I will be gone until saturday on a last minute camping trip— see you all for the Dr. Who premier!
- 1. Get out of my way
- 2. What do you mean, gone?
- 3. How many times is this going to happen to us?
- 4. Well if you hadn't POKED IT-
- 5. This looks amazing, and you're just jealous.
- 6. Three dollars says he falls
- 7. I don't care
- 8. You are a disgrace
- 9. Try to keep still
- 10. Yeah, that's not happening.
raeseddon replied to your post:I’ve never been interested in going to a concert. …Which concert?
Her name is FKA Twigs! I’ve been really diggin her music lately. But like I said, the idea of going to concerts bothers me a lot. ]:jessurpuppy replied to your post:I’ve never been interested in going to a concert. …omg WHAT
Y E S. I wanna go ;A;
Ohhh she’s awesome! But yeah, I have issues with concerts too— for different reasons— my issue is the light/stage shows play havoc with my brain. I’ve been dumb and risked seizures if I like the band enough though. It’s always worth it.
It’s strange the way things converge in your mind when you don’t feel well. I’ve been thinking most of the day about how, during my first mental break in college, one of the ghosts that chose to visit me in the form of terribly realistic auditory hallucinations were the race riots in Newark. The only useful thing about that awful education class I’d taken that year was going to the Newark Historical Society and seeing an exhibit on the race riots that happened there.
I remember sitting at my desk reading when the gunfire started. There had been a National Guard response to the riots back then and fighting in the streets was intense. For about ten minutes, until I ran out of my room screaming to the horror and confusion of my suitemates (who had no idea anything was even wrong until that point) I heard every gunshot fired in the streets that day. They echoed in my head, getting closer and closer until the noise forced me out of the room. It was cacophonous. (I’m sure attending any number of live weapons demonstrations over the years only added to the realism, my mind able to distinguish clearly between the cracking boom of automatic, semi-automatic and manual gunfire.)
I remember the yelling in the streets too, which were entirely empty. None of the hallucinations ever had the manners to happen when I could explain them away; they always happened in the city’s softest moments, it’s most desolate and peaceful. I couldn’t make out any words but I knew what I was hearing immediately regardless— the tone was unmistakable. A single, angry memory of a city summoned by a damaged mind and for a few minutes made entirely, irrevocably real.
Ever since that experience there’s a part of me that wonders how long these memories can wait. How long their embers can blow through the streets and over the surface of the earth until they’re ignited, hundreds, thousands of miles away from their origin.
The trick is realizing it’s the same memory—a shared barely subconscious knowledge spread among communities where the people are black, brown, yellow but cops, every single one of them is white.
I don’t expect, personally to be visited by the ghosts of Ferguson, but I can feel them already, blowing through the ghettos of the world.