okay but dwarves put SO much effort into their tombs already, carving perfect stone and inscriptions and making records to bury kin with kin and everything, let alone for Gimli son of Gloin Lord of the Glittering Caves.
The years of planning and amounts of paperwork and arrangements for the tomb of Gimli son of Gloin Lord of the Glittering Caves one of the Nine of the Fellowship one of the Heroes of Arda the Elf-friend and sturdy and possessor of the three hairs of Galadriel would be IMMENSE
and then Legolas rocks up in Gimli’s final days of life like: ok so I built this boat
People like me didn’t feature in the stories I was told growing up. Felt as if I didn’t exist. Even if there were characters like me, they were Hall of Mirrors distortions that made me feel like I didn’t want to exist. I had a go at ending my existence back then. But I was as good at suicide as I was at physics, so I lived and learnt. It’s painful to be invisible in other people’s stories, but there is a sliver of liberation. You can tell your own story. You can author your own life. There’s no script to stick to, which is fucking terrifying. And quite exciting. And fucking terrifying.
I was always out playing. With Lizzie, mostly. Up and down Mare street, nicking whelks off the one-eyed man with the seafood stall. And she’d distract him by asking for a pint of prawns and a blank stare and I’d blindside him and pocket a fistful of cockles. Oh, I adored Lizzie! And she adored me. Every night, when we dragged ourselves away from each other, I’d say, “Cash or cheque?” And she’d say, “Cash.” And I’d get a kiss on the cheek. Our favourite game was wedding day. She was always the bride, of course, and I would be the groom. I’d get my dad’s best coat. Grey tweed, leather buttons, smell of sweat, coal. Bits of dried-up tobacco in the breast pocket. I’d have to wait for her at the end of the aisle, the back alley where our mothers would hang the washing. And I’d watch her, holding my breath, as she picked her way through the grey sheets and stained drawers, a huge, stupid smile on her face. And when she reached me and put her arm through mine… I fair exploded. I loved her. I knew that. I longed to take her in my arms and kiss her neck. Would she allow it? Could she? I just didn’t know. Then bloody William Foyle turned up. All big muscles, crooked smile and twinkly-eyed. And she fell for him straightaway. He bought her a tuppence bag of aniseed balls and she was lost. I was heartbroken. She still said “cash” when we did manage to see each other, but… I could see her heart wasn’t in it. She looked sad. But not for her, for me. “Don’t be like that, Ellen,” she’d say. Touching my arm. Once, she took me in. She took pity on me. And we sat by the fire. I had my arms wrapped around her waist. And… I just let my hand drop lower and lower until it was resting in her glorious lap. I moved my hand slowly, slowly. She froze… then relaxed. I waited. Minutes groaned by. She let me. She… let me. And then, all of a sudden, she jumped up, grabbed her shawl and ran out the back door. I called after her, but she didn’t turn back. It was exactly two weeks later than I ran into her buying a loaf of bread. “Lizzie,” I said, “I’m sorry. Please, please speak to me.” “Don’t,” she said. She sort of hissed it. I searched her face for a sign of softness, but there was none. There was only fear. Only fear. She turned on her heel and marched off.
“Masc-presenting or not, it’s this skin, it’s intersection with being butch, and this voice that can often be the source of my body being a target. More often than not, I am mistaken for a black male. And as much as I would love these duelling orbs to be off my body, I do not want to be a black man. When I moved to Portland, locks finally cut, I felt fear in a way I had not experienced before. Yes, more fearful than being in NYC, or Chicago, or being in a foreign country. Fear because here, more often than not, I am mistaken for a black male, and they shoot us (not to take away from the lives of our sisters lost as well) and often there is just a pass, almost a judicial nod of permission that it is acceptable as it all too often goes without punishment. I think about that in my daily movements in this city and I would be lying if I said it didn’t wear on me.” . by @elle_rosenthal - Quote from Claudelle Glasgow, Issue 6 - The Mental Health Edition (link in bio for purchase) @garudagrin . . #butch #butchisnotadirtyword #gender #queer #queers #sheher #theythem #qpoc #qwoc #portland #pdx (at Portland, Oregon) https://www.instagram.com/p/B6Q9rphhzum/?igshid=1aolrirhusb0y
BBC AMERICA is co-producing Queers, an eight-part short film series in which eight established writers respond to the 50th anniversary of The Sexual Offences Act which partially decriminalized homosexual acts between men in the UK. Curated and directed by Mark Gatiss, the films star Alan Cumming (Something Borrowed), Ben Whishaw (The Man on the Platform) and Russell Tovey (More Anger), among others.
Taking in 1957’s Wolfenden Report, the HIV crisis and the 1967 Sexual Offence Act itself, the eight monologues will explore some of the most poignant, funny, tragic and riotous moments of British gay history and the very personal rites-of-passage of British gay men through the last one hundred years.
The series will premiere on October 14th at 10/9c.
DPC and DPL. Dead People’s Clothes and Dead People’s Leather.
Their toys, their paintings of half naked, naked, screwing men. The statues. The leather. The sling. The posters. The … all of it.
We’d literally Straighten homes. Depending. Some families knew and were fine. Or more ok. But pictures of other guys on phones was the least of it.
I have… leather that’s been passed through three or four men who’ve died before getting to me. They’re the heirlooms now, passed down chosen families.
Sometimes there were crews. We’d show up as soon as possible, as a unit. We’d hit the bedrooms first. Clear out closets, under beds, bedsides. We’d donate, throw out, take mementos. Pass on. Secret lives and secret, us only treasures.
Then we’d leave. For some family’s you never talked about it. They never knew. It was better all around.
I have vests, gloves. A belt. Arm bands. Paintings. T-shirts. Photos, undeveloped film that’d I’m still somewhat terrified to try to get developed (lol). We live on in the living rooms of others.
This is. A very important message for the younger generations of queers.
We still have so much father to go, but y'all. Don’t let our past be forgotten.
Transcription: So back in the late 80s and early 90s, when I was 20 and there was another friend dying of AIDS like every three weeks. Yeah, seriously those days were terrible. Young gay men now will just never know what it was like. But when a friend would die we would ALL know exactly what to do. We’d get to their houses as fast as possible (most of us already had a key) and we would know EXACTLY where the smut was, we would know EXACTLY where the stuff they didn’t want their family to find. We would get it and we would destroy it. OR we would keep it for ourselves if it was cool, or we would donate it to…something. I dunno. It’s kind of a messed up memory, but uh, back then we all just had to have each other’s backs and uuh, yeah. This video just reminded me of that.
