Feet Swinging Champ
@hobbituscaesar
Archivist and historian. Scifi fan. Not a time traveler or an immortal, I promise. Marylander. Gray-ace. He/him, 47. 🏳️🌈 Husband: @jasperhedgehog.bsky.social Girlfriend: @shadii.bsky.social Boyfriend: @shiroishimatora.bsky.social
It's goïng to be a good day at work, but I'm already in Go Home and Snug My Hubby mode.
If only we had a story about a blatantly unreliable narrator telling his story to those whom he hopes will glorify him and sympathize with his plight. Maybe we could make a blockbuster movie out of it, set it in the Bronze Age or something like that.
Filming and filming in the widening horror, the producer cannot hear the editor. Marketing falls apart; the premise cannot hold. Mere slop is loosed upon the screen, the name-recognition tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of enjoyment is drowned.
This seems timely à propos now, though I wrote it 2ish years ago.
I've never been into Satanic or demonic aesthetics—and it's definitely still not my style—but since happening upon this painting, it's been compelling. He's so... cheerful. It feels like a painting that Screwtape would not want me to have and I feel like that's a good reason to get it.
This image of Poggio Bracchiolini always amuses me. His handwriting was considered so neat and legible, it became the basis of many type print fonts. His handwriting became formative for modern lower case Latinate alphabets. (1/2)
My pants button broke at work and now a quarter of a button is the only thing keeping my pants on. 😓
Concerning the ministers of Augustus and his reformed Republic.
This London Fog was $5 and I don't think I'm getting another one at that size. Maybe I'm underestimating the cost of lavender-in-tea?
I have le morning coffee. I am a very jobber. I am badgedly bejobbèd and the day is order. It is once again the Day of GodThankness and I am a jobber.
It's either that in the earliest days of Christianity, the theology was pure and simple, everyone knew it was WHAT MY RELIGION THINKS IT IS AND CONTINUITY FIGHT CLUB IS ON SUNDAYS, then /those people/ came along and made it complicated and confusing and led everyone EXCEPT US astray. Or it's this:
God once wrote me this beautiful poem. Can't read a word of it, but the handwriting was exquisite.
Recommended. It's not just a history of the empire of the United States, but a history of how (mostly white) people from the United States have thought about our empire and how we've been taught to process its existence—and as the title implies, how we've been taught to /not/ process its existence.
There be twenty chosen prophets, The wisest of the land, Who always by river posts Both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the Twenty Have turned prophecies o'er, Traced from the right bank to the left By mighty birds of yore. My humble apologies to Macaulay.
Make of this what you will. If there is something hobbity about me aside from being cheerful and short, it's that fame, prestige, and clout can miss me. As much as I love reading history, I don't want to be a subject of it.
The volume on the TV is a prime number. To the tenth of a pound this morning, I am exactly the weight on my driver's license. The Heavens align. O Gods of Comforting Routines and Fastidy, please accept this Venn Metadiagram and release the Dopamine.