Steve always gets that look about him when he looks up at the stars. Doesn’t matter if they’re walking in the dark and he looks up instead of where he’s going, trusting that Eddie will watch where they’re going, or if he’s sitting down, his back against a wall or a pole or the backrest of a chair, one knee pulled to his chest, his eyes cast upwards.
There’s something about stargazing Steve that just takes Eddie’s breath away and replaces it with words that get stuck in his throat. Words like, You’re so beautiful. Like, What do you see? What do you think? What’s happening inside that brilliant, brilliant head of yours?
It always makes him feel like Steve is in on some secret of the universe that no one but him will ever be privy to, and it leaves him with a racing heart and a tingling sensation in his hands where he thinks about reaching for Steve’s and finding out about all those words he never says.
Especially at night.
Eddie fell in love with Steve at night. Over the course of many walks in the dark, strolls around Hawkins because they both just needed to move, get away for a while, chase the sensation of running away together. Eddie fell in love with the line of Steve’s jaw and the smile on his lips, the reflection of the moon in those dark eyes as Steve looked up and looked so calm. So serene. Almost at home, with the stars in his eyes.
Yesterday I almost cried because my baby cousin ran up to my grandmother and was like. “Ha! Buhbuh ba ha.” And she said okay you want to show me something? And he led her over to the garden patch and crouched down and pointed at rocks and plants and was like. “Ah. Habah ba ah” as she listened attentively.
And I was like that happened 1,000 years ago. Probably 10,000 years ago. Maybe 100,000. The youngest human in a group went to the oldest one and said to the best of their ability “come see.” And the adult went.
this is such a beautiful post it doesn’t need my dumb addition, but i can’t fit this in the tags. at the archaeological site Dolni Vestonice in the Czech Republic there are a bunch of really really fascinating finds and I’m only going to tell you about one tiny detail of one of the most interesting sites in the world.
at this settlement 20-30,000 years ago there lived a person who appears to have been a sort of sorcerer-grandmother-ceramics artist and her workshop was preserved very well in the sedimentary layers. her hut where she had her kilns was full of little sculptures of animals and people that seem to have been made to explode in the kiln on purpose, we’re not sure why but nevermind. the relevant detail is that when you sculpt something with your hands and then fire it, your fingerprints can be preserved in the surface of the clay forever, so we have fingerprints of ancient ceramics artists that have survived for tens of thousands of years. and one of the major artifacts from Dolni Vestonice has a fingerprint on it that is so small it could only have belonged to a child
so this shaman-grandmother-sculptor, who was buried with her pet fox by the way, had children running through her workshop and touching everything she made while she was at her mysterious work of creating the world’s oldest ceramics, none of which appear to be bowls, bottles, pots, or any “useful” items at all, but rather a collection of animal and human and sometimes anthropomorphic figures, some of which appear to be self portraits. exactly the same as sandersstudios’ grandmother being led to the garden by an excited baby. we’ve all been the same for 30,000 years.
shut up shut up shut UP every single person in my 3rd grade friend group turned out to be queer (except for one, the token straight guy) and there were EIGHT of us. queer people find each other, even if they don’t know they’re queer.
I gotta say, this is one of my favourite mugs. the green might turn out more black than expected, it was a mix of a few things and …who knows. I can’t wait for this to get out of the kiln
Sara Jacobsen, 19, grew up eating family dinners beneath a stunning Native American robe.
Not
that she gave it much thought. Until, that is, her senior year of high
school, when she saw a picture of a strikingly similar robe in an art
history class.
The teacher told the class about how the robe was
used in spiritual ceremonies, Sara Jacobsen said. “I started to wonder
why we have it in our house when we’re not Native American.”
She said she asked her dad a few questions about this robe. Her dad, Bruce Jacobsen, called that an understatement.
“I
felt like I was on the wrong side of a protest rally, with terms like
‘cultural appropriation’ and ‘sacred ceremonial robes’ and ‘completely
inappropriate,’ and terms like that,” he said.
“I got defensive
at first, of course,” he said. “I was like, ‘C’mon, Sara! This is more
of the political stuff you all say these days.’”
But Sara didn’t
back down. “I feel like in our country there are so many things that
white people have taken that are not theirs, and I didn’t want to
continue that pattern in our family,” she said.
The robe had been
a centerpiece in the Jacobsen home. Bruce Jacobsen bought it from a
gallery in Pioneer Square in 1986, when he first moved to Seattle. He
had wanted to find a piece of Native art to express his appreciation of
the region.
The Chilkat robe that hung over the Jacobsen dining room table for years. Credit Courtesy of the Jacobsens
“I just thought it was so beautiful, and it was like nothing I had seen before,” Jacobsen said.
The
robe was a Chilkat robe, or blanket, as it’s also known. They are woven
by the Tlingit, Haida and Tsimshian peoples of Alaska and British
Columbia and are traditionally made from mountain goat wool. The tribal
or clan origin of this particular 6-foot-long piece was unclear, but it
dated back to around 1900 and was beautifully preserved down to its long
fringe.
“It’s a completely symmetric pattern of geometric
shapes, and also shapes that come from the culture,” like birds,
Jacobsen said. “And then it’s just perfectly made — you can see no seams
in it at all.”
Jacobsen hung the robe on his dining room wall.
After
more needling from Sara, Jacobsen decided to investigate her claims. He
emailed experts at the Burke Museum, which has a huge collection of
Native American art and artifacts.
“I got this eloquent email
back that said, ‘We’re not gonna tell you what to go do,’ but then they
confirmed what Sara said: It was an important ceremonial piece, that it
was usually owned by an entire clan, that it would be passed down
generation to generation, and that it had a ton of cultural significance
to them.“
Jacobsen
says he was a bit disappointed to learn that his daughter was right
about his beloved Chilkat robe. But he and his wife Gretchen now no
longer thought of the robe as theirs. Bruce Jacobsen asked the curators
at the Burke Museum for suggestions of institutions that would do the
Chilkat robe justice. They told him about the Sealaska Heritage
Institute in Juneau.
When Jacobsen emailed, SHI Executive
Director Rosita Worl couldn’t believe the offer. “I was stunned. I was
shocked. I was in awe. And I was so grateful to the Jacobsen family.”
Worl said the robe has a huge monetary value. But that’s not why it’s precious to local tribes.
“It’s
what we call ‘atoow’: a sacred clan object,” she said. “Our beliefs are
that it is imbued with the spirit of not only the craft itself, but
also of our ancestors. We use [Chilkat robes] in our ceremonies when we
are paying respect to our elders. And also it unites us as a people.”
Since
the Jacobsens returned the robe to the institute, Worl said, master
weavers have been examining it and marveling at the handiwork. Chilkat
robes can take a year to make – and hardly anyone still weaves them.
“Our
master artist, Delores Churchill, said it was absolutely a spectacular
robe. The circles were absolutely perfect. So it does have that
importance to us that it could also be used by our younger weavers to
study the art form itself.”
Worl said private collectors hardly ever return anything to her organization. The federal Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act requires
museums and other institutions that receive federal funding to
repatriate significant cultural relics to Native tribes. But no such law
exists for private collectors.
Bruce
and Gretchen Jacobsen hold the Chilkat robe they donated to the
Sealaska Heritage Institute as Joe Zuboff, Deisheetaan, sings and drums
and Brian Katzeek (behind robe) dances during the robe’s homecoming
ceremony Saturday, August 26, 2017. Credit NOBU KOCH / SEALASKA HERITAGE INSTITUTE
Worl
says the institute is lobbying Congress to improve the chances of
getting more artifacts repatriated. “We are working on a better tax
credit system that would benefit collectors so that they could be
compensated,” she said.
Worl hopes stories like this will encourage people to look differently at the Native art and artifacts they possess.
The Sealaska Heritage Institute welcomed home the Chilkat robe in a two-hour ceremony over the weekend. Bruce and Gretchen Jacobsen traveled to Juneau to celebrate the robe’s homecoming.
Really glad that this is treated as hard hitting news, no really, I am
This is why spaces like Tumblr are so vital in changing the narrative. We cannot back down from the truth.
I love that this happened and want it to happen more. This right here is how to be a good ally and advocate for others.
“Alright, Harrington. Strap in, because Metalhead 101 with Professor Munson begins now.”
Steve doesn’t point out that he is already literally strapped in, given that he is in a moving vehicle and his seat belt is buckled. Instead of snarking back, he just rolls his eyes as Eddie fishes a tape out of his beat-up backpack and shoves it in the beamer’s stereo.
“I made this mixtape with you in mind, so I hope you feel special,” Eddie adds, fiddling with the volume dial.
“Yeah, real special.”
Eddie gives him a sidelong look. “Is that a hint of sarcasm I detect in your voice, my liege?”
Steve turns his head away from the road to glare at Eddie.
“How dare you accuse me of something like that,” he deadpans.
Eddie huffs and jams the play button. “You don’t have to be such a brat. I’m going out of my way to expand your horizons and this is how you repay me?”
“My horizons are plenty expanded,” Steve grumbles.
“There’s an innuendo in there somewhere.”
“Shut the hell up, Munson.”
“You shut up. I mean it, you gotta be quiet. The first track is important.”
The first song begins. Heavy guitar spills out of the speakers, making Steve frown. This song is familiar; he’s listened to it probably a hundred times, if not more.
“Hey, wait a second—”
“I said shhh. This one is important. I’m easing you into it.”
From the stereo, Freddie Mercury’s voice kicks in with a familiar refrain. Steve taps along to the beat against the steering wheel. From the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie watching him.
“What?” Steve prompts. “I like this song.”
“You— what?”
“I like this song. Dude, I literally own this album. Look.”
one of the funnier aspects of brands that the american conservative relies on as part of their cultural identity “going woke” is that they’re all too stupid to understand that these companies are focused solely on profits, and their teams upon teams of professionals whose only job is to increase profits weighed the options and decided that the safest option was to say trans rights and put pride flags on their shit. like bro, there’s no woke mind virus, ford and budwieser would say “kill all faggots now!” if they thought it would make them money, you’re just part of a dying and increasingly unprofitable enclave of society that no one wants to associate with.
Toothless snorts. Once again, they’re face to face. Hiccup slowly extends his hand. Toothless hesitates. Hiccup turns his head away and closes his eyes. To his amazement, Toothless bridges the gap and presses his muzzle against Hiccup’s hand.
HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON 2010 | dir. Dean DeBlois, Chris Sanders
To say Steve was vibrating out of his skin would be an understatement. Eddie had really killed it on stage. He was a little unsure about the music itself, but watching Eddie play said music got him on his feet and bouncing to the beat.
The rest of the band was great, too. But Eddie was electric. Like he was born to be in front of an audience. There was a passion to their sound that made all the music on the radio sound rote and boring.
Steve and Robin followed Miranda to the backstage.
The security guy eyed Steve and Robin warily. “Who you got there, Mandy?”
Miranda looked over her shoulder. “They’re with me. They’re friends of Eddie’s.”
The security guards eyes narrowed. “And if I call Eddie, he’ll tell me the same thing?”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Always so fucking suspicious, Callahan. What you think they’re holding me against my will to get to Eddie?”
ALT
ALT
ALT
ALT
