howdy!

here’s a quick little about me:

im jules (also @slippy-socks ) this is my main blog lol

im 23! and i use they/them pronouns

full time illustrator

dni: the usual, terfs, aphobes, conservatives etc.

under no circumstance may you repost my art/use it as an icon unless you have my explicit written permission

slippy-socks is my dedicated art blog lol but i’ll still reblog my stuff to here

Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band - The Legendary 1979 No Nukes Concerts

:o)

𝖵𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖺 𝖣𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗓𝗓𝗈 𝖯𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗂 𝖻𝗒 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗈 𝖯𝗂𝗎̈ 𝖡𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗈 𝖽’𝖨𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺

one of the reasons why "what if people went on a road trip and it was weird" is one of the oldest story types is that a lot of sense of personhood has been, historically, tied to place. the weird road trip says "what if we went somewhere else, where no one knows us, and tried out being a different person".

Odysseus, the famous liar, goes on a weird road trip & over the course of it becomes several different people, and then comes home & is all those people as well as himself, wearing the echoes of those other people

What’s that quote? There are only two kinds of stories: a man goes on a journey, or a stranger comes to town.

low-effort for today because artfight tired me out

august please be good to all the friends in my phone. thank you

V.I.P.: very important puppies :-)

My boyfriend did not die in 1991. I told a lie and it turned into a fact, forever repeated in my official biography. He died on Christmas Day, 1990, when his family disconnected the mechanical breathing machine. He was a composer in the school of music. We were working on a piece for voice and strings. I liked writing the words under the whole notes, hyphenating them to make them last. I liked sitting on the bed in his apartment, writing on the sheet music—bigger paper, thicker, how it sounded when it fell to the floor when we got tired. It was winter break, friends in town, we hopped from party to party, catching up but separately. It was late, the night was clear, the roads were empty. The four of them were sober, the driver in the other car was not. I was a few miles away, in a bar, waiting. When the bar closed, I left him an angry message for standing me up. A few hours later, a friend called and told me. He suggested I break into the apartment and start removing things before the family arrived. For several minutes I didn’t understand, then—evidence. He hadn’t told his family and it didn’t seem right to tell them now, to suggest that they didn’t really know him. I drove in the darkness between the accident and dawn. I climbed through the window. I couldn’t figure which things looked suspicious and which things would be missed. I was sloppy, rushed. I grabbed the wrong sheet music. It was a piece that had already been performed. A few days after Christmas there was a memorial. I sat in the back. As part of his speech, his father mentioned the missing music and made an appeal for its return. I couldn’t give it back. On New Year’s Eve, in a black velvet jacket, at a party in the lobby of a downtown hotel, with a drink in each hand—one for him, one for me—I kept asking where he was, if anyone had seen him. I had his passport in my back pocket. I shouldn’t have taken that either. It was the only picture of him I could find.

Richard Siken, COVER STORY / DEAD BOYFRIEND POEM

Let me examine closer *my eyes turn purple and blaze with spiritual power* oh yeah no that's an egret not a heron, it's got black legs