is…. octover

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

Sometimes, reading stuff about particle physics and quarks feels like reading about a magic system or smth. Anti-strange kaons? Charm? Up quark? Antimatter neutrino? Syncrotron? The God particle?? Abracadabra to you, too. Damn.

What makes Poor Things so ultimately triumphant for me is the way that Bella Baxter is, despite it all, her own creation. She came into the world in an experiment that violated the autonomy of both Victoria before her and Bella herself, but she steps beyond the parameters of the experiment and into the world, to learn from it. The intentions of men may be to possess her or use her or take joy in despoiling her vulnerability, but their intentions do not determine her experiences. She decides. She explores. She looks at a world full of sorrow that could render her helpless and chooses instead to do what she can about it and then sleep easy at night. She listens to the call of her curiosity before all else, her happiness second, her compassion third. The family that she makes for herself in the end is unconventional, but it's ultimately hers and allows her to flourish as a doctor with an experimental nature and a heart of patinaed silver.

And I don't think it could be that particular kind of triumphant if the movie wasn't so fucked up.

(through gritted teeth) there's so much to learn (through sobs) there's so much to learn (through maniacal laughter) there's so much to learn (through sleepy eyes) there's so much to learn (through a tired smile) there's so much to learn

i love you visible brushstrokes. i love you glue warped scrapbook pages. i love you awkward poems. i love you junk journal with faded receipts. i love you poorly composed journal layout. I love you unintentionally blurry photographs. i love you asymmetrical beading. i love you curling freeform crochet. i love you fingerprints on pottery. i love you reused materials. i love you improvised instruments. i love you mistakes. i love you bravery to make it anyway. i love you creativity that hasn't been wiped clean of every drop of humanity and sanitized and commodified.

me if meowing was a sin tbh